Thursday, November 30, 2006

mahal ka namin, gavin...

I’m taking SFMike’s advice and offering you some thoughts on Gavin’s Philippine Whirlwind. I’m not going to do an itinerary, because we all know that Gavin’s doing exactly what we would be doing on Manila: riding around on the back of a scooter, chomping on lumpia, buying knock-offs and checking out the red light districts. What concerns me is that lack of reverence those future Daly City residents have for GCN. Allow me to quote a recent SFGate article:

"There are so many things happening in the Philippines right now that a visit from the Mayor of San Francisco may not be on the top of the editors' minds," said Gutierrez.

Uh, yeah right Gutierrez.

"The people there are probably wondering who Newsom is. ... They might like his good looks, but they don't know who he is," said Greg Macabenta

Up yours, Greg Macarena.

Hello Manila? This man is Mayor of the very city I live in and I celebrate him every single day. I didn’t realize that ignoring fabulous was part of your culture. I fully understand that there's all kinds of political unrest and horrible typhoons about, but a little polite fanfare never hurt anybody. I’m offended by your being so blasé, like the people of Manila are doing us some big favor by putting up with the pretty boy American who stands around like an idiot, 10 feet taller than everybody, smiling and waving and drinking those drinks with beans at the bottom. Fine. Send him back. I’ll take him to Serramonte and he’ll have no idea he ever left.

Magandang hapon…

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

oh, and i know all the words to rapper's delight...

Big props to New Chris for sending me a week old article I’d already read and tried to forget about. Those hotties, Matier and Ross decided to list the appalling credentials of Gavin’s soon to be ex-freakshow and I thought it only appropriate to see how I stacked up:

“Yes, San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom is dating another actress -- but judging from her resume, this one really is a political scriptwriter's dream.” (Barf.)

“Not only does Jennifer Siebel -- who once dated America's most eligible bachelor, George Clooney -- bring some Hollywood luster, but she was born in San Francisco, has her MBA from Stanford and carries credentials as a conservation and Third World development activist.” (I hooked up with a bartender at The Redwood Room, was born in San Francisco, have a Bachelor’s in Fashion Design from a school no one’s heard of and carry credentials as a fag hag.)

“Why, she's even volunteered at a hospital in Quito, Ecuador.” (I was in charge of the talent show at fat camp.)

“And like the mayor, who played college baseball, she's got athletic ability -- she was a member of the U.S. Women's Junior National Soccer Team, a competitive horseback rider, basketball player and skier. And a dancer to boot.“ (In the 8th grade CYO boys vs. girls basketball game, the final score was 40 to 2. Yeah, those 2 points? Right here, baby. I’ve also survived the 2 hour trail ride at a New Mexico resort, typically ski for an hour then go to the Lodge Bar and can dance the pants off this bitch at Badlands.)

“She's also got some pedigree -- her dad is Ken Siebel, a onetime basketball pro who became an entrepreneur and investment manager, and mom is Judy Siebel, co-founder of the Bay Area Discovery Museum of Sausalito and a board member at various charities.” (Please. Dick and Joanne blow these posers out of the water.)

“As for Siebel's Hollywood talents? Well, her Web page shows she's mostly had bit TV and movie parts -- including roles in the short-lived "Presidio Med" and the Jack Nicholson-starring "Something's Gotta Give." (I’ve seen Muriel’s Wedding 342 times.)

“She's also 32, which -- much to the relief of the mayor's PR machine -- at least puts her in the same decade as the 39-year-old mayor.” (I’m a mere 28 years old, with 4 more child bearing years than grandma.)

“As for Brittanie Mountz, the mayor's erstwhile 20-year-old flame, she's apparently done a fast fade.” (Sadly, I kinda miss her…)

* Oh, and props to SFist for completely ripping me off. It's not like I've been doing this for years...

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

apparently, i AM the seeing eye dog...

You’d think that living in the Ghetto would be hardcore enough for me. Nope. I’ve got to have Ghetto Medical Insurance. Truth be told, Kaiser PermaGhetto has been very good to me and the care that I’ve gotten is for the most part, spectacular. However, navigating the ins and outs of PermaGhetto is like trying to buy toilet paper in Russia: there are always really long lines, crazy languages and everyone smells.
I arrived early and grabbed a cup of coffee before heading up to the waiting room. Along the way, I passed an actual hobo IN THE HALLS who was taking a moment to rearrange his possessions.
Um, ok. “Good morning.”
“Er, uh, um…” Elevator, please arrive. Joining me in the elevator was a giant woman who dwarfed me. This will prove to be the highlight of my morning.
“Where you goin’?”
“Third Floor, Urgent Eye Care.” I responded.
“Ain’t that on the Fourth Floor?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s on the third. That’s what they told me, at least.”
“We’ll see.”
I emerged on the third floor, easily finding the appropriate office filled with elderly people from every country in the world. I got in line and listened to an old Irish man at the counter.
“Now when’s me appointment as I been waitin’ nearly an hour.”
“I told you, Mr. O’Malley. It’s on Thursday.”
“So, I’ll just be waitin’ over by the plant, yes?”
“Nope. You need to go home. Today is Tuesday. You’ve got to come back on Thursday.”
“Tursday! Oh, right, right.”
He gathered his things and proceeded to sit down in the waiting room. I finally made it up to the desk, forked over a fortune and waited with my OK! Magazine.
In waiting 45 MINUTES to see the doctor, I witnessed no less than three interpreters come through, one of whom having just disagreed with a patient and was lamenting her inability to shut her anger off.
I heard that.
I also witness Miss Giant Elevator sheepishly arrive on the third floor. Yeah. That’s what I thought.
Finally, they call what I assume was my name. “Erishabitch Spotwahn.”
“THAT’S ME!” I leapt from the chair and was guided to the back room where “Emily” asked me a series of questions. The great thing about the eye doctor is that they only ask you questions pertaining to the eyes, as opposed to the whole, “Who are you sleeping with, do you do drugs, get on the scale, please” third degree. I filled Emily in on my night of hell, offering that something clearly got in my eye and was driving me nuts.
“Emily, I haven’t slept a wink, so to speak, since 1:30 this morning. Help me.”
“The doctor will come in a few minutes.”
I re-read OK! Magazine. Then I read some pamphlets on cataracts. Then I read the photocopies on the walls, announcing seated exercise classes and free blood pressure testing.
“It seems something got in that pretty left eye.” She smiled and while short, I decided I liked her. I explained my tale of woe.
“Okay, I’m going to put some dye drops in your eye now and we’ll take a look. Then I’m going to flip the lid and look under there.”
“I don’t like anyone touching my eye.”
“No one does.”
Fair enough. Mustard yellow drops fell into my eye and down my left cheek and I was immediately instructed to fit my head in some big contraption while a rainbow of lights flashed in my eyes. Then, with great swiftness, she took some horrible instrument of torture and flipped my eyelid. It actually wasn’t that bad.
Finally, she pushed the face holder away, dabbed my crying eye and scooted her stool back.
“You’ve got an ulcer on your cornea.”
“There’s a tear in your cornea and it’s infected. We call them ulcers. You need to go on antibiotics. Like, now. Oh, and you need to come back on Thursday because I want to make sure this doesn’t develop into something more serious.”
“Oh my god. Okay.”
“A corneal ulcer isn’t a big deal, really. We’ve just got to treat it. It happens a lot in dogs.”
She laughed. “In humans, too! Oh god, in humans too. Sorry.”
With that, I was instructed to the pharmacy. Within 10 minutes, I had my appallingly expensive antibiotics, which need to get dropped into my wonky eye every two fucking hours. Upon arrival home, I immediately looked up “corneal ulcer” online.
I think the worst part is when they list the most commonly affected breeds.
Of dogs.
With MY eye disease.
That’s just great.
Oh wait, no. That’s not the worst part. What’s the worst part?
The goddamn patch, which incidentally, is now where it belongs: in the trash…

