Tuesday, October 31, 2006

kevorkian to officiate...

Celebrities delight me. Like, for example, when they plan star studded weddings at the former estates of fascist dictators. I was already waiting for the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes contingent to print a full page ad proclaiming, “Fooled you! We can’t believe you believed our bullshit!” when I read that they are considering Benito Mussolini’s former base as a potential wedding location.
Genius.
You can’t make this up.
I was trying to think of a more inappropriate locale but I couldn’t. Perhaps the burned out shell of the David Koresh Compound in Waco or the abandoned People’s Temple Ranch in Guyana were already booked. I guess the Unabomber’s cabin wasn’t available and Sharon Tate’s house is being renovated. Christ, you can’t even get an afternoon in the Columbine Gymnasium on such short notice.
Therefore, TomKat chose the next best option: the former hangout of the man who invented fascism and inspired the rise of his comrade, Hitler.
Makes sense to me…

i ain't 'fraid of no ghosts...

Am I the only loser who dressed up for work? I thought so. I completely forgot about my cat ears until I was washing my windsheild at the gas station this morning and some jackass comes up and says, "Purr for me, kitty."
I offered the only appropriate response. "Fuck off."
The above photo, by the way, is how I'll be answering the door tonight when giving out candy to the little ghetto children. And just in case anyone is wondering, the Spotsersheims will be giving out SweetTarts, as it was the cheapest brand name candy at Wallgreen's.

Happy Halloween, Bitches...

Monday, October 30, 2006

it ain't gonna hurt nobody, to get on down...

Kate, Alex, Mikey and I headed up to a friend’s cabin on the Russian River this weekend for a little R&R. On the drive up, Kate couldn’t shut up about the Rutherford Grill. Apparently, she once enjoyed the greatest French dip sandwich she’s ever had “in her life.” On and on, she went, describing the perfect meat, to soft bun, the glorious dip. After a dozen phone calls, we finally got the front desk and inquired as to directions. Turns out, hostesses don’t like to give complicated directions at the height of the lunch rush, nor do they like to offer opinions on how far out of our way we’d have to go to get a French dip sandwich.
The Rutherford Grill would have to wait.
We made in up to our friend Rich’s cabin in 2 hours, and promptly headed out to go wine tasting at a fabulous little winery, Davis Bynum. After several sassy tastes with our sassy wine pourer, we headed back to the cabin where Rich had planned on having some friends over for cocktails. We cracked open some wine and some big bottles of gin and dove in. Sitting out on the deck, the sun setting over the mountains, everything was perfect. We were having a marvelous time and were quite sloshed as we sat down to a late dinner.
Rich served up chicken pot pie as we drank and laughed and drank and laughed. We kicked up the music, kicked up the wine and headed out to the deck.
To dance.
Now, at this point, the evening starts to blur together. I was dancing with Alex, twisting with Mikey, twirling Kate and getting dipped by Rich. I wasn’t really paying attention to anyone else until a woman in very pointy, very high heels stepped on my foot.
Eh, no big deal. Wine coursed through my veins and I felt no pain. I kept dancing. And dancing. And dancing. Until we all fell asleep in front of the fire.
It was fabulous.
I woke up at 4 in the morning to Kate, in bed beside me, trying to open some windows. “Kate, what are you doing?”
“I’m hot! Aren’t you hot?”
I took this awake opportunity to get some water, and as soon as I stood up, pain shot through my right foot. “Oh my god, my foot.”
“What are you complaining about?” Kate sighed.
“My foot. Something is really wrong.”
“Whatever. Stop whining and go back to sleep.”
So I did. Until I woke up again at 8am. “Okay, something is profoundly wrong with my foot.” Kate ignored me as I got up and walked into the light of the hallway, sitting on a chair and examining my toes.
Holy shit.
I don’t want to gross my dear readers out, but there are substantial chunks of toe missing from my foot. Toes # 3 and 4 on the right have sustained seriously damage and my body is suddenly no longer medicated by Zinfandel.
I wrapped them delicately in toilet paper and went back to bed. Kate leaned over. “Are you okay?”
“I guess. I’ll never walk again, but I may live.”
“Uh, shut up.”
“Kate, you’ve got to see this.”
“I’ll look at it later.” She rolled over and went back to sleep.
An hour later, I woke up and headed upstairs, joining the boys for coffee. Mikey looked down at my feet. “There’s something black on your foot.”
“Yeah, that’s my toe.”
I popped some pain killers, both for my pounding headache and throbbing foot and got dressed. After a fabulous breakfast, we hugged the wonderful Rich goodbye, stopped at a roadside stand to buy some ribs and made it home. As we neared my car in Mill Valley, I made some casual, non-complaining reference to my foot.
“Oh Christ.” Kate yelled from the front seat. “Let me see this goddamn foot.”
From the backseat, I carefully lifted my leg into the front and plopped it on Kate’s lap. “Look at the bottom of my toes, you guys.”
Kate, my companion since birth, has no aversion to my foot in her face and promptly picked it up. “Where?”
“There!”
“OH MY GOD!”
Mikey couldn’t take it anymore. “Lemme see!”
My leg was tossed from the front seat to the back. Normally disgusted by feet, Mikey grabbed it with interest. “Holy shit! That’s really bad, Bethy.”
“Yeah, Beth.” Kate looked concerned. “That’s some really fucked up toes. I mean, you’ll probably live, but ouch, dude.”
I limped into work this morning, my right foot in a hideous, masculine flip flop. “Hey Beth, how was your trip to the River?”
“Fabulous. But I fucked up my foot.”
“Oh no. Let me see. HOLY SHIT! How did you do that?”
“Well, actually. I was dancing.”
Long silence.
“Figures…”

Thursday, October 26, 2006

chapter eleven: bloggers...

