Friday, December 29, 2006

no brangelina. yet...

Had you been awake last night, as I was not, you would've heard Kate return from the bar and scream hysterically. Seriously. People complained.
Why?
She found 5 HUGE roaches in her suitcase.
I wouldn't believe her had Alex not been there to capture it on camera.
They were like the size of a deck of cards. Kate was actually crying, refusing to wear any article of clothing touched by the jurrasic creatures.
I slept through the whole thing, a mere door away. Unlike Mr. and Mrs. Gonzalez in room number 11, who heard the every scream.
We also saw a dead rat placed delicately atop a pay phone on our way to town.
In a final snipped of news, I bought you all presents. And by you all, I mean Mikey, Zoe, KG and Laura.

...it's now Saturday. I'm editing...

We went to "Bar y Restaurante Rio" down the street last night. The only way to describe Rio is that in the word Rio, the "o" is lips. So all night long, we were calling it Ri-(kiss). Prior to our late night boozing at Rio, all 9 of us headed to a restaurant recommended by our concierge. We squeezed into 2 cabs, one following the other as our taxi led the way. With dad up front and mom, Dori, Jenny and I squeezed in the back, we suddenly became lost in the windy streets of San Jose. The driver, becoming far more frustrated than us, started to do with angry, weird lamaze breathing. Jenny, 23 years old and seated on her mother's lap whispered in my ear. "This is making me nervous."
No shit. He was really starting to flip out, and the four ladies in the backseat exchanged wide-eyed glances as the driver continued his bizarre, air-propelled tirade.
Oh, and the whole time, he had a formal, broadcast mass in Spanish on the radio.
Finally, down a dark alley and in between scary construction sights, we pulled up in front of a gorgeous, modern, ratsy-tatsy hotel. And our 20 minute cabride cost $4.
This morning, we're in for a 3 hour drive to a volcano, where we'll be staying thru New Year's. Dori, via the internet or her cleaning lady or similar, has arranged for a driver and van, hopefully able to hold 9 people and our 57 pieces of luggage. I've noticed that for 9 adults to do anything together, it takes 9 times longer than normal. I've taken to carrying my book with me everywhere I go, as I'll eventually end up sitting on a bench with 1 or 2 others waiting for everyone else to get their shit together.
My book, by the way, is awsome. "For Laci: A mother's story of love, loss and justice" is rocking my world, and I'm anxious for Kate to read it so we can discuss. I've been relaying my thoughts to her as I read, wondering why Laci would marry someone that, even years ago, was pretty goddamn weird.
"Beth, they live in Modesto, for Christsake. You've got to have a couple screws loose to voluntarilly live in Modesto."
This volcano hotel place is pretty backpacky, nature-admirer, hike a lot, not Beth-style. The fact that we'll be there over New Year's has shaken us all. You know that game, "I packed my bag and in it I put"? Well, I packed MY bag and in it I put 3 pairs of flip flops, 4 t-shirts, 2 pairs of jeans, 5 skirts, 1 black dress, 2 bottles of Savignon Black, 5 limes and a big thing of Absolut...

Thursday, December 28, 2006

costa rockin'...

I left my house at 4am.
It's now 11:15 in San Jose, Costa Rica. And needless to say, I look like shit.
My family cannot complete a task without bitching at each other, myself included. I've learned to prefer it when the bitching is directed at others, like the Park 'N Fly lady this morning or our evil flight attendant slamming weak-ass bloody mary's onto our trays.
After a 3 hour layover in Atlanta, where Alex and I snuck away to drink with the 500 servicemen and women on their way back to Iraq, we noticed that people were constantly approaching these kids on their one hour of peace, as they innocently sipped beer.
"Thank y'all so much for what y'all are doing."
Over and over.
Hey, that's awesome as far as I'm concerned. But after awhile, it started to get on my nerves.
"Now promise me y'all'll be careful. I don't want y'all getting hurt."
Oh my god.
Do you have any idea where there people work?
They're going to Iraq, lady. Iraq.
I threw a cute Army boy a wink and grabbed my bags. Frankly, I'd have felt like an asshole telling some 19 year old who gets shot at for a living to "take care" when my ass was upgraded on my way to tropical paradise.
Our in-flight movie was one I hadn't seen. Little Miss Sunshine, the very movie I'd hoped to catch on the plane. As it ended, the entire first class cabin errupted into thunderous laughter and applause.
"There's a lot of solidarity up here." My brother noticed.
Maybe it's the chick passing the wine.
The plane suddenly slammed down, landing like a rock on asphault. We breezed through customs, got our bags and found a man holding a huge printed sign near the taxis.
"Spotswood."
Sweet. I popped on my iPod and stared out the window, warm air and Nine Inch Nails blaring in my face. We're now here at the hotel, finding the Ryken contingent drinking in the bar. So tired am I, I'm not even joining my compatriots for a drink at some dive a few blocks away. I'm taking my bottled water and my book to bed.
After all, I'm reading "For Laci: A mother's story of love, loss and hope." Alex asked me how it was going. "Kinda like a Lifetime Afternoon Movie..."