sammy davis spotswood...

Still recovering from Thanksgiving weekend, I hit the hay at 8:30 last night, looking forward to waking up glorious and refreshed this morning. Suddenly, at 1:30am, tragedy struck. I shot out of bed, pain screaming from my left eye.
Something’s in there! Ugh, gross! Something is in my eye!
What is it? Glass? A rusty nail? A spider laying eggs?
Tears streamed down my face and I tugged on my eyelid, hoping to free the foreign object. By 2am, it was worth getting up, turning on the lights and examining my poor eye in the mirror. I certainly couldn’t see anything, but it was definitely still in there. And it fucking hurt. I went back to bed and closed my eyes. At 3am, it occurred to me that I had some Visine somewhere in the house. “Jesus.” I thought to myself. “It’s already 3am.”
I located the Visine and dumped half of it on my sweatshirt before hitting any actual eyeball. By the time I made it back to bed, after Visining and re-mirror-ing, it was 4am.
4 o’clock in the morning. This sucks.
“It’s just going to have to work it’s way out.” I sighed, rolling over and dabbing my one crying eye. And so I lay there, obsessing about the identity of the culprit, debating whether or not to wake Mikey up and wondering what I’d name my Seeing Eye dog.
“Oh look. It’s the fucking sun. Terrific.”
It is now 8:13am. I look like I was in a fight. Invisible gravel is still rolling around my left eye. And I’ve been awake since 1:30.
But at least I’ve settled on “Gavin”…

* I've got a 10:10am appointment with the "URGENT EYE CARE" people at Kaiser PermaGhetto, so check back for an exciting, no doubt highly traumatizing adventure...

Sunday, November 26, 2006

no crying game?

Thanksgiving is one hell of a holiday. We kicked off Thursday with a visit to my grandmother’s retirement home. If you’ve been reading, you’ll know that my 93 year old grandmother has completely lost her mind, something that while horrible and shitty and painful, we’ve decided to find funny. When in doubt, find it funny, right?
I tend to avoid seeing my grandmother these days, as going over there seems to stick a knot in my stomach and make me anxious. I mean, all of a sudden, she could bust out with something about whores and rape.
My mother has gotten comparatively used to this, and was chipper as could be when we walked into the 3rd Floor Care Wing (aka: Crazytown.)
“Have you met Jean?” My mother enthusiastically asked as we waited outside Grandma’s room while 57 people changed her clothes.
“What?” I responded, annoyed.
“The new woman in charge of the third floor!”
“Mom, seriously. I’ll do the meet and greet with all your cronies later. Let’s just get this shit over with.”
“She’s transgendered, Beth.”
“Let’s go!”
God bless my mom for finding the awesome in Crazytown. Nothing takes the edge off a visit with Grandma like a tranny. Needless to say, the residents are oblivious to “Jean,” whose celebrity equivalent is a middle aged, overly made-up Rosemary Clooney circa 1987. And needless to say, Jean is awesome, offering us pumpkin pie and chatting politely with Mrs. Johnson, who no doubt can’t figure out why the lovely Jean can’t find a husband.
By the time I was done meeting Jean, dealing with Grandma wasn’t that bad. Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was my Grandma’s preoccupation with her lipstick as opposed to my love life or ass-size. Maybe it was simply the fact that when she screamed at my brother, “Can I have your shoulder to cry on!?!?!?!?!” we call chose to laugh and not to freak out.
On our way out, my uncle Ted, dad and I stopped by the giant calendar posted near the front desk. In between 10am “Vitality with Jack” and the curious “Happy Hour,” was the month’s 4pm movie selections. Next week, should you want to visit my Grandma, stick around for “Brokeback Mountain” and “TransAmerica.”
I’m not kidding.
My giggling uncle leaned over. “You think Jean’s in charge of the movie selections?”

To be continued…

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

c-c-c-c-come on...