Today was the wildly unpublicized State of the City Address. Did you know this? Because I didn’t hear boo about this happening and sure as shit, I would have been front and center, grinning like crazy at Gavin while oblivious to every word out of his mouth. So, basically, I would’ve blended right in.
An expert at subterfuge, I’ve been able to secure an early, unedited draft of this speech, a draft penned before his handlers had the opportunity to remove every shred of emotion and honesty. I think it’s only appropriate that I post it here:

Good afternoon fellow San Franciscans and those of you that are here but live elsewhere. As mayor, I have two official duties. Seriously. This is the hardest job in the United States of America. Two duties. (exhale.)
And this is one of them.
I’m a plain talker, a straight shooting genius, so I’m going to tell it like it is in easy to understand chapters. Put your hand down, Frank Chiu. I’ll take questions at the end.
Alrighty. Here’s where we stand.
Chapter One: Crime. Beth’s car got broken into last week. They broke that window in the back that’s kinda in the shape of a triangle. It’s not a rollable, openable window or anything. But it costs $192 to fix. What the fuck?
Not only was the window broken, but they took her back-up pair of Ralph Lauren sunglasses that, while out of style, occasionally come in handy.
Hello? Straw breaking camel’s back.
I know many of you have also suffered at the hands of these godless thugs. So I’ve wielded my immense power and hired an army of attractive, young police officers to patrol Beth’s neighborhood and areas she hangs out in, specifically the Ellis/O’Farrell Garage, the Hotel Biron area and the Serramonte Target and surrounding mall.
Okay. Crime. Check.
Chapter Two: Spitting. Much like yourselves, few things get me angrier than people who dramatically expunge mass from their lungs and then dispose of it in the middle of the sidewalk. It is literally, a day ruiner. Jesus, who raised these people?
Well, no more, I say! (bang fist on podium.)
Uh, Chapter Three: My personal life. I get it, gang. I signed up for this. But this constant intrusion into my hair and my ho’s is pissing me off. Like YOU’VE never gone home with that conventioneer buying you drinks at The Redroom Room. We all make mistakes. I just take mine to the Opera.
And you know what, Spotswood. She knows her state capitals. So, uh, let it go. That’s not a deal breaker anyway, while we’re keeping score.
Chapter Four: Dealbreakers. Segueing, you’re now probably wondering what my deal breakers are. (Begin PowerPoint presentation.)
I generally regard the following unacceptable in a date: fat ankles, life experience, common sense, knowledge of state capitals, gainful employment, opinions, missing teeth, political affiliations, residence south of Broadway and/or pet ownership.
Chapter Five: Apparel. For those of you who care, it’s Zegna.
Chapter Six: Potholes. I agree. Not cool. Here’s my plan. Put the hobos to work filling them. That checks Chapter Seven off the list, so we’re moving right along.
79 minutes, my ass.
Chapter Eight: Environment. Oh, by the way, I found an alternate source of fuel.
You’re welcome.
I’d like to see Chris Daly do that.
How? Er, um, well…I sent Kimberly’s mothership, which had previously been in mutually agreed upon storage, back to her home planet where they have this fluid called Cleptor 9, which works just like gas but without all the downer side effects.
Chapter Nine: Tourism. The time has come for someone to say what we've all been thinking. We can no longer tolerate those oblivious out-of-towners in rental cars who slow down all confused and shit when approaching the tollbooth on the Golden Gate Bridge going NORTH. I am personally painting cardboard signs which read, in several languages, "No Toll to leave SF."
Duh.
Brittanie is helping me with the foreign language part.
Ha! Just kidding on that Brittanie thing.
Chapter Ten: Culture. I realize the entrance to the new Century movie theater at Westfield Shopping Center is impossible to find. Unfortunately, not everything is cut and dry. To remedy this problem, we’d have to move the Illuminations AND the Hot Topic, so we’re weighing our options. I look forward to your creative feedback.
In closing, I’d just like to reiterate that most of the women I date CAN indeed read. I’m well aware of who started that rumor and I can assure you that, for the most part, it is not true. Pretty much.
After party at Matrix.
Peace out…

as in jon?

To my great dismay, I’ve been out of the loop on what appears to be a fabulous “mystery.” Apparently, someone’s been slapping stickers all over the city proclaiming in big, block letter, “BNE.” So horrified by these acts of vandalism, Gavin has offered a $2500 reward for the capture of this “artist.”
Artist, my ass.
THIS is a graffiti artist, folks and we should be so lucky to have Banksy grace our fair city with his masterpieces. BNE, it turns out with a quick search of “the google,” probably stands for some dude named Benet and that’s his tag. Only, he doesn’t tag it. He puts it on stickers and sticks them.
Big deal.
I could make stickers of a bunch of white circles on a black background and think I’m all sneaky because it stands for Spots. But I don’t. Because that is lame.
However, should I find this Benet character, I will have no problem turning his poser ass in, provided I can get my reward in the form of dinner at French Laundry and a passionate night of raunchy goings on at the Carneros Inn

slainte...

Recently, I’ve been waking up at 4am and can’t go back to sleep until 5 or so. So this morning, I figured, fuck it. I rolled out of bed, grabbed my iPod and went to GhettoGym. Truth be told, I romanticize wandering around the pre-dawn city. It’s kind of like being jet-lagged in a foreign country and wide awake, strolling the sidewalks. Interesting freakshows are out and about at 5am, especially on recycling day, and I was proud to be among them.
Gloriously, GhettoGym was both empty and BO-free. Rarities indeed.
I fired up that iPod and knew exactly what song to start with. I’m sure we’ve all seen the trailer for The Departed, featuring the fabulous Rolling Stones song, “Gimme Shelter.”
I cranked that shit up, upped my incline and (yeah, I’ll admit it) pretended I was an undercover cop training for my secret gig as a mole in the mafia.
I’d be a great undercover cop infiltrating the mob and let me tell you why. First of all, who’d ever believe I was a cop? Second, I have great respect for the mafia. I’m an expert of the films depicting their glamorous lifestyle, familiar with their hierarchy and codes of honor and I own a fur coat. Finally, I could totally be a mafia wife. I’m loud, I’m pushy, I cook, I know how to dispose of a body and I can ignore the occasional girl on the side…

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

can i borrow your dog for a second...