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

adios muchachos...

Apparently, my family has some aversion to ringing in the New Year stateside. So at the break of dawn tomorrow morning, Dick, Joanne, Alex, Greg, Dori, Kate, Matt, Jenny and Spots will board planes bound for Costa Rica .
I’ve never been to Costa Rica before. In fact none of us have, so I have no idea what to expect, other than mosquitoes and humidity. I don’t even know what access I’ll have to the glorious internet, but I promise to blog as often as humanly possible. If you’ll remember from the exciting Spotswood International Travel Adventures of the past two years, writing my blog is often my only means of maintaining my sanity in between hangovers, screaming family members and missed planes. Not only will I be wandering through a bug-infested rainforest and spending New Year’s Eve in the middle of nowhere, at a hotel, I will point out, whose restaurant closes at 8:30pm , but I’ll be flying coach 30% of the time. So I think it’s safe to say, I’ll need to vent via keyboard.
I’m going to pack. Feel free to e-mail. I’ll do my best to respond. In an emergency or if you’ve got some really hot gossip that needs to reach me ASAP, my favorite magazine writer knows where I’m staying, so tell her.
As a little going away present, from me to you, here’s a glorious tidbit. At a party last night, mingling over spicy ahi and fabulous wine, a fellow guest approached me.
“I understand you write about the mayor and his girlfriends.”
“Oh, golly. Um, I like to think that I write about lots of things. But yes. I write about the mayor and his girlfriends.”
“Well, I know Erin Brodie.”
Oh god. Oh shit.
“Well.” I stammered. “In the interest of full disclosure, I called her stupid on the world wide web.”
She laughed. “Don’t mention my name, but I’ve got a little catty gossip for you.”
Gasp. I braced myself on the wall, breathless with anticipation.
Guess what?!?!?!
According to my source, Gavin is a shitty kisser and never once made the moves on Erin “I don’t dress appropriately for the Symphony” Brodie.
Lies! Lies! It can’t be true. Bad kisser!?! Never!
How that has-been can complain about sucking face with our gorgeous mayor is beyond me. Anyway, I felt it my responsibility to share this blasphemy with you fine people.
Erin Brodie talking smack. I'm hardly surprised, but I've got complete faith that it's a huge load of bullshit. Even if it isn't, can you blame him?

And with that, Spots has once again left the country...

fiddlesticks...

Blogs on birthdays have become a little tradition here, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the 60th of one of my most devoted readers. I’ve been blessed with a wonderful extended family, and in the midst of the Spotswood inner circle is my father’s close friend, Bill.
I was trying to think of my favorite thing about Bill, because there are millions, all of which worthy of mentioning. He’s hilarious, he’s kind, he’s appallingly generous, he’s loyal, he’s interestING, he’s interestED…he’s simply fantastic and I adore him.
But my favorite thing about Bill is a skill I’m slowly learning, having watched him in action for years. At every restaurant, in every hotel, in fact, everywhere he goes, Bill instantly befriends the entire staff. At first, I didn’t really understand why Bill would spend 15 minutes huddled in the corner, cracking jokes with the bellboy. But soon we all began to reap the benefits of his charming personality. Proximity to Bill means we’re all gloriously taken care of, instant regulars at the most extreme and fancy locales. It’s awesome, not only because of the immense special treatment that follows Bill wherever he goes, but because Bill has subtly taught me that kindness to everyone is always, always, always the right thing to do.
So, in celebration of his 60th year, I will give Bill the present I know he really, really wants. For his birthday, I will not drop the f-bomb all day today, either on my blog or from my mouth. This will be an immense challenge for me, requiring concentration and ladylike decorum, but he’s earned it.
Only for you, William Leo…

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

helen yvonne...