You know you’re life is in the crapper when you experience extreme sexual tension with a hobo.
I’ll explain.
I was driving to work incredibly early, as I had to swing by Safeway and pick up food for tonight’s dinner party. My window was down as I was loudly singing along to Energy 92.7’s playing of the George Michael classic, “I Want Your Sex.” Lo and behold, I find myself stopped at a red light, directly next to an inebriated and/or crazy hobo who instantly recognized the tune.
A mere 3 or 4 feet away, he stumbled over to my window, sticking his face right next to mine. “I WANT YOUR SEX!”
Oh god.
Oh my god, Oh my god, Oh my god.
I couldn’t really roll up my window. For some reason, I felt it would be rude. I certainly couldn’t make eye contact. That would imply consent and perhaps, returned feelings. Instead, I was forced to stare straight ahead begging for that goddamn light to mother fucking change.
He was literally screaming in my face. I can’t express this enough. Seriously. Verbatim lyrics, the whole nine yards.
Green finally glowed back at me as he hit that last line, Rhonda the Honda leaping forward to safety. I slowly relaxed, after changing the radio station and rolling up that stupid window.
Obviously, I’ll have to drive back the very same way upon my return home. You think I could get ENERGY 92.7 to play “Good Vibrations?”

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

gavin gives thanks...

Gavin’s been having a rough time lately and no one could be more devastated than yours truly. And so I was wondering, on this Thanksgiving week, what exactly Gavin is thankful for. Amazingly, and by means I’d never reveal, just guess what has fallen into my lap?

What I, Gavin Christopher Newsom, am thankful for this year:

Caller ID
The new Hugo Boss at Westfield
My top-notch staff
My sweet pad at the 4 Seasons
Hair product
My stock portfolio
That girl’s blog
Less hobos (You’re welcome, San Francisco.)

And even though Dr. Schwartzman told me to focus on positivity and harnessing my chi, here is the list of things that I, GCN, am NOT thankful for:

The Forty Motherfucking Niners
Chris Gay-ly (hehe)
Weirdo religions and the chicks that practice them
20 year olds who do not immediately disclose their age
My shitty job
The San Francisco Board of Supervisors
Art Agnos
People who give a shit about the Olympics. (Seriously. Big fucking deal.)
Anytime I see a hobo…

Monday, November 20, 2006

I am proud to report that everyone in the Spotswood party remained upright on the dance floor on Saturday night. The same cannot be said for everyone else and it was awesome…

not that there's anything wrong with that...

Cosmo Kramer is the new Mel Gibson and I’m all over it. Apparently, Michael Richards was performing his weirdo comedy routine at the Laugh Factory this weekend and responded to a heckler by dropping the N-bomb. Over and over and over. Oh, and you can watch the whole thing HERE. God bless the brilliant American who sees this shit going horribly wrong and pulls out their camera to record the entire thing, all the way to half the audience getting up and leaving in protest.
What. The. Fuck.
My first thought was, “He’s on crack.” So, I predict an immediate 28-day stay at Promises. In a perfect world, we’d get a public reaction from Jerry but I’m not holding my breath*. These things always happen in threes, so we’ve got Mel hating the Jews and Kramer walking around in a white sheet. There’s going to be one more celebrity meltdown involving racial slurs. But who?
I’m hoping for Rachel Ray or someone Gavin’s dating…

*Seinfeld issued a statement saying he was "sick over this."
"I'm sure Michael is also sick over this horrible, horrible mistake. It is so extremely offensive. I feel terrible for all the people who have been hurt," Seinfeld said.

Friday, November 17, 2006

without even trying...

I've got to stop interviewing actors and musicians and get back to comics. They're funnier. That being said, I've always liked Andrew W.K. ever since I saw him on MTV hosting a slumber party at a black sorority and letting the ladies give him cornrows. In that one sweet moment, I just wanted to adopt Andrew W. K., wash his clothes, cut his hair and give him a bath. Plus, it's also fun to drive around San Francisco in the middle of the night screaming "I Get Wet" at the top of one's lungs. Thus, I sent him an e-mail with 5 questions. I do this a lot, picking random people to bother and rarely do they reply. God Bless him, the bloody mess responded. He's no Jacob Sirof, but I give him props for writing back, as he's currently on tour in Asia or Buffalo or something...

SPOTS: Who is your favorite Golden Girl and why?
ANDREW W.K.: I haven't seen an entire episode of the Golden Girls in a few years, but I used to enjoy it very much. I liked the unusual characters and the rhythm of the show. I didn't feel (and still don't) that I need to pick a favorite actress, but I enjoyed Blanche a lot and also Betty White's character. I had a friend who's Mom really hated Betty White for playing so "dumb" - I think my friend's Mom took it as an insult towards all women's intelligence. This same friend's Mom also wrote an editorial about why the "Lockhorns" cartoon was sexist - I understand where she was coming from, but I've always liked both Betty White and The Lockhorns.

SPOTS: What is your favorite thing about San Francisco, Mayor, Gavin Newsom?
AWK: I don't feel I'm familiar enough with Gavin Newsom to have a favorite thing about him, however I greatly respect his passionate moral sense and efforts for freedom of marriage, and I think he's also related to musician Joanna Newsom, who I just saw play a concert the other day. I enjoyed it.
(He's right! They are indeed related. Well played, WK. -Spots)

SPOTS: Is the song, "She is Beautiful" about me, and if not, who?
AWK: Yes, it is about you, because you think it is. I hope my songs encourage complete subjectivity in the listener and a feeling that all the songs are about them specifically - as if they were made for them and I was just someone in their imagination they invented to make up a song to suit them.
(What? Is that a yes or a no? I think it's a yes. -Spots)

SPOTS: If you were homeless, what would your cardboard sign say?
AWK: I can't see any situation where if I was homeless, I would choose to sit on the street with a cardboard sign of any kind. Even if I was destitute, I can't imagine that I'd spend much time on the street. I guess it comes down to what other choices I had. If I had no other choice but to sit on the street with a cardboard sign, it would probably say, "I'm being forced to sit here with this sign, when all I really want to do is something else." I feel compassion for anyone who do chooses to sit on the street with a cardboard sign, as I imagine they may feel as though they have no other choice. I wish to remind them and us, that we do have choices, and because of this, I respect their choice and love them no less because they may choose differently than I.
(I have reread this like, 8 times. I'm still confused. -Spots)

SPOTS: What's it like to be "Big in Japan"?
AWK: I'm 6 foot 3 inches tall, so when I'm in Japan, it's easy to feel pretty big. Most people there seem to be between 5 feet and 5 feet 10 inches, so it's not been too difficult to feel taller than them. However, there are certainly many people who are bigger in Japan than I am - think of the basketball stars that go over there! They must really feel like giants!