To quote Larry David, only 2 kinds of people wear sunglasses inside: blind people and assholes. I, it turns out, am an asshole. I just ran down to SuburbaMarket to grab something for lunch and finding not only a fabulous parking space right in front, but money in the meter, I swooped in and grabbed my favorite Chinese Chicken Salad and a Diet Snapple. In my haste, I did not remove my sunglasses. This was not meant as some sartorial urban jab at the trophy wives congregated by the prepared foods section, although as I grabbed my pre-made salad, I became aware that sunglasses inside SuburbaMarket is not kosher with the Baby Bjorn crowd.
“Nice sunglasses, honey. Too bright in here?”
I stopped dead in my tracks. Is this bitch talking to me? Oh, hell no. I looked over to find a soccer mom, the kind that wears her tennis whites to jury duty, staring at her friend but clearly rolling her eyes at me and my stupid glasses.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Oh, uh, nothing. I just like your sunglasses.”
Hey Fifi, if you wanna dance, let’s go. Otherwise, shut your pie hole and mind your business.
I decided my passive-aggressive, over apologizing tactic was in order.
“Oh, god. I’m sorry. I’m such a dork, wearing my sunglasses inside. You’re absolutely right. What kind of person does that? Thank you for calling me on it. Oh, how embarrassing.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” She whined. “I didn’t mean to…” She trailed off, and hastily moved to another section of the store.
I stood there holding my salad and feeling like an idiot. Stupid Spots, I thought. I should’ve just pretended I was blind…

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

i don't know about that congeniality part...

I’ve recently become aware of the Miss Gay Marin Pageant. Um, how the hell do I become a judge at this thing? I’d be perfect! I’m willing to submit to whatever kind of interview/screening/election processes that might be involved, opening my personal life up to scrutiny and scorn and basically selling my soul to be involved in this glorious event in a major way.
Not only am I highly qualified, I’d take my job incredibly seriously. I have great reverence for the tiara and the power that it wields. On my 21st birthday, my friends took me for a weekend of gambling and boozing across the river in Atlantic City. And when my dear friend Jesse asked me what I wanted to wear on my big night out, I had one single wish.
“I want to wear your Homecoming Queen tiara.”
Jesse, taking for granted her closet full of rhinestone headwear and never really caring in the first place laughed. “Are you serious? Fine with me. Here ya go.”
When she handed me that heavenly hat, my hands trembled with the sheer honor of responsibility. This was a real, live Homecoming Queen tiara. And I got to wear it. For one whole night. In New Jersey.
Dreams really do come true.
Up and down that Boardwalk I pranced, in a fringed skirt I’d made just for the occasion and that beautiful tiara. Blackjack dealers and sleazy bartenders laughed at me, mocking the fabulous accessory sparkling above my self-cut bangs. But I didn’t care. I was wearing a fucking tiara. And I liked it. A lot.
Lo these 7 years later, I still miss that weight upon my head, the heft of fake diamonds distributed to winners of popularity contests and beauty pageants, the responsibility of knowing there’s always someone bitter waiting in the wings to snatch it from your head, should you be unable to complete your duties as Spring City Homecoming Queen, Sheboygen Fall Harvest Princess or even, Miss Gay Marin…

someone needs a hug...

Did y’all read today’s Chronicle? I promise I’m going to take a break from all this Gavin malarkey just as soon as he stops giving me glorious fodder. I mean really. This is the first sentence of the article: “San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom has said he might not run for re-election next year because he occasionally lacks passion for the job and is frustrated by the impact it has on his social life.”
Er. Uh. What?
Oh, but wait. According to Gavin, being the mayor of San Francisco “is the worst job in the United States of America.”
Er. Uh. What?
Finally, in a hilarious turn of events, DiFi pointed out that she was mayor for 9 years and was apparently, really lonely. Um, I don’t think it was because of your job, hon. She’s planning on giving Gavin a call for a long overdue heart-to-heart. Dear god, please let his phone be bugged so this will one day become public record.
Okay. Where to begin?
#1. Gavin, I adore you with a profound unspeakable depth, and please know that I say this with love and respect: Cry me a fucking river. You were photographed sprawled on a gauche rug with your wife clad in the kind of dress purchased for a discreet weekend in Vegas and you’ve spent the past few months with a hostess named Brittanie who’s still learning her state capitals. Way to stay under the raydar. Hey, it could be worse.
#2. The worst job? Where? Oh, the United States. Of America. Thanks for clarifying. Well, I certainly wouldn’t know as I’ve never been Mayor of anything, but I’ve known a lot of Mayors and it isn’t that bad. Cleaning up suicides? Now there’s a shitty job. Try being Paris Hilton’s publicist. Or, oh, I don’t know, how about a closeted gay soldier about to be shipped off to Iraq. Again. That might suck, too. Reality check, pretty boy. You get to affect positive change on a daily basis and a chauffer.
#3. If Gavin needs someone to vent to, I’m always available. I can wear matronly pearls and heavy wool suits, nodding understandingly and referencing 1980’s city policy. And unlike DiFi, I haven’t fucked up any major serial killer cases. Plus, I can offer my plain-talkin’, undying-adoration, old-enough-to-drink advice, consisting of “Maybe you need a vacation. And you know, you shouldn’t go alone…”

Monday, October 23, 2006

oh, a pirate outfit. neat...

The genius website SFist is having “Name that Couple” contest to name the shameful and hopefully terminated union of my boyfriend and Diet Red Bull. They’ve suggested the following:
“Brittin”
Lame.
“Nountz”
Stupid.
“Gavannie”
Gay.
This is screaming for a Spots Response, so here are my Top 5 Names for the Love that Dare Not Fuck with My Relationship:

5: One Step Down From Lynndie England
4: Rock Bottom
3: Bad Hair Day Care
2: Mid-Life Crisis ‘06
1: Real World: Civic Center

Oh, and in an exciting twist, I went to the hob-nobbin’, high falutin’, society photographer Drew Altizer’s webpage and scoped out all of the fabulous parties to which my invitation seemed to have been lost in the mail.
Matrix Birthday? Hmmmm. What’s this?
I clicked on it.
Password Protected.
Foiled.
Might as well take a guess.
Perhaps it’s a sign from God. Perhaps it’s meant to be. Perhaps I’m just not an idiot.
One guess and I got it. Can you?
Furthermore, I’d just like to point out that I would have blended far better than Zima in a Coffeemug (Thank you, Jason) and would have had better hair than say, Grace Jones

we never found out just what was in those garbage bags...