For those that haven’t been reading, my grandma is crazy.
I’ll back it up a little.
My maternal grandmother and I have always had a tumultuous relationship. I mean, how could we not? This is the woman who’d move the hors d’oeuvres away from her highly insecure 12 year old granddaughter. That being said, this is also the woman who wore fur stoles and white gloves to the city, snapping her fingers at the help and sipping gin at lunch.
So, you know, she’s kinda fabulous too.
My grandmother’s life has been about art and travel and family and status and eating as little as possible. My grandmother is rarely warm but surprisingly funny, raised with the notion that women are supposed to pretend to be stupid and appearance is absolutely everything. The woman can hold a grudge longer than even I and she can tell the difference between Waterford crystal and cheap cut glass from 20 feet away.
My grandmother’s most frequent greeting to me has most likely been, “Hello dear. What a flattering necklace.”
This description of my grandmother might seem like a caricature, and probably is, but its how I’ve always, always seen her. It would be absolutely fair to say that I am in awe of my grandmother. And at most times, also scared to death of her.
And over the past year, my grandmother has fallen further and further into dementia. It began rather terrifyingly, with anger and frustration and lots of late-night calls to 911. Then she decided she was living in an oriental whore house and big black men were hiding in her bathroom. Slowly it progressed into a far less sinister world, decidedly more confusing than frightening. At Thanksgiving she was somewhat with-it, well aware of who we were and why we were there. I even got a “Hello dear. And don’t you look thin!”
Clearly, she’s still losing it.
We went to see her yesterday bringing with us my Uncle Bill, in town from Savannah.
And this Christmas, my grandmother was completely and truly gone. It took an eternity for my mother to rouse her from her trance, my arrival prompting a huge and surprised smile but not a word. In fact, the entire 45 minutes of our visit, she didn’t complete a sentence.
And suddenly, I was overcome by some previously untapped affection for her. I held her hand and stroked her hair, 2 acts which I’d never done before. I would’ve given anything for some cold judgment, some stumblings in French, some reference to my highly ethnic father.
I’d even have been happy to see her sip that cheap-ass champagne.
But I got nothing.
Because she’s gone.
Suddenly, like a gust of wind, the room was filled with energy.
Jean.
Who is Jean, you ask?
Oh, just the transgendered woman who basically runs the place.
“Hey Queenie!” She screamed, fake eye-lashes fluttering and huge boobs swinging from within her holiday sweater. She grabbed my grandmother’s head and ruffled her hair. “Yer whole goddamn family is here!”
My family touched my grandmother as if she was about to crumble. But the glorious Jean grabbed onto her and shook her awake, diving into champagne and telling my mother to take a “freakin’ Zanax.”
Jean was like a Christmas miracle, distracting us from something horrible and shitty and sad and breathing light and air and 21st century gender reassignment into the room. Jean made it okay to relax and laugh and exhale. And Jean made it okay to look at each other silently think, “Jesus Christ. A fucking tranny is taking care of Grandma.”
There are a million kinds of glamour. And I will always love every kind. Be it my Grandma in her Chanel or Jean in her eye-shadow.
And there are a million memories I will always have of my grandmother. But if you’re so inclined, and remembering that she is still a little bit alive, feel free to join me in a little gin, a little Monet and a little Erik Satie's 3 Gymnopedies…

Sunday, December 24, 2006

oh, i almost forgot to tell you...

For reasons I won’t go into, Alex and I wanted to swing by GhettoRoss on our way to Union Square yesterday. Inside Ross, Alex took one look at the ghetto clothes and the ghetto lines and the screaming babies and unattended children and wisely remarked, “This looks like the last hours of the Titanic.”
Well said.
We instantly gave up and got back in the car, maneuvering around an ambulance just as they loaded their patient on a stretcher.
“Oh my god. That’s Santa.”
Lo and behold, an actual GhettoMall Santa was being wheeled into an ambulance.
“Santa!” Alex screamed. “No!”
“Oh my god, that is amazing.”
My baby brother rolled down his window and hollered. “There won’t be a Christmas! Santa is dead!”
“Seriously. We’re watching Santa get loaded into an ambulance on December 23rd.”
“Shit, Beth.” My brother sighed. “I love your neighborhood.”

happy holidays. can you please haul ass...