You can see Andrew tonight in the big apple, or visit his website and listen to "She is Beautiful" over and over, because it's apparently about me...

*Also, these bitches are on my couch. Wanna know where I hang out? Right here. Eww...

Thursday, November 16, 2006

dear ben...

Once again, Ben and I have decided to rip off that hack, Dear Abby and respond to her mail in rhyme. However, upon receiving Ben's poetic response, there's no point in my trying to meet his ridiculous skills. I've said it before and I'll say it again. Ben Lang is my favorite.

DEAR BEN: There's a man in our community I'll call "Uncle Harry." Uncle Harry is in his mid-70s and considers himself one of the finest Christians in the area. Many of us, however, know this to be an exaggeration.
The main problem with Uncle Harry is his insistence on hugging almost all the women he comes in contact with. These "hugs" are not chaste, loose hugs about the shoulders. Uncle Harry insists on bear hugs, where he puts both arms around the woman and presses her breasts against his chest. Occasionally, his hands will also drift to the area of the buttocks. What can be done about Uncle Harry? I see him as a sexual predator, but he insists his hugs are just an example of his fine Christian fellowship. -- NO HUGS, PLEASE, IN ALABAMA

And now, Ben...

In Alabama there is a town
That's home to an old Christian man
The hair is fading from atop his crown
And still he lives by the Jesus plan

The homeless spit as he serves them soup
He takes it in stride and with love
He walks all the way home to sit upon his stoop
and gives thanks to the Lord up above

His bones are old and his muscles tired
Arthritic and in constant pain
But every morning, you should be inspired
He walks to church in snow and in rain

A smile always upon his face
Seems to be the furthest thing from scary
He gives a wave as the folks pass by
"Hey everyone, its me, Uncle Harry!"

But ladies look out, he's not what he seems
Though a solid Christian is the face that he shows
Behind that bald head, and those twinkly eyes
No one talks about it, but everyone knows

He comes up real slow, like a kindly old gent
"Mrs. Johnson, you look lovely today
And those daughters of yours, they must be heaven sent"
Look out, now the tale goes astray

Mrs J politely smiles and sticks out her hand
Hoping to get away with just a quick shake
Uncle Harry carries on according to plan
After all, his horniness is at stake

He moves in for the kill, puts his arms around her waist
Says "Praise Jesus" and pulls her in close
But in his head he's thinking, "Lord I just need a taste
Of the ass inside those panty hose"

As he pulls away, his hands slide on down
He grazes it finally, at last!
He thinks there's nothing better than a woman fighting a frown
As he subtly carresses her ass

But theres nothing they can do, he's a kind Christian man
At seventy degrees his fake teeth start to chatter
Are you gonna throw him in jail, make him take the stand
He's old, its an ass grab, what's it matter?

The real lesson here is on a broader scale
Around Christians you have to be wary
Ask Muslims or Jews, they have much worse tales
So keep your kids away from Uncle Harry...

safety requires avoiding unnecessary conversation...

Dear Gavin,
If I was on that bus, which I wouldn't be because that would be ridiculous, I would've delighted in sneaking as close to you as humanely possible and perhaps even attempting a brief sexual assault, but I'd have been secretly pissed knowing that there's a car and driver sitting unused somewhere while you slum it. You're not doing anyone any favors by pretending to ride a bus. And if you're going to mingle with the L Taraval crowd, let me know because I need a ride and I don't like to carry my own shopping bags.
I've also noticed that everyone on this particular bus appears clean. Somehow, you've managed to find the one bus that doesn't smell of feces and just happens to be filled with rocket scientists, Supervisors and photographers, standing around discussing ski season and regular bathing. Where's the crazy hobo screaming at invisible people? Where are the young thugs taking up handicapped seats? Where's the pee?
I'm sure you're standing because you gave your seat to a little old lady or cripple or similar, but that's like a $1400 suit. Who're you fooling? Put it back in Jack Falstaff where it belongs. It’s really hard to get the smell of crack off Italian wool, no matter how many times you have it dry cleaned. Trust me. Some things, you learn the hard way.
So as much as I enjoyed 10 minutes of enthusiastic laughter when I saw this photo on SFist this morning, it’s time for you to find another crazy, super model, stupid person and get back to work.
And by work, I mean sitting on a Matrix barstool and looking fabulous.
Warmest Regards,

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

here we go again...

I received a text from the baby brother as I was getting ready for work this morning. My phone glowed with the message, “Are you listening to Alice?”
There’s only ONE reason Biscuit would alert me to radio.
I raced through the house. Do we even have a radio? I have no idea. Panicked, it finally occurred to me. My goddamn alarm clock. I don’t know that I’d ever even turned the radio on, much less knew how to go about it. I must have missed 3 or 4 minutes just trying to get the damn thing to work.
Random song, static, news, static…familiar gravelly voice! Hazaa!
Apparently, the Mayor is bummed out. Something about voting or elections or politics.
Ugh, who cares! I’m getting sick of the whining. This is not how I want to start my Wednesday, listening to pretty boy having a tantrum.
Once he got over the constant complaining, things got interesting.
Apparently someone on the radio show was getting married and Gavin starts diving into his extra-terrestrial ex-wife, Kimberly Golddigger.
“Yes!” I screamed, and then rapidly shut myself up.
Apparently, the only thing they fought over during the divorce was who gets some (probably hideous) plates, which Golddigger doesn’t want, requiring Gavin to pay for storage. It was also painful for Gavin to have to hear all about Golddigger marrying that poorly dressed gay man and popping out a kid 10 minutes later, although he claims they have a great relationship. Because they never talk.
Hell yeah, this is some good radio.
In my delight, I missed the segue into a discussion on Gavin’s current ho, Jennifer Weirdo and subsequent review of her appalling website. Obviously, I had to explore its contents, particularly as Gavin described her as a “remarkable woman.”
And now, a quote from her bio:
“As a person, my being so sensitive and emotionally expressive hasn’t always worked to my advantage. As an actress, though, its been my greatest blessing… it has afforded me natural empathy, the ability to expose my vulnerabilities and truths unabashedly. It’s nice feeling this alive. But, is it for everyone? Maybe not. But, hey, it works for me.”
Remarkable, my ass.
Jesus Christ, where does he find these people?
Gavin’s annoying me today anyway, so I hope they enjoy lots of really stupid conversations with each other sitting awkwardly on a couch re-watching her appearance as Extra #4 on Presidio Med.
I give it a week…

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

thank god for good hair days...