My 10 high school year reunion is 5 weeks away. I know, I know. How the hell am I supposed to win an Oscar, become a supermodel and get a commitment diamond from Gavin in 5 measly weeks?
It’s near impossible.
In preparation, my beloved best friend Zoe and I have a standing Saturday date for Zoe’s Bootcamp, consisting of several painful hours of forced fitness. While I moan and groan the entire time, cursing Zoe and her perky, thin blondeness, I will admit that after 4 weeks of this, the bitch has a point. It’s working. And I reminded myself of that as I completed round 3 of Zoe’s psychotic circuit.
“Reunion. Reunion. Reunion….ugh, Zoe I hate you.”
As we hiked up a mountain near the water, I noticed a shifty-eyed creepy guy eyeing our climb. Ignoring him, we moved on to the flights of stairs along Fort Mason, and making it to the top, there he was again.
Curious.
At this point, I would’ve pointed him out to Zoe but so exhausted, I was unable to form the words.
Down the mountain and back up again, this time “pushing it” as instructed to my drill sergeant.
Oh my god, there he is again. Creepy. Very creepy.
Down the stairs and back up again.
Oh god.
This guy is definitely following us. And I wasn’t being paranoid. We’re moving around this hill a lot, going from the stairs to the path to the patch of grass for forced lunges and push-ups. Every time, Psycho McStalker is watching us. And my beloved companion was oblivious.
Normally, I’d point this out to whomever I was with. But then I recalled the time a strange man entered a movie theater with a mysterious looking garbage bag and, considering this a matter of national security, Zoe felt it necessary to inform the popcorn man of a potential terrorist act in the middle of a 11:30am showing of Under the Tuscan Sun. Maybe I shouldn’t point out the fact that there was probably a forcible assault and a dumpster in our near future.
We finally finished up the last of the push-ups, high-fiving and making our way to the infamous Marina Safeway for our standard Propel Fitness Water. Out of the corner of my eye, I made sure creepy guy was keeping his distance, finding alternate prey to hunt and kill. As we crossed the parking lot, I noticed a huge fire truck and emerging from it, a gorgeous fireman.
“Now him, HE can stare.” I sighed.
“What? Stare?”
“Oh, uh, nothing. Nevermind. We almost died back there. But it’s fine. No big deal. Forget I ever said anything. Don’t go tell the popcorn man…”

Friday, October 20, 2006

more like street-walker safari...

I’ve received three angry e-mails alerting me to my lack of ProRun commentary. You’re right. I’ve been slacking. I’ve got sidetracked by that diva, Newsom. Like good ProRunners, Mikey and I ran home from dinner on Wednesday just in time for the glorious Project Runway finale, and what a finale it was.
Obviously, they had to let Tattoo-neck show his collection, allowing his army of sweatshop workers to complete the last finishing touches on his admittedly fabulous offering. His accuser and my personal hero, Laura Bennett, was awkwardly gracious before running off to contact a private investigator. If I know my Laura, this shit isn’t over.
I loved seeing everyone’s family attending, although I think Mikey was far more excited about a brief Alison Kelly sighting, screaming, “Oh my god! Alison!”
She can’t hear you through the television, Michael.
Uli, it would seem, has a gentleman friend, who I’m pretty sure is essentially Deiter from Sprockets.
Snaggletooth had about 57 family members in attendance, including Moesha whose sole purpose was to provide a hint of heterosexuality. I love Snaggletooth and even though his collection "Street Safari" looked like stripper rejects pulled from a dumpster in East Oakland, he should at least win the congeniality contest.
But really, the whole point of Project Runway is to hear Tim Gunn repeat the words, “Saturn Sky” over and over again, managing to sound gayer and gayer with each episode. I’m getting close to falling in love with Tim and his fitted little suits, planning dinner parties in our flawlessly appointed Greenwich Village loft filled with colorful modern art and charming floral arrangements.
Neck tattoo and his smack habit won the whole shebang, including the Saturn Sky. I have to admit, his collection deserved it. I wonder if he’ll sink off to oblivion with the rest of the ProRun winners and let the real star shine.
The real star?
Hello? Malan Breton from Taiwan, of course…

Thursday, October 19, 2006

fame, you fickle friend...

Now that I’m a huge, internationally famous celebrity-stalker, I’m being bombarded with requests for an interview. Couric? No way, Katie. Walters? She already had her chance. There’s only one, folks. And I think we all know who I’m talking about.

Oprah: Well, it’s an honor to sit here with the infamous Spots: blogger, boozer and overall loudmouth. How does it feel to be a national expert on the mating habits of a local political figure?

Spots: Well, Oprah, I’ll be honest. It’s been a whirlwind. I mean, I’m an expert on lots of things, like what wine is on sale at Safeway or how to steal a parking space from a tourist. But to be quoted on my favorite subject of all time? Well, it’s been a dream come true.

Oprah: What do your friends and family think of all this?

Spots: Obviously, they’re very emotional about it all. I think I heard Michael’s voice crack when he squealed, “They kinda made you sound psychotic.” And I could almost hear my mother beaming with pride when she offered, “I don’t think you should call this guy back.” My father is so excited, he hasn’t yet figured out how to open the link.

Oprah: Touching. You know, in reading your brave and bold 11 words read by dozens, I was impressed by your candor and articulate expression of what most believe to be a borderline dangerous obsession. How do you balance the monitoring of a stranger’s personal life with your own?

Spots: What personal life?

Oprah: Moving on, do you think Gavin has ever found your blog? And if so, any guesses on what he’d think?

Spots: No way. Gavin’s too busy halting nuclear war, saving the rainforests and teaching Brittanie long division to read a stupid blog. But if he did read my manifestos, I suspect he’d find them inappropriately interesting.

Oprah: You regard him highly.

Spots: Are you fucking with me, Ope? I regard anyone in a tailored Italian pinstripe highly. Plus, Gavin is like a well-geled super-hero, flying around San Francisco rescuing kittens from trees and giving his empty water bottles to hobos. He’s like Jesus, walking into hospitals and miraculously curing the hideous and infirm. Gavin wakes up in the morning and decides to do things like reverse pollution and cease all discrimination.

Oprah: So do I!

Spots: Yeah, but you’re a lesbian…

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

thirtysomething never looked so good...