Like absolute idiots, my brother and I decide to hit the Westfield Center yesterday.
Saturday, December 23rd.
In the middle of the afternoon.
I should ask Santa for a brain, this was such a stupid decision.
Why, I ask you, do people stop to have their unnecessary conversations about where to rendezvous or what to order from Sbarro at the tops of escalators or in doorways. Shop smart, bitches. Walk fast. Move with purpose. It’s 40 hours before Christmas. Now is not the time to mosey, peering in store windows and blocking the flow of foot traffic.
After an hour, I was in no mood and ready for a drink, shopping bags slung over my shoulder and my brother desperate to catch up.
In the interest of getting out of that cursed building as efficiently as possible, I was the bitchy etiquette enforcer. “This isn’t where you want to hang out!” I screamed at a family from San Bruno staring at the pretty lights blocking yet another escalator. “Excuse me!” I hollered at 4 poorly dressed teenage girls. “You guys are right in the middle of the doorway. Why?”
I brushed past everyone, my purchases swinging as I power-walked, probably smacking wheelchair bound seniors.
The open-air sidewalks of San Francisco were no better, as Alex and I pushed our way to Johnny Foley’s. On our trek, I reminded myself that I had all year to get this shit done, and as usual, procrastinated. It’s my own fault I’m trapped out here with the dregs of the suburbs. I completely deserve to wallow in the stupidity of my fellow man. After all, isn’t that what the holidays are all about? Finally seated with Bloody Marys by the fake Johnny Foley’s fireplace, I finally relaxed.
“Jesus Christ, it’s insane out there.”
“You walk really, really fast.”
“Yeah. I hate the public.”
He raised his glass. Merry Christmas to that…

karen walker singing silent night. nuff said...

I love Christmas.
I love the presents. I love the food. I love the booze. I love the dressing up. I love seeing my Uncle Bill. And I love the music.
I’ll start playing Christmas tunes in July if I can get away with it, and in my eyes, I started late this year. Right around Thanksgiving, I pulled out my holiday music and downloaded it onto Mikey’s computer.
“What the fuck is this?”
“It’s Christmas music.”
“This is the gayest mix I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Oh. Well, that makes sense.
“This is Christmas from the Boys.”
“What?”
“My friend Ryan, and his ex-husband made CDs for everyone each Christmas.”
“So, it literally is a gay mix.”
“You have no idea.”

Friday, December 22, 2006

seriously, tho. pudding...

Now that Gavin is officially running for re-election, his website is up and running and let me tell you something. It’s the shittiest website I’ve ever seen in my life.
How a man with such flawless taste in designer apparel can endorse such a cheeseball site is beyond me. One would think that a friendship with the founders of Google might involve a little helpful tech advice. Christ, my blog looks hotter than his site and this shit is free.
Aside form my aesthetic issues with Gavin’s website, the content is so glorious that it more than makes up for the burning sensation in my eyes. Where, oh where to begin?
Oh, how about with the fact that the first image you see is Gavin in a ghetto-ass apron serving what appears to be retirement home food while chatting with two oddly dressed women. That’s a good place to start.
I then clicked on his Flickr page.
Yeah. You read right.
Gavin has a Flickr page.
And you’d be doing yourself a huge disservice if you don’t spend hours on each and every photo. It’s like a Christmas miracle, the photos are so wonderfully bizarre. Gavin talking to hobs? Check. Gavin playing Bingo with an elderly Asian woman? Check. Gavin giving thumbs up with a dozen Filipino women next to hundreds of cups of pudding? Yeah, check.
Santa can skip my house. Christmas came early.
Oh, but wait. There’s so much more.
I was barely able to tear myself away from the photos. But then, I saw it.
“Endorse Gavin.”
I know what you’re thinking. “But Spots, doesn’t everyone endorse Gavin?”
Well, yeah. That’s what I thought too. With trembling hands, I clicked on the link and read the form. “I endorse Gavin Newsom for Mayor. You can use my name publicly as a supporter.”
Goes without saying. I’ll do you one better.
San Francisco, California, America and Earth! Gavin is God. His birthday should be on Monday, this man is so Jesus-like. He marries gay people. He can cure cancer and hobos. He can rid the busses of pee. He regularly rescues kitten from tree-tops. He anonymously picks up litter. And he smells really, really good.
Endorse Gavin? Please. Why even have an election.
As if the pure joy of publicly endorsing Gavin isn’t enough, you can receive text message alerts from him. I’ve just signed up for this exciting feature but I’ve yet to receive any flirty missives. I’ll obviously keep you posted. I can only imagine what they’d be, but I think it’s safe to say, one simple “What’s up, hottie?” glowing on the phones of every legal voter is more than enough to cinch the election.
And, uh, I’ll be texting back…

Thursday, December 21, 2006

i've never been good with animals...

My beloved living companion left me today, off to spend Christmas without me and the love of his life, his black cat Pheobe. As I helped him pack last night, I innocently asked, "Now, on what days do I feed Pheobe?"
Mikey looked at me with both amusement and disgust, taking a moment to find the patience to form the words.
"Everyday, Beth. She's a living creature. You feed her everyday."