Much has been made of my obsession with firemen. So much so that I’ve taken to rolling my eyes and shrugging it off. Come on, people. I can’t possibly make THAT big a deal about this, right?
I’m sitting here at my desk minding my own business when my boss leaps off her chair. “Oh my god, firemen are coming!”
My hand instinctively shot to fix my hair as two totally hot men that rescue people for a living walked up the front stairs. There was a soft knock on the door as three women screamed, “COME IN!!!!!!”
“Oh, uh, hi ladies.”
“How’re you doing?”
“WE’RE GREAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
He then giggled. Ugh. Adorable.
“Okay, well, uh, do you know anything about a new Exit sign?”
I’ve never been so desperate to have known about a stupid Exit sign in my life. My god, what I would’ve given to have had the inside scoop on the ordering of the new Exit sign. Alas, none of us did. My brilliant boss dove in, “We just rent this office, so we have no idea.”
“Oh, okay. I should have known that. I’m so sorry to bug you ladies.”
OH, NO! IT’S NO TROUBLE AT ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
He laughed. “Great. Have a nice day.”
“YOU TOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
He closed the door and we silently pretended not to watch them walk down the stairs. All of a sudden, three grown women burst into hysterics.
“Could he have been any cuter!?!”
“Oh my god, I know. Jesus Christ, I’m completely blushing.”
“Me too! He called us ‘ladies’!”
“Seriously, you guys. He’s the cutest fireman in the world.”
This was 10 minutes ago. We are still talking about it, giddy over a 20 second interaction with some 12 year old in a FABULOUS uniform who called us ladies and uh, I’m pretty sure he winked at me.
I'm currently considering lighting matches directly under the smoke detector...

sir, i'm going to have to ask you to keep it down...

Finally, someone has listened to my pleas and grunters are getting kicked out of gyms.
Hold on. I’ll explain.
In spending a year living with Zoë, I gradually moved my occasional gym visit from the cardio/estrogen area to include the weight/prison yard area. I’d never ventured over there before, fearing that my lack of weirdo leather belt thing and barbed wire arm tattoo might brand me a resistance training dilettante. But Zoë’s got no problem pumping iron next to Butch and Tiny.
Turns out it’s not that bad. While they don’t have the same respect for my fabulous fitness ensembles in the prison yard as they do in the estrogen area, those boys are quite polite.
Until you get a grunter.
You know the grunter. It’s the guy in a tank top, which is obviously bad enough, who must audibly alert everyone to just how hard he’s pushing himself. Like we’re all going to stop what we’re doing and admire his ridiculous display. If I can hear you through my iPod, you’re either one step away from a dirty look or a hernia.
Oh, it’s not just at the gym. These assholes are everywhere.
K.G. joined Zoë and I on a power walk through the Presidio. As we finally completed our loop, exhausted and sweaty and ready to go fucking home, some goon sprints by, running as if for his life. You could hear this guy hysterically breathing and grunting a mile away and as he brushed past us, practically knocking K.G. over, I rolled my eyes and said, “Jesus Christ. We GET it.”
A guy stretching on a bench laughed. “No kidding! What was that about?”
Clearly, I’m not the only one.
And the sentiment is spreading. Earlier this week, some meathead in Albany, New York was escorted out of his gym by police.
For grunting.
Hell yes. I’m all over that shit.
I might be there, like twice a week, but on those rare occasions I show up, I expect all grunting to cease.
We’re not training for Iron Man, pal. This is Ghetto Gym. Recognize…

Monday, November 13, 2006

the bandit strikes again...

Many fine San Franciscans knew the awsomeness of my grandfather, the late, great Bob “Da” Spotswood, but few keep his torch aflame with the loyalty of Man on the Inside. MOI and I share a love of tradition, so much so that we’ve taken to visiting Da occasionally and celebrating with occasional dinners at Da’s favorite hangouts, primarily Liverpool Lil’s and the House of Prime Rib.
Going to the cemetery doesn’t do much for me. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a familiar name on a wall and that’s it. But when our visits there are cloaked in mystery, I can’t help but want in on the hot Colma action at Holy Cross. MOI swung by the cemetery this weekend in honor of Veteran’s Day and called me to report that the bandit had struck again.
It seems MOI isn’t the only one maintaining my grandparent’s final resting place. Someone known only as “The Fake Flower Bandit” has taken to adorning the space with tacky monstrosities we find appalling. Complicating matters, MOI suspects a woman. Interestingly, MOI’s widowed grandmother and my widowed Da enjoyed their twilight years together, going on cruises and paying sticker price for new cars. Da was a hot commodity at the time: a 6’2” former cop with a full head of hair and a pension, and MOI is concerned someone’s moving in on his grandmother’s territory. I share his concerns. I mean, at first I thought it was some do-gooder going around throwing crap on stranger’s graves, but the Fake Flower Bandit focuses their crap on MY grandparents.
MOI rapidly disposes of said crap, but the FFB continues to irk him. This Saturday, he removed yet another array of blue roses or similar and replaced it with fresh flowers and an American flag. (I know, I know. MOI might mock me mercilessly and keep me from Gavin, but he’s clearly worth it.) Calling me from his post-cemetery, Costco shopping excursion, MOI was none too pleased.
“Seriously. This is pissing me off.”
“Maybe they do this for everyone?”
“Clearly not, Beth.”
“Well, we should have a stakeout on major holidays.”
“I thought of that. They don’t come on holidays. I’m always there on holidays and their crap is appears to have been out for weeks already.”
“So, what’s your big plan? We’re going to hide out in my car on random Tuesdays, waiting for some vixen in a red dress to appear?”
“All I’m saying is, this isn’t over.”
Fair enough. I’m dying to know the identity of the FFB anyway. Based upon their taste in flowers, I'll be able to spot this Lillian Vernon addict a mile away...