Sure, last week was Dani’s birthday and Saturday is Ben’s birthday. And sure, the two of them are the two of the most important people of all time. Sure, I usually crank out a birthday blog post for those in the inner circle and sure, I still worship them both.
More than anything.
Well, almost anything.
Folks. We forgot.
October 10th. Gavin’s Birthday.
OMG.
After completely flipping out, punching my fist through a wall and desperately calling his office to no avail, I finally got his Birthday Itinerary and will share it with you here:

Mayor Gavin Newsom: Schedule, October 10, 2006

8:00am: Wake up alone
8:10am: Shower
8:30am: Prepare ensemble choices
8:45am: Obligatory phone call from family member.
8:50am: Dress and application of hair products
8:55am: Final spritz of cologne
9:00am: Depart residence
9:15am: Breakfast with senior staff
9:45am: Uncomfortable phone call from Sofia Milos from her quarrantine cell on Ellis Island. Thanks her for her gift of L.R. Hubbard’s autographed headshot, which reads, “Happy Birthday Gareth!”
10:00am: Walk around Civic Center Plaza to contemplate 39 years of near-perfection. Listens to “Jerry Maguire Soundtrack” on iPod.
10:13am: Picks up litter.
10:35am: Returns to office. Reads Beth’s blog. Dismayed to find lack of birthday sentiment.
10:45am: Uncomfortable phone call from Kimberly Golddigger. Thanks her for her gift of Court TV beach towel and congratulates her on her new child. Hangs up as she whispers, “I wish he were yours.”
11:00am: Secretly watches Rachel Ray’s new daytime talk show in office.
12:00noon: Lunch at Aqua with Willie Brown and array of scantily clad, middle aged women.
1:30pm: Returns to office. Checks Beth’s blog again. Nothing. WTF?
2:00pm: Uncomfortable office birthday party. Formal cake and awkward wishes from employees. Caught glancing at watch and eyeing intern.
2:45pm: Re-application of hair gel. (won’t make THAT mistake again.)
3:00pm: Uncomfortable call from Brittanie Mountz. Confirms plans to meet for brief drink at Tosca and thanks her for card made out of construction paper and dried pasta.
3:15pm: Review “Solve World Hunger” file. Develop solution.
4:30pm: Forward Birthday e-mail from Bill Clinton to old fraternity buddies, with the subject line, “Eat this, ladies.”
5:15pm: Drop off birthday cake leftovers to favorite hobo, Patches.
5:30: Meet Brittanie at Tosca. Open gift (a copy of Bridget Jones Diary 2, The Edge of Reason and a scented candle) and thank. Sip Manhattan and watch the clock.
6:00pm: Depart Tosca to meet “friends” at City Tavern. Show them gifts from Brittanie and laugh.
7:15pm: Depart City Tavern for Birthday Dinner at Gary Danko with sister and friends. Discuss concern over turning 40 in one year. Must cure cancer by then.
10:30pm: Depart Gary Danko for after dinner drinks at Bourbon and Branch with hot woman from Hobo Shelter. Name something like Karen or Katie. Ask bartender to find out.
11:45: Exhaustion due to advanced age. Re-application of gel in bar bathroom. Examine wrinkles.
12:30am: Drunk-text Erin Brodie.
12:31am: Erin Brodie enthusiastic text back.
12:45am: Arrange regretful bootie call.
1:00am: Ditch Karen/Katie. Depart for home.
1:15am: Arrive home. Check Beth’s blog for birthday post. Seriously? Are you kidding me? Oh my god. What the fuck?
1:16am: Depression. Decide that Erin Brodie isn’t worth the trouble/VD. Turn off lights. Pretend no one home.
1:20am: Ignore repeated doorbell.
1:29am: Brodie departs.
1:30am: Quiet meditation, prayer and reflection.
2:00am: Draft e-mail to Beth, expressing disappointment in lack of blog post. Re-think and delete, embarrassed.
2:30am: Re-read birthday e-mail print-out from Bill Clinton. Smile and finally fall asleep, dreaming of a world full of peace, hope and bloggers who remember fucking birthdays…

stay classy, san ramon...

The incomparable Molly Cobb from New Jersey has been in town for the past few days and we celebrated her last night in town with dinner at Town Hall. Perhaps we were discussing Pete “I Hate Friends” Wilson, but Molly soon confessed to a childhood crush on a New Jersey newscaster. So enamored, Molly would kiss the TV screen as he presented the nightly news.
When asked who my favorite local newscaster was, I had only one response.
Dennis Richmond. Hands down.
Not only has he been staring back at me from the Channel 2 10 O’clock News for 137 years, but Dennis Richmond has a certain panache, a certain je ne sais quoi, a certain moustache. I would go on a DATE with Dennis Richmond.
In a heartbeat.
Our date would have to involve some kind of old school dance hall, where we’d sip white wine spritzers and Dennis would twirl me on the dance floor with his smooth disco moves. I get the feeling Dennis is the kind of guy that would take you to dinner at “the very best Italian restaurant in all of San Ramon!” His autographed headshot would be on prominent display and the manager would make a huge fuss over him, sending over his favorite toasted ravioli appetizer and extra breadsticks as a sign of respect. I get the feeling Dennis is the kind of guy that arrives at your door to pick you up with a single red rose and ends the date by walking you to your door and extending the handshake/cheek kiss combo, his gold bracelet glistening in the South Bay suburban moonlight…

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

goodbye dignity...

So, I was, uh, interviewed…uh…today. By a reporter…oh god. From ABCnews.com. Which, you know, probably like, 3 people read. Ugh. Shit. And the topic of the article…um, I can’t say it.
Oh god.
Was Gavin’s love life.
I know. I know.
Spots, you’re saying. Don’t be an internet nerd expert.
I know. I know.
Beth, my mom’s saying. You went to college. We PAID for it.
I know. I know.
Elizabeth Anne, my dead ancestors are saying. We expected something less pathetic.
I get it. This isn’t exactly what I aspired to be an expert on. However, throughout the entire conversation, I just pretended that His Excellency could listen in on everything I was saying and thus, spoke accordingly.
Man on the Inside is ready to kill me and my mother thinks I’ll be a national disgrace, but truth be told, relax. Like anyone reads the internet.

Oh god. Gavin, forgive me…*

*HERE IT IS...

i'm just waiting on the paperwork...