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

don't mess with daddy...

If Carole Migden runs against Gavin, I’m going to go ape-shit with glee. I’d never even heard of this nutjob until she showed up late to a political debate I attended and yelled at my dad.
Oh hell no, fro.
Ever since, I’ve been fascinated by this little troll and I can’t wait for the shit to fly if she throws her anti-frizz serum into the ring. She’s like Judge Judy on crack, only not as hot. Conveniently, I’ve received an early draft of her mayoral intentions.
Enjoy:

Hello citizens, immigrants and criminals of San Francisco,
Listen up! For those of you that vote, not counting the idiot slackers that don’t, smokin’ their dope and eatin’ Chee-tos, I want to let you know that I’m going to be Mayor of this city and I ask for your support. Gavin Newsom has royally screwed up what was once a fine town and I think it’s time to send him and his hair gel back to wherever the hell he came from. We gotta get the bums off the street, we gotta clean up the ghettos and we gotta fix the damn busses. The only thing that boy did right was give homosexuals the right to have our marriages annulled. Hell, he even married me. Big whoop. It only counts if you can make it stick. Thanks for nothing, Gavin.
Vote for me. I’ll make it stick.
Carole with an e.

In response, Gavin’s planning on writing this:

Hello Fellow San Franciscans,
In response to the letter from Carole Migden, announcing her intent to run against me in the coming election, I’d like to say 2 things:
#1. If nothing else, even I have better hair.
#2. I got that bitch a fucking Cuinsinart for her lesbo wedding and I want it back.
Please. Like I’m not going to win.
Your pal,
G-Money.

Carole always needs the last word:

In response to Gavin Newsom’s recent public request for me to return his wedding gift, I have this to say to him: I threw it out the window at a crackhead screaming nonsense outside my office. Whaddaya think of that? If you cleaned up the streets like you said you would, I’d be happy to give you back your crappy Cuisinart. And another thing. No bride, or groom I would assume but how the hell would I know, wants something they didn’t register for. Don’t get creative, meathead. I made a list. Follow it.

Oh, bitchfight in public. Nice. Gavin strikes back:

While this public forum isn’t the most appropriate place for Senator Migden and I to communicate, I feel it necessary to respond to her recent public admonition of my wedding gift to her and her partner. I refused to purchase her a gift she’d registered for as the couple was exclusively registered at Good Vibrations. It didn’t seem appropriate for an elected official such as myself who, incidentally was pissing off most of the country by marrying homos in the first place, to present a huge dildo to the happy couple. Call me crazy…

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

it sucks to be the queen...

I love royalty.
I love the tiaras. I love the castles. I love the constant portrait painting. And I’ve been obsessed since an early trip to England, where at 5 years old, I was purchased a Princess Diana paper doll with corresponding outfits.
I can still see each outfit: the red maternity dress, the blue gown, the constant jewelry, the ever present crown. Perhaps standing outside Buckingham Palace watching the changing of the guard in a Harrod’s wool coat and matching beret (which, of course, I still have), I decided right then and there.
Castles. Gowns. Tiaras.
Yeah.
Hell yeah.
My mother thought we were sightseeing. I thought we were planning my future.
I mean it. I could do this. Throw me in a fur cape, stick some diamonds on my head and kick my ass into a throne. Somewhere in the back of my head, I’ve been scheming for a goddamn HRH in front of my name for years.
Well, folks. The dream has died.
I just saw The Queen.
First of all, sadly I’ve always identified much more with loudmouth Fergie, Duchess of Pork than the effervescent, doe-eyed Princess Diana. I’m much more likely to stand around the palace kitchen, making bad fashion choices and sneaking Brandy with Jeeves than cradling AIDS babies and batting the flies out of the eyes of African children. The only thing Diana and I would have had in common was Elton John.
That being said, I’ve idolized that woman since I idolized that paper doll in 1983. And I am now pissed at the Queen. She’s ruining everything! The whole point of being royalty is wretched excess, appalling behavior and incest. This commitment to stoic, uptight, frumpy restraint is a waste of fabulous resources.
Aside form the fact that those Windsor’s are portrayed not really giving a shit about Diana’s death, which is disgusting, their whole attitude about being royalty is boring and unappreciative. They need look no further than King Ralph for a glowing example of how to conduct oneself.
Finally, I wanted to see more Prince William sobbing hysterically and lamenting his dead mother. Is that wrong…

Sunday, December 17, 2006

spots sugarbaker...