Friday, November 10, 2006


It's a sad day when I'm more excited about where I'm going to dinner than my CELEBRITY INTERVIEW. However, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present Donkey Lips from Salute Your Shorts, Michael Something or Other, who responded at 7pm on a Friday night, when I was running out the door. Kinda sad:

Spots: Who was the biggest pimp on Salute Your Shorts?
Donkey Lips: "sponge --of course"
Spots: What is your favorite thing about San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom?
Donkey Lips: "nothing dont know of him --prob gay"
Spots: If you were a hobo, what would your cardboard sign say?
Donkey Lips: "i need a life --so ill buy your crappy existance for a penny--then we will be even"
Spots: Who is your favorite Golden Girl and why?
Donkey Lips: "betty white---cause it just sound like a porn name"
Spots: Any tips for breaking into ShowBiz?
Donkey Lips: "money"

Okay, you know what? This kinda breaks my heart...

for robyn...

Scroll down a little bit and you’ll see a picture of a baby. I was reminded today of his grandmother, a fabulous woman who served as my surrogate mother when I found myself living in Pennsylvania several years ago. A young woman away from home, I relied on my PA mom for matriarchal words of wisdom and advice and she’d often offer her services as “Rent A Bitch.” This brilliant concept involves hiring my PA mom to scream, yell, hassle and stalk any proprietor who wasn’t providing service at the level you’d require.
I channeled her bitchy genius today and hoped I’d live up to her immense skills in this arena.
My job requires dealing with a gentleman periodically, who has been officially classified by my all-female office as a “woman hater.” He’s desperate for our business, but simply can’t bring himself to respect, acknowledge or tolerate any word out of our mouths. Why we continue to work with this guy is beyond me, other than the fact that his proximity is highly desirable and he’s cheap.
I’m struggling with a NyQuil hangover this morning, in no mood for Woman Hater and his big bag of bullshit, so when he sassed me at 9:30am and told me to, for all intensive purposes, get off my ass, I harnessed my “Rent A Bitch” chi and snapped.
“I NEED TWO THINGS FROM YOU!” I screamed. “I need the work done and I need you to be nice to me! I am sick, I am tired and I have to work all day on Sunday. What can I do to facilitate your being professional and polite? Seriously. I always have this problem with you and I simply can’t pretend not to today. I don’t like you and you don’t like me. But you want this job and I need it done, right?”
Silence. “RIGHT?”
“Okay, then. So why don’t YOU get off your ass, treat me like a client and get this shit done. Because I am in no mood, pal and you do not want to fuck with me today.”
I slammed down the phone and looked around, the ladies in my office staring at me in stunned silence.
“That was fucking awesome.”
“I can’t believe you just did that.”
“Man, Spots letting Woman Hater have it. Wow.”
Shaking, I got up and grabbed a bottled water. “Oh my god, you guys. I’m so riled up.”
Suddenly, the phone rang.
“Um, Beth. It’s for you. It’s Woman Hater.”
“Hi Beth. I just wanted to apologize. I was out of line.”
Oh my god. This is unheard of.
Fuck yeah, bitch! How ya like me now?
Thank you, original Rent A Bitch. The student has officially become the master…

Thursday, November 09, 2006

crawling back to mohammed...

I ran into GhettoGas this morning in desperate need of a bottled water and found myself trapped in line between an elderly hobo and his girlfriend, both of whom were buying plastic bottles of gin. The hobo was covered in, I swear to God, gallons of what I assume was his own urine and his gal pal was so happy about it, she couldn’t stop flashing her lone pearly white.
Christ! I thought to myself. Just get me into the suburbs.
This morning called for real coffee, so I cheated on Mohammed at SuburbaGas and went straight to Peet’s.
The Mill Valley Peet’s Coffee is the official morning hot spot. EVERYONE is there, with their purebred dogs, Patagonia fleeces and constant discussions on the atrocities of war. Normally, I wouldn’t be willing to wade through the dregs of Banana Republic devotees but I had to have some serious coffee as opposed to the brown, slightly flavored, slightly warm water Mohammed offers. I stood in the freakishly long line and waited my turn, attempting to ignore the couple high-fiving over Rumsfeld’s retirement.
I took my large coffee over to the milk and sugar kiosk and attempted to throw elbows. Anyone with the slightest bit of common sense knows not to loiter in this highly trafficked area, but some jackass in a tie-dyed (yes, tie-dyed) shirt actually has the audacity to rest his ass upon it as he conversed with some poor, obviously desperate 30-something. I was forced to listen in and heard the disturbing, “I know the difference between right and wrong.”
Apparently not, according to that shirt.
He then went on to discuss his horrible relationship with his parents and how he doesn’t believe in “toxic” familial ties. All this in the time it took me to dump some milk and 2 Splendas into my coffee.
Jesus Christ.
I bitch and moan about the ghetto, but truth be told, those are my peeps. By the time I made it out of there, I was ready to pound some gin with pee bum and his toothless ho…

welcome future blog reader...

I just wanted to give a shoutout to Jonah in PA. I'm your Crazy Aunt Beth in California and I'll buy you beer and teach you how to smoke. I will also teach you the wonders of the old school hotel bar and tell you the story of your parents and grandma doing Irish car bombs at the Manayunk Brew Pub...

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Re vera, cara mea, mea nil refert...

Thanks to Lo for hooking me up with the following:

Don't miss next week's "Nova," "Family That Walks on All Fours" (8 p.m. Tuesday, PBS), because it contains some of the most fascinating, strange and beguiling footage you'll see anywhere. "Nova" looks at a family in rural Turkey in which five of the siblings walk on all fours. The discovery has sparked fierce discussions about evolution, genetics and social environment.

Should we have a party? I mean, this is too good.

Also, MOI has officially cut me off with an e-mail stating: "I could’ve gotten you in, but since it’s apparent everything will be published I will have to exercise discretion as to the events about which I might apprise you." As some type of nerd-punishment, he is now communicating exclusively in Latin, but conveniently, I've found THIS...

oh, and the soundtrack to Evita...