I like to think of myself as hip to the trends. So I’ll be adopting a third world child any day now. I always thought it was fun to pronounce “Cote d’Ivoire” so my child will probably come from there, and since the official language is French, little Gilles Laurent Spotswood will be clad exclusively in the Chanel Boys Collection. Instead of wandering around his village an orphan, eating mush and swatting flies out of his eyes, he’ll be sitting on a stoop in the Mission District listening to low-riders blasting Mariachi music and learning all about his new village’s illustrious leader, Monsieur Newsom. Once a year, little Gilles Laurent and I will return to his village on the Cote d’Ivoire where I will parade him around in a parasol and sailor suit and instruct him to pass out toothbrushes and iPods to the village children.
We’ll also get together with Angelina and Madonna every so often, meeting at the United Nations in unnecessary business suits and patting ourselves on the back for being so internationally compassionate. Calling ourselves the Mia Farrow Society, we’ll encourage other fabulous women to crack open an atlas and point, then jet-set into the random country selected and pick out the cleanest looking baby.
Eventually, I’ll adopt more little orphan children, always from different continents and always given slightly patronizing first names, like my little Eskimo daughter, Suinnak. Once I have enough for a basketball game, we’ll travel the world with our variety show, The United Colors of Spotswood and perform at retirement homes and prisons, each child wearing a sequined version of the traditional costume of their country of origin…

Sunday, October 15, 2006

matt gonzales would never pull this shit...

Here I sat, in a perfectly good mood, hardly hungover considering, sipping my fancy coffee and listening to the new Scissor Sisters album, Ta-Da! So you can imagine my disgust and horror upon cracking open my morning paper and finding THIS.

#1. Since WHEN is she his GIRLFRIEND? Is that legal? What, did she like make him a friendship bracelet or something? Is she drawing swirly hearts and stars on her geometry notebooks with GN+BM. (Her initials are BM. Yay!)

#2. If Gavin is so apparently oblivious to her obvious alcoholism, see #1. Clearly, to officially declare each other BF/GF requires “the talk.” We all know “the talk.” If Gavin and BM had “the talk”, don’t you think he would’ve said something along the lines of, “Okay, Brittanie. I will call you my girlfriend. But you’ve got to stop putting cheap gin in your Squeeze-Its. Not only is it illegal, it’s tacky.” She was drinking “wine.” Since when is passion fruit Arbor Mist “wine”?

#3. A republican!?! Are you shitting me? So she’s opposed to homos and hobos, Gavin’s two favorite things! She probably throws her beer cans at gay hobos and desperately wants to go to war with Canada. A republican. I can’t believe it.

In closing, I’m afraid I have to spend some serious time reconsidering my devotion to a man who “dates” a child hooch whore who, when she isn’t pounding vodka and red bull, is voting in favor of the destruction of the free world. How can a man so wonderful, charming and brilliant consistently date the stupidest women on earth, or in Kimberly’s case, within our solar system?
Well, it DID work for Bill

jolley delta three...

My gay sidekick Andy is the king of the famous quote. A mover and shaker in the gay porn industry (currently working on a film involving “Latino Thugs”), Andy offers a unique perspective on carnal pleasures.
Having not seen him for awhile, I headed over to Andy rooftop pied-a-terre yesterday to hang out and watch movies. We became engrossed in The Island, starring Scarlet “What’s the big deal” Johanssen and Ewan "Distracting Mole" McGreggor, a film in which two people discover that they’re clones used as back up organs for their owners.
It’s actually surprisingly good.
Anyway, as Andy stood in his bathroom, smoking a cigarette out the window and leaning on the sink so he could still see the TV, he suddenly said, “I wish I had a clone so I could have sex with myself.”
“What?”
“I said, I wish I had a clone so I could have sex with it. It’s like the ultimate in masturbation. Oh, this is a good idea for a movie. I gotta find me some twins.”
“Wait. If you had a clone of yourself, you’d have sex with him?”
“Hell yes. And this shit better not end up on the blog.” He paused. “Actually, that’s okay. It’s a good idea. You can put that shit up there...”

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

roses are red...

Because I have a younger brother who is my very best friend, I have grown to love (in a myriad of ways) his many cohorts and I have always maintained that my favorite is Ben. Ever since I saw him walk down the aisle of St. Patrick’s in a loincloth and flip flips as the Little Drummer Boy in the 1989 Christmas Pageant, I have loved Ben. And while I’m well aware that Ben is a little twinkle-eyed, man-whore heartbreaker, I prefer to think of him as saint-like and untouched by sin. Now that he’s grown up and has an office job, he’s stuck in front of a computer all day and, bored, has chosen to sign off his e-mails with a poem. We’ve gone back and forth over the past few days, trying to one-up each other’s rhyming skills and I think that little Benji cinched it. Enjoy our correspondence:

If ever there was someone
Who oozed out grace and glamour
No one oozes more than Beth
Say different, you're face'll see a hammer!
~Ben

A twinkle in his eye
and a little Southern twang
No one loves a boylike
I love Ben Lang...
~Beth

All my days are filled with wonder
My heart, it leaps, over and under
"What a weirdo" people say
All under their breath
And I say lay off!
I'm thinking of Beth!
~Ben

All the colors of the rainbow
and black-white like a zebra
couldn't capture the essence
of my favorite Libra

Not a canvas so big
or a mural so wide
could paint all the feelings
that I feel inside

If I had one week,
one day or one hour
I'd spend it with Ben
Masculine God full of power

In closing, I'll say
in his 23rd year
only one thing I'd change
I wish Benji were queer

But the ladies he loves
And they love him back
But some bitch gives him trouble
and I'll give her a smack.
~Beth

Alas if Beth could just have her way
I'd be just the same, though I'd have to be gay
we'd sit and discuss my sexual follies
(there'd probably be a good story with andy jolley)

When attending smashing parties, Beth would pick me
To go as her date, people would say "oh who's he?"
"Hands off ladies!" you’d shout, this is my date Ben
and sorry, he tastes only fruit of the men

Days filled with shopping, nights on the town
at length discussions on the joys of going down
on men that is, because I would be gay
alas, if Beth could just have her way

We'd sit and imagine undoing the layers
of clothes on male celebrities, especially the mayor
To see actual pictures good money we'd pay
If only, if only, if only I were gay

but alas, I am not, a straight man I am
I only like women, green eggs, and ham
but just wait by men, perhaps you'll have your hour
and maybe you’ll get me: Masculine God full of Power!
~Ben

Yeah. I know. He won…

i'm switching to fox news...