You were probably at a holiday party last night, right? Yeah, everyone was. Initially I planned to hop, having five highly worthy events to attend, but in the end, committed to just one: Jenny’s graduation party at her parents in the Marina.
After mingling with family friends, eating and drinking as much free food and booze as possible, the kids headed to Delaney’s. There’s nothing so sobering as sitting in on a bench, surrounded by people that voluntarily hang out in the Marina and having your cousin knock an entire table full of drinks onto you. The sound of broken glass alone was enough to make me call it a night.
At 1:30, I walked alone the 5 or 6 blocks back to my car. I should point out that I was sporting a fabulous new look, consisting of head-to-toe black with a huge, shiny red belt smack dab in the middle. It garnered an array of opinions, from “Are you taking karate?” to “You look like a ninja.”
I won’t be swayed by unfashionable 23 year old boys. I thought it was a fabulous look. So fabulous, I refused to wear my coat back to my car, carrying it as far away as possible so as to highlight my super hot belt. A block into my journey, my heels were killing me.
No problem.
Shoes off.
So here I was, at 1:30 in the morning in the middle of the Marina, freezing my ass off walking past Jetta after Jetta in my stocking feet.
And seriously. I still thought I looked hardcore fashion forward. I was just waiting for someone to come by and appreciate the fact that I stepped it up a notch. With perfect timing, three Marina men approached in the opposite direction.
A ha! If there is any justice in this world, one of them will applaud my sartorial genius. My heels in one hand, my coat in the other, I looked up and smiled.
The middle one looked straight at me and said, “Dude, she looks like the pope.”
And then they all laughed.
At me.
Um, oh my god.
Normally, I’d be mortified. Normally, I’d run to my car and hide. Normally, I’d never speak of this again.
But these were Marina assholes, wearing Euro-jeans and striped dress shirts. It was 1:30 in the morning. And I was barefoot.
I stopped dead in my tracks directly in front of them.
“Fuck. You.”
It was as if no one had said this to them in their entire lives. They were frozen, unsure of how to proceed. Delighted, I took advantage of my sudden courage. “I am a woman walking barefoot and alone in the middle of the night. What on earth would possess you to be rude to me?”
And then I waited. I stared at them. They stared at me.
Finally, the one on the right spoke. “You’re right. That was fucked up.” He looked at asshole in the middle, who then nervously giggled.
“I was kidding. Relax.”
I pulled my keys from my clutch and sighed. “There is something to said for a little class, gentlemen. And there’s something to be said for fabulous accessories. I suggest you familiarize yourselves with both.”
Holy shit.
I can’t believe I just said that. It was like, the most awesome moment of my life. I am totally Julia Sugarbaker. I didn’t even think about it. It just came out.
But the moment was lost on them, and no one worthy was there to hear it. They quickly walked on looking uncomfortable and confused and I continued to stand in the middle of the sidewalk. Still barefoot. Still freezing. Looking like the pope…

Friday, December 15, 2006

i got your blend right here...

If you’re like me, you spend your mornings listening to a bunch of queens on the radio. For a year, I’ve been devoted to Fernando and Greg’s morning show on Energy 92.7 FM, the gayest radio station in all of San Francisco. And finally, this morning I was rewarded with my favorite interviewee, Gavin.
I will always listen to Gavin on the radio because I deeply and profoundly love how he totally adopts the lingo of his hosts. When he’s on Alice, he’s all straight, frat boy, high fiving. When he’s on KFOG, he talks about hobos and litter and acoustic play sets. When he’s on 98.1, he’s calling Renelle “Girl” and doing weird black lady voices.
And when Gavin was on Energy this morning, he was fucking gay.
Greg the Gay Sportscaster gave him the best introduction ever with, “You are like, major rock star mayor.”
So true. He should put that on business cards or city letter head.
Leave it to Fernando and Greg to cut to the case. “Everyone’s dying to know about the gel. What brand is that?”
Gasp. Oh my god. I’ve been waiting years for this info.
After much hemming and hawing, Gavin brilliantly responded, “It’s a blend.”
This is all I need, folks. This has completely made my year.
It’s a blend. Ugh, so good.
Because he was on Homo Radio, Gavin suddenly became a homosexual, or at least, his version of one. And I quote, “Have we talked about KFed?”
What? No. Shut up. Let’s talk about who you’re doing instead.
God bless him, he’s got no trouble talking about Brittanie. And God bless me, I’ve been keeping track of his lying ass.
At first, if you’ll recall, Gavin was all “I had no idea she was so young. She never told me her age.” Whatever. Then he’s all, “How can she be my girlfriend if I haven’t seen her in a month, boohoo, etc.” And this morning, he busts out with, “It’s not true. It never happened. I never even kissed this person. We never even held hands.”
Wait.
One second.
Hold on.
I need a minute.
Held hands?
Yes! Yes, this is awesome. Oh, this is glorious. I find this so, so glorious. I just want to climb all over him and run my fingers through his scientific blend of hair product and then glue our hands together with it.
Hand holding. I love it.
As if my day hadn’t already been made, Gavin topped me off with his grand finale. As he always does at these things, he made some proclamation declaring today gay radio day or something and presented the award to “Energy 97...er, uh, wait.”
It’s 92, Gavin. 97 is Alice Radio. It like this whole other station.
The place goes nuts, making fun of him as Gavin screams, “I’m dyslexic! I have a disease! I have a disease!”
The show ended and I sat on my bed with my radio in my lap glowing from the experience. Seriously. This man makes me so happy.
It’s a blend. Genius…