In exciting election news, Gavin gets a $44,000 raise. As I am renowned for my financial planning ability and in fact, actually LIVE with a banking genius, I’ve decided to plan the spending of this well-deserved sum based on the things I suspect Gavin needs and/or desperately covets:

$25,000: Party for 50 SpotsBlog readers at Tosca
$50: Celebratory case of Crew pomade
$100: 10 new ties in any color other than baby blue (Jesus Christ, it’s like it’s Easter everyday with him.)
$1,200: Armani Collezioni black striped wool-blend 3-button suit with flat front trousers (to wear to my 10-year high school reunion. Again, on November 24th)
$1,500: 10 sessions of intensive psychiatric counseling
$10,000: Immigration Official bribe money for unfortunate Sofia Milos deportation
$1,000: Benjamins to 10 favorite hobos
$250: Hair consultation with Hugh Grant (How does he do it?)
$1,000: cost to have infamous rug photo negatives destroyed
$1,500: 100 DVD purchases at Best Buy. List given to assistant includes: Armageddon, Home Alone 2, Mallrats, Season 5 of Friends, Godfather III, Lolita, Sister Act 2; Back in the Habit, The entire Lord of the Rings trilogy and Seasons 1 and 4 of Sex in the City.
$1,500: The entire Chicken Soup for the Soul Collection, first edition and signed…

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

in brief...

1. Brittany filed for divorce. Shocker.
2. Today, I actually saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac. I looked back. You can always look back.
3. I need the hot tips on the easily crashable election parties. Man on the Inside* refuses to hook me up due to some ridiculous notion he has about my mental stability, or lack there of...

*Update: MOI texted me repeatedly from Rob Black's party at Momo's. Did he invite me? No. Did he respond to my repeated requests for sneaking me in? No. Did he frequently point out his proximity to Gavin? Yes. At one point, MOI "Bumped into GN. Literally." Big deal, MOI. I once grabbed his wine glass and snagged a sip. Although, I think Gavin actually takes these opportunities to talk to MOI whereas he appeared slightly frightened of me.
By 1am, MOI's texts were getting more and more difficult to dicipher. I guess they had an open bar or similar. I reminded MOI that his repeated texts mocking my lack of invite to THE LOSER PARTY were painfully familliar to the incident in 1991 where MOI asked me if I had heard New Kids on the Block's latest radio interview on KFAG...

vote or die...

Good morning, voters. I received an e-mail from my father this morning instructing me to “do my duty” and vote. I was raised in a household where civic responsibility is of utmost importance. Not voting is punishable by will-removable. And I’ll be pissed it Alex gets everything. So I spent some time this morning trying to familiarize myself with the propositions and I’ve decided that instead of learning them inside and out, I’ll just vote by celebrity endorsement.
Clearly, we all have to vote Yes on Proposition 87. It’s like, the coolest proposition right now. Proposition 87 is like leggings and wedge heels and Frisson. To vote no on Proposition 87 would be like showing up at Bubba Gump’s in a fanny pack and Tevas. How embarrassing.
Also, who doesn’t love that little Michael J. Fox? No one, that’s who. Thus, we’ve all got to vote for stem cell research. And if you live in Connecticut, Ben Affleck wants you to vote for some congressional candidates who live in the middle of nowhere.
Uh, consider it done, Ben.
Sadly, the celebrities I care about have yet to offer their views on today’s ballot. So, I’ll leave you with Today’s Top 5: Celebrities Who Should Tell Us How To Vote:

5. Dog, the Bounty Hunter (I’m willing to bet he’s probably tough on crime.)
4. Luther Vandross (may he rest in peace.)
3. Brittany Spears (she rocks the red states, y’all.)
2. Tim Gunn (America’s gay.)
1. Oprah Winfrey (she decides everything anyway…)

Monday, November 06, 2006

hi steve. the usual?

God Bless GhettoGas. I stopped by this morning and because some winner put gum in the credit card swiper, I had to venture inside the dreaded GhettoGas shop. In line behind an array of gentlemen who made me feel very, very tall, I eyed their purchase.
2 six packs of Modena.
At 8:13am.
Oh wait. That’s not all. I guess if you’re enjoying cheap beer at the break of dawn, you also need a snack. Hmmm. What sounds good?
Oh. Of course. Nachos.
Already hungover, I was afraid of throwing up right then and there, in the middle of GhettoGas and in full view of the security cameras which project one’s image on two television screens chained to the ceiling.
Unable to resist their disgusting gas station nachos and beer, the shorties in front of me paid and casually sat on some crates in the corner, diving in to their chips and cheese from 1973 and cracking open their beer cans. I paid for my gas and departed, avoiding eye contact and wondering what makes one wake up and think to themselves, “I need me some beer and nachos and I’d like to enjoy that shit in the filthiest locale possible?”
I guess the same urge that makes you call a friend and invite them along…

Sunday, November 05, 2006

happy birthday, cervetto...

In honor of John's birthday, we decided to go to the most Guido place imaginable: Mona Lisa in North Beach. It's a Dago extravaganza and needless to say, John loved it...

Friday, November 03, 2006

radio free san francisco...

As I am completely oblivious, I forgot to listen to KFOG this morning. But thank god for technology because you can listen to a chunk of it (and you know it’s the chunk we care about) on KFOG’s website. Should you wish to forgo that, I’ll recap:

1. Gavin ran out of hair gel. He only had “a dollop.” Hence, HairGate.
2. Gavin asked Brittanie “on a whim” to attend the Opera after meeting her at Aqua where she was a hostess. He had no idea how old she was. He hasn’t spoken with her in a month. But people should stop talking smack.
3. He will run for re-election. He was having a “bad week” when he told M&R how much being mayor sucked.

And now, Spots will respond:

1. The word “dollop” makes me uncomfortable, first of all. Second of all, how much does he need? More than a dollop? He reassured us that he’s stockpiled hair gel and such an unfortunate do will never darken our city again. SpotsBlog is currently offering a reward to the reader who can give us gel brand conformation (as this will determine scent of hair, which I will then rub all over my house.)