I don’t get my news from newspapers and radio. They’re dying mediums. And I don’t get my news from the television. There are always FAR better things on, like SVU. But every morning, I check in with SFgate and CNN, and every morning I run down the list of CNN’s twelve “Top Stories.”
This morning, I scanned those 12 top stories until I was forced to throw my cup of coffee at the computer. One headline proclaimed, “Men smarter, but just by 4 points, study finds.” And just two headlines away, the telling, “Men put off ER visits while game’s on, study says.”
I was so riled up about this bullshit, I didn't even notice "Women join military, risk lives, to get thinner."
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Um, what the fuck, CNN? First of all, I didn't realize you'd be pulling your topics from the reject cue cards from Regis and Kelly. Second of all, because this men are smarter crap has suddenly give me an irregular heartbeat, let me point out to your STUPID scientists that they might want to factor in...oh, I don't know...perhaps the fact that women have been treated like sub-humans since the beginning of civilization.
No one wants to hear my feminist rantings, so I'll just digress and hasten a guess that if men will suffer through a heartattack to see some touchdown and women will march off to Iraq to look cute, well perhaps we're all idiots...

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

snaggletooth wins it by a hair...

That hardest part about being on Project Runway, I imagine, isn’t the designing or the sewing or even the constant Michael Kors ass-kissing. The hardest part of being on Project Runway is that you can’t see how shitty you look until it’s pretty much almost over. However, that brings us the best thing about watching Project Runway and that is how every contestant completely makes themselves over by the reunion.
As Mikey and I sat and watched our TiVo’d version of my favorite annual event, I practically leapt off the couch.
“Snaggletooth got braces!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Oh hell yes.
Michael “Snaggletooth” Knight is now sporting one hell of a corrective grill. I’ll still be calling him Snaggletooth, but I’m delighted he’s chosen to pursue some kind of advanced orthadonture. This only makes me love him more.
Kayne “Rhinestone Homo” Gillespie got hisself a tan, y’all. And either he lost some crazy weight or got cheek implants because Miss Kentucky is working some new facial features.
Malan Breton from Taiwan still rules the runway, as far as I’m concerned. He’s like a character from Clue, wandering around palatial estates in a smoking jacket and silk pajamas, quoting Bette Davis and sipping Brandy. He’d fit in well with the Crane brothers.
Laura Bennett in ’08. For serious. I aspire to this bitch, minus the 47 children, and her straight-talkin’, no nonsense, dominatrix vibe. I knew she was my personal hero when she was the only one NOT excited to go to Paris, until she found out they were flying first class.
I could talk about Jeffrey and his ridiculous overcompensation by skin ink or Vincent and his future in a straightjacket, but really, the only contestant worth anything is the flawless and childlike Alison Kelly, whose hair is spun from pure gold and whose mode of transportation is probably a unicorn...

someone call olivia benson...

Rhonda the Honda has been raped.
Again.
So here’s a question for the little shits in my neighborhood who break car windows willy nilly in search of a lighter or nickel or similar. What about a base model 2003 Honda Civic makes you think you’ve hit the motherload? Sure, the O Magazine in the backseat implied a certain vehicle owner sophistication. Perhaps the half-full water bottle in the cup holder proved too-tempting after a night of pounding Olde English. But I am poor, little ghetto bastards, and I cannot afford to keep replacing the same window, over and over and over again. So I encourage you to venture out of our cesspool neighborhood and head for the hills, where there are fully loaded Touaregs and X5’s for you to pillage to your heartless content.
In the meantime, stay the fuck away from my car. Because if I catch you, you useless, drains on society, I will personally haul your saggy pants down to jail and introduce you to the business end of Elliot Stabler…

Sunday, October 08, 2006

it'll always be candlestick...










Because she is amazing, Lo got us on the field at halftime during the Niner's game today. Apparently, we were all allowed on the field as guests of Cal and as those wildly opposed to domestic abuse. Alex and Mikey had to march on the field and pledge some oath about how they're not going to beat any(more) women. It was all worth it for Alex, who took off his shoes so his feet could touch the actual grass during our pre-tailgate rehearsal. No one loves football like my sibling, and as some 14 year olf little gay boy sang the national anthem and 2 fighter jets did a well-timed fly-by, I could've sworn I saw a tear...






































































Thursday, October 05, 2006

Happy Birthday, Laura!

Everyone gets a blog on their birthday (except for BTOB, who gets screwed because he shares a birthday with Mikey) and Berkeleyist is no exception. On my way to work this morning, I was trying to think of a Laura story that I haven’t already blogged about, although as a main “character” here at Spotsblog, our adventures have been notoriously and consistently logged.
Who can forget our first meeting, a clandestined romp through Hayes Valley at Sauce and Hotel Biron? I knew we’d be friends forever when Lo announced at 11pm, “I’ll get the first bottle.”
Or the time we were trapped out back at Zeitgeist and, in an attempt to tell an animated story to unattractive strangers, I completely ate gravel and Lo, in glorious sisterly friendship, managed to pretend it never happened.
What about the time we went to see the effervescent Nicole McRory at Foley’s and Lo managed to not only woo yet another “older gentleman,” but agreed to meet him for brunch the next morning.
There are so many wonderful tales of late night tomfollery through San Francisco hotspots, but I must say, Lo will forever have a space in my heart as the sole witness to the greatest night in the history of Spots and Berkeleyist. That’s right. You guessed it.
Picture it. The back room of Tosca. 2 months ago.
Lo stood in one corner, charming Jenny from Forrest Gump. I stood in another, engrossed in conversation and flirtatious physical contact with Gavin. We snuck glances across the pool table, safe in the knowledge that such an unimaginable moment would shock our systems into sobriety. There is no friend like the friend that was the friend that was there when you officially met your future spouse. And for me (and Gavin), that friend was Lo. I couldn’t ask for a better partner in crime, a more wonderful enabler and a more generous date.
So here’s to Laura; driver of bridges, lover of Oprah and drinker of wine.
Happy Birthday, Lo!

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

mayday. i repeat, mayday...

Thanks to Berkeleyist for immediately alerting me to the biggest crisis of 2006, Gavin's hair as seen in John Han's photos on The San Francisco Sentinel. What the hell is going on here? I guess the infamous gel is the lesser of two evils. He looks like the rejected 5th member of Color Me Badd. Will our children be cursed with this coiffure calamity?

Eh, it's worth it. But barely...

I blame the 12 year old Brittanie. Anyone who spells her name with such a disregard for intelligence everywhere is no doubt responsible for this monstrosity...

to quote gavin...

I’ve noticed 2 things about my daily commute on Van Ness.
Number 1: The section from Market Street to 14th Street is packed with the same collection of 10-15 hobos.
And Number 2: An alarming percentage of those hobos are missing limbs.
As I drove home last night, I found myself directly under the freeway in the middle lane. A woman in a Mercedes to my left was clearly trying to get the attention of a hobo on my right, waving a $5 bill out her window like she was in a strip club. Getting caught between a hobo and someone trying to give them money is pretty much the same thing as getting caught between a grizzly bear and her cub. I actually considered playing dead.
Unsuccessful and worried the light was going to change before her good deed, she lowered her passenger window and started to scream at me.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!”
I pretended not to hear her.
“EXCUSE ME!”
I looked over and she tried to lean across her suburban boat on wheels. “Can you get his attention???”
She motioned to the hobo on my right.
This is far too much to ask of a stranger, in my opinion. This is the big city, sweetheart. I’m in no mood to get jacked today and hobos aren’t exactly known for their gracious predictability.
I gave her an exaggerated shrug, implying I had no idea that she was asking me to get involved in her one-woman, drive-by outreach program. She wasn’t giving up and the light was about to change.
“Excuse me!”
I finally turned to her as the light glowed green.
“Care, not cash!” I yelled and sped off into the ghetto…

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

magua loves ross...

Because both my cable and roommate were out last night, I chose to hit the Ross Holiday Dress Sale after work, and followed that that my 237th viewing of my Last of the Mohicans DVD. First of all, arriving at the Potrero Center Ross at 6:30pm on a Monday is like wandering into the waiting room at the Hall of Justice Family Court. The place was a madhouse, with highly flammable tank tops strewn over clothing racks and abandoned children drawing on the floor.
No. Literally. They were drawing. On the linoleum.
I didn’t even venture into the women’s separates section, heading straight for the discount scented candles offerings. I needed new votives and serving platters for Berkeleyist’s Birthday Soiree on Friday, and let me tell you, Ross has FABULOUS serving plates. But before filling my arms with ambient lighting and colorful porcelain, I peeked into the holiday dress sale. As I mentioned in an e-mail to Zoe this morning, “Oh my god, it’s amazing.”
Sure, the section is packed with junk I can’t begin to describe, save to mention lots of halter necklines and sequins, but I found enough $14 possibilities to warrant a trip to the dressing room. With Ross, you either leave with nothing or everything. As I stood looking at myself in the mirror, standing in a jersey wrap dress that wasn’t half bad, even over my gym socks and shoes, I thought to myself, “This is going to be an everything day.”
My arms filled with 2 “holiday” dresses, a stack of athletic socks, a dozen votives and holders and one fabulous big porcelain bowl I’ve now deemed “the couscous carafe”, I made my way to the lines I spied upon my arrival.
Turns out, I’d spent and hour and a half in Ross. The lines were gone. I walked right up and paid.
My total? $54.30.
Do you love it? Because I love it.
Thrilled, I went right home and twirled around the house in my new dresses. Only one thing could make my solo evening a bigger success.
There are good movies. There are great movies. And then there are appallingly cheesy movies that I prefer to watch on repeat once a month. Last in the Mohicans is one of those movies. With my turkey sandwich, gallon of CrystalLite and stack of cookbooks (for dinner party menu ideas), I plopped on the futon and began this masterpiece. You know when you watch a movie over and over and over, you begin to notice teeny, tiny details previously overlooked? Well, last night, as I sat watching the opening credits, with Daniel Day Lewis running through the forest circa 1757 in his leather pants and linen shirt, I marveled at his urgency. Look at his hair flowing behind him! Look at him lead his Mohican adoptive father and brother with such speed and concentration! Look at the determined passion with which he sprints up and down wild, virgin mountains! Look at his bare chest and…
What?
Apparently, during this urgent, impassioned chase through the wilderness, DDL has somehow stopped, removed his top.
Ah, yes. Michael Mann.
Maybe, during the half-a-second camera shot of the deer they were chasing, DDL took an unseen breather, found himself a tad winded and sweaty and chose to slowly and seductively remove his shirt, tying it conveniently around his little man-waist. I mean, it does look like a hot, not-very-breathable shirt.
I wonder if he got it at Ross…

Monday, October 02, 2006

shouldn't you be in a home...

This weekend was exhausting, thanks to the newly returned Zoe who has instituted “Bootcamp Saturdays” which meant I spent all of Sunday sore. Thus, I was in no mood Sunday morning when I stood in line at Safeway amidst the cast of Cocoon. The elderly man in line in front of me briefly excused himself to grab some last minute BenGay or Depends, and as soon as he left, it was of course, his turn to be checked out.
Nurse Ratchet behind me couldn’t take this and tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me, but please move forward.”
“Oh, well there’s a guy in line in front of me who ran to grab something. He’ll be right back.”
“A gentleman.”
What. “What?”
“It’s very rude to call someone a guy. You should refer to him as a gentleman.”
Oh my god.
I was so caught off guard, I could barely muster a response. And all I could come up with was, “Well, I certainly didn’t mean to be rude.”
She sighed. “People of your generation simply have no manners.”
Oh hell no.
Suddenly, I channeled my inner Julia Sugarbaker.
“I am 28 years old, with a career and a mortgage. It is quite literally my job to be charming and have manners, and having been raised in a household in which manners where of utmost priority, I can assure you that it’s far more inappropriate to correct a perfect stranger than it is for me to politely inform you that the DUDE in line before us stepped away for a moment. Perhaps you might want to turn that judgmental eye inward, because you are completely out of line.”
She registered no look of shock or shame, her mind clearly not changed but what I felt was a marvelous statement on behalf of young adults everywhere.
The “guy” in front of us arrived with his dried, pitted prunes. He smiled at me.
“Thanks, dollface.”
I turned to Emily Post in line behind me, “You’re welcome, gorgeous.”
He laughed. “Boy, oh boy. You just made my day.”
He paid for his items and left, leaving me trapped alone with the witch who’s convinced I’m the downfall of civilization. Angrily pretending to ignore each other, I paid for my groceries, grabbed my bags and turned to her one last time.
“Have a lovely day!” I screamed, and stormed out of Safeway, scouring the streets for a little old lady to help across an intersection…