*Check out the pictures of this morning's interview and note the dry erase board behind Gavin. I didn't think this could get better. But lo, it has...

Thursday, December 14, 2006

a little gel wouldn't hurt...

Who’s going to run against Gavin? We’re all dying to know, right. We’re desperate for fabulous Franciscan fodder. We can’t wait for someone as blog-worthy as Matt “I don’t own soap” Gonzalez to challenge Princess in the upcoming election. And the obvious name on everyone’s lips is that Ross Mekalekahyniho. According to SFist, he’s “Supervisor McHottie” or whatever.
Hot, my ass.
I just checked out his Flickr page and let me tell you something. Wandering around San Francisco picking up garbage with hobos and taking pictures of it is not hot. Hosting picnics with un-wed parents and serving hot dogs and mushy apples is not hot. And weird 16th century conquistador Ponce de Leon facial hair is definitely not hot.
So, let’s all calm down and quit rushing to find the least visually offensive recycle-happy, bike-riding, incense-lighting carob eater and wait until someone who reads Esquire throws their designer ass into the ring.
I nominate Steven Jenkins because he’s a has-been whiny rock star, San Francisco is the only place in the world where anyone gives a shit about him and he’s really, really easy to make fun of…

i'm now in the market for a fur...

You know those days when God kicks you in the face with his steel-toed boot of shame, when you simply can’t believe the depths of your own life, when “rock-bottom” has a whole and profound new meaning?
Yeah, that was me driving to work this morning.
But then the skies part, the light of acceptance shines through and the goddamn Nob Hill Gazette calls you at your office.
Spots feel better now. Stay tuned…

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

maybe it's just too early in the game...

Last year, I rang in 2006 with Man on the Inside. He ceremoniously poured me wine and mocked my accessories, but truth be told, I had such a lovely evening, I blew off my gays for him.
Unheard of.
Apparently, MOI is still worried that I might be dateless and depressed on New Years and forwarded me the following (edited by Spots) e-mail:

Dear Friends and Supporters (I wonder which one I am):

I hope you and your friends (Oh, we can bring dates!) will start your New Year's Eve celebration early in the evening with our campaign. Our team is hard at work and I can't think of a better way to end this year than by thanking current supporters and asking new supporters to join the campaign by making a contribution. (snooze. I can.)

Please come by:

Date: December 31, New Year's Eve
Time: 6:00 - 8:00 PM
Location: Medjool Restaurant, 2522 Mission @ 21st Street Maximum Contribution: $500 per person (Lots of boring contact information, etc.)

We have much to celebrate, yadda, yadda, yadda (I’m paraphrasing here.)
Thank you,
Gavin Newsom

I responded with the highly appropriate, “Holy Shit.”
While I’ll certainly be dateless this New Year’s, I won’t be in the country and will thus, miss this incredible opportunity to give Gavin money. However, this “invitation” poses some questions. First of all, why is he always at Medjool? That place is 6 blocks from my house and sucks. It’s like Night at the Roxbury for people from Pleasanton. Second of all, what happens at 8? Where’s the after party, Gavin? For $500, I at least need some sort of midnight groping in a darkened hallway. If we’re good enough to fork over cash, we should be good enough to ring in the New Year. Finally and perhaps, most importantly, is this an open bar?
These questions aside, I encourage you all to go and report back immediately. I’ll need to know the following:
1. What was he wearing? Be specific. Photos encouraged. Feel free to ask to see labels.
2. Who was he with? Seriously. I’m not fucking around. Find out.
3. Did he appear to be looking for me? Asking about me? Openly missing my charming presence, etc…

*I have no idea who took that picture, but I love them. And if you want a copy of the official e-mail, I'll be delighted to forward it so you can attend in my absence. Just make all donations are made in my name...

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

jennifer'd be too chicken to work this hat...

I moped across the Bridge, lamenting the latest from Gavin. M&R are reporting that he was boozed up and canoodling with his soon to be ex-girlfriend, and after Saturday’s party, I received some off-the-record gossip on that night’s events. Apparently, my boy was crazy drunk. And that’s just the way I like him.
Anyway, I was bummed that I missed Gavin all wasted and flirty, as that’s my target audience, and equally bummed that the pouring rain had destroyed what was, at 8am, a fabulous hair day. I wrapped my locks up in pigtails and threw on a hat.
This hat, I should warn you, was purchased in 1998 during a snow storm in Philadelphia. It was made by Tibetan hobs and, no matter how I attempt to describe it, will sound ridiculous. I think it’s cute, but I also like Luther Vandross, so what the hell do I know.
Me and my hat stopped at SuburbaGas for our daily gallon of coffee and I was greeted warmly by the proprietor, Mohammed.
“Is that your Christmas hat, Bette?”
“Oh. Uh, yeah. I guess so.”
“I like the beads on top, yes?”
“Okay. Thank you.”
I wanted to rip that stupid hat from my head, but maintained my composure.
It’s a hat, Mohammed. Relax.
I filled my cup with coffee and attempted to pour some milk out of those stupid thermos’ where the arrows never line up.
“Can’t you see from under your hat?”
Alright, funny guy. Enough.
“Mohammed, I know you love my hat. In fact, you should sell them here.”
“Why I should sell something no one buy?”
“I’d buy it!”
“All you buy is coffee. One time you get Snapple.”
“Fine. Don’t sell them. Keep selling those pink Raiders caps.”
“You such a pretty girl. Why you wear hat like that?”
Oh my god.
“Mohammed, it’s pouring rain. It’s freezing outside. Come on!”
He smiled as I paid for my coffee. “You never find husband in hat like that.”
Great. That’s just great…

Monday, December 11, 2006

1997 called. they want their neighborhood back...

I think that maybe God would rather I stay home and watch Law and Order than attempt physical activity. Honorary Roomie and I have a standing Saturday morning date for “Bootcamp.” HR is a fitness junkie and gym rat and enthusiastically seeks out opportunities to sweat. Planning ways to torture my huge ass is one of the highlights of her week and this Saturday was no exception.
“I have a plan!”
“What’s your plan?”
“We’re going to climb Divisidero. 5 times.”
“It’s pouring rain.”
“So?”
Fine. I’ve always wanted to experience pneumonia. We set out at our usual meeting point, the Marina Green. By the time we made it to the base of the Divisidero hill, we were soaked. 2 blocks up that mountain, I hollered at my closest friend, “You stupid bitch. This is nuts.”
“Ugh, fine. We’ll take it indoors. There’s a 24 Hour Fitness right by Marina Safeway.”
By the time we made it over there, the rain had stopped, but there was no way I was marching back to Divis just for the skies to open up on us again. We found 2 stairmasters side by side and started climbing. MarinaGym and GhettoGym are vastly different experiences. MarinaGym was like a goddamn frat house, boys standing around looking gorgeous in UVA baseball hats and Abercrombie shirts worn during date rapes.
And the women…Jesus Christ. Literally, I felt like a cautionary body, encouraging the flawless blondes to up their incline just so they don’t wind up like me.
After a dreadful spin with those horrible free weights, we headed down the stairs in an attempt to get the fuck out of there. At the base of the stairwell, a sign announced EXIT with arrows pointing to the left, back into the gym and regular exit, and to the right, a lonely hallway and side exit.
Obviously, I voted for lonely hallway.
I pushed open that side door and smelled sweet, rainy freedom, just as I noticed a huge red sign. “Open Door and Alarm will sound.”
You’d have thought all of San Francisco was under attack.
A highly agitated and visibly pissed off MarinaGym employee raced outside and found us frozen on the sidewalk.
“Oh my god, we’re so sorry.”
“There was an exit sign.”
“It pointed us here.”
He rolled his eyes and frantically plugged some numbers into a keypad on the wall as every single mascara’d eye glared at us from the treadmills.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
As we walked to