2. Where to begin on this doozy? First of all, does this mean that if I seat Gavin at a dining establishment, buss his dirty plates or stand within a 10 foot radius of him, I might score a date to my high school reunion (November 29th, if anyone from the Mayor’s office is reading.) I am 28 years old and can provide three forms of identification. And why did he not inquire as to her age after she, oh, I don’t know, said her favorite colors were pink and purple? Did they speak AT ALL before engaging in godless acts in the coatroom? This morning’s interview implied that they barely knew each other, but I don’t buy that crap for one second. We might be pathetic, lonely stalkers, G-money, but we’re not retarded. For a moment, it seemed as if he was about to blame Aqua for hiring someone so young, but caught himself. In that moment, I fell a little bit out of love.

3. Thank fucking god. Next time he’s having a bad week, I suggest that the mayor do what I do. They’re called gay bars, Gavin. And they make everything better…

don't i know you from badlands...

Zoe and I saw Jesus Camp a few weeks ago, and really only as an excuse to go shopping in the Fillmore. Notorious for it’s shitty parking, we drove down Fillmore Street and discovered the perfect space directly in front of the theater.
“Thank you, Jesus.”
Watching this movie, we were appropriately appalled. It’s basically the story of a Fundamental Evangelical children’s camp, where highly impressionable youth are made to dance around and cry and speak in tongues. Two of the kids in particular were featured and I wanted to jump through the movie screen and rescue them, teaching them the glory of gays and evolution and ethnic food.
And one of these boys aspired to preach himself, making the pilgrimage to Colorado Springs with his family in the hopes of meeting his idol, Rev. Ted Haggard, President of the National Association of Evangelicals. Rev. Ted is pretty much an oblivious asshole to this poor kid, asking him stupid, pointless questions and patting him on top of the head, before ignoring him. Zoe leaned over and whispered, “That’s the gayest man I’ve ever seen in my life.”
But wait, Zoe. He’s married with 5 kids and he preaches that homosexuality is the work of the devil. He couldn’t possibly be a big flaming, coke-whore queen who pays for gay, gay man-sex. Could he?

Thursday, November 02, 2006

bill vs. gavin: round one...

Bill “Big Pimpin’” Clinton was in town yesterday, and the brilliant SFMike featured his gloriousness in a photo essay on his blog, including some shots of my boyfriend, who I’m about to break up with, because of THIS.
Moving on, in checking out SFMike’s blog, I found myself wondering:
Who is hotter? Gavin or Bill?
Let’s compare:

Gavin: Womanizing charmer
Bill: Womanizing charmer

Gavin: Santa Clara
Bill: Rhodes Scholar

Gavin: Liberal Genius
Bill: Invented Liberal Genius

Gavin: Raspy voiced hotness
Bill: Southern drawl hotness

Gavin: prefers boney, thin, stupid women
Bill: I’ll just say that once in Ireland, a bunch of lads thought I was Monica Lewinsky.

Gavin: Fabulous clothes, although apparently only one tie.
Bill: Old man clothes, bifocals.

Gavin: Cool side job
Bill: Cool side job

Gavin: Married a robot from Sector Eleven of the Zeldar Universe Collective.
Bill: Married an unattractive ballsy broad who got him elected POTUS.

Gavin: Attends opening of Opera with child lover.
Bill: Attends opening of orphanage in South Africa with Oprah.

Gavin: Loves gays.
Bill: Loves Streisand.

Gavin: Hair-product hottie.
Bill: Silver fox.

Gavin: Highly stalkable.
Bill: Difficult to infiltrate security detail.

Gavin: Fois gras.
Bill: Fried chicken.

Hmmmmm. Challenging. I can’t decide…

ps: Gavin will be on KFOG's morning show tomorrow morning. We shall discuss immediately following...

anybody want a peanut...

I bet you think we make these up. We don’t. I found this on yesterday’s Dear Abby. As Big Chris is on haitus at the Police Academy, Ben Number One and I will now respond in our preferred mode of communication, rhyme:

DEAR Spots and Benji:
I have lived, so far, through eight years of hell with my husband. The one year of heaven was the year before we were married. I won't go into the hell I have been put through, I just want your definition of a real man. If you put this in the paper, please don't reveal my name.

Spots’ response:

Oh my god, Dear Needs to Know,
My mind is blown, you stupid ho.
You suffer through eight years of hell
With Lucifer and still you dwell?

More to the point, a real man you seek
I’ll break it down. He does not reek.
He’s got a job, a home, a plan.
But this alone is not a man.

A man, he ponders, he studies, he thinks
A man eats meat. A true man, he drinks.
A real man likes women who rarely cower
Women who argue and exude their power

A man sees heels and won’t make you walk far
He’ll park it valet or go get the car
A real man has classy suits and good ties
A real man hates thin girls and he never lies

Real men, you see, don’t have ugly moustaches
But they do have nice hands and really long lashes
Real men remember birthdays and save mementos
And real men, it seems, aren’t in Sacramento

So fly, fly away, my dear little Starling
And find some real man who will call you darling.
Reality check: Your marriage is through.
Don’t write to us. Just get a damn clue…

Benji's response:

it looks like things aren't going to well
for the mystery lady living in hell
she needs to know in sacramento
what a real man is, i'll answer, here we go

i'd say he'd probably have beard
(at least most of the time...lately its sheared)
eyes of blue, skin is tan
we're getting closer to what is a real man

short and sandaled, another good start
a pack of cigarettes close to his heart
weird and funny, a slight southern twang
could it be? i dont know. it must. ben lang!

yes, yes that's it
a real man he is
he just snaps his fingers
bras fly off with a whiz

the girls in his presence
the pressure they can't stand
they feel their knees tremble
they cant believe it...a real man!

amazing in bed
he'll go fast, he'll go slow
give me a call sacramento
thats all you need to know

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

oh, and weird sneezers...

I’m swamped at work today, so I’ll provide the Top 5 Things That Have Already Pissed Me Off Today:

5. Those in Whole Food’s Express Checkout with greater than 9 items. I counted.
4. Overly cautious drivers. I could write a book on this.
3. People who judge people who eat Halloween candy at 9:15am.
2. People who sample every single kind of free sample. Literally. If it’s free, they must get some. Immediately. God, I hate them.
1. Two parking places taken up by one car. An offense which, according to my father, should be punishable by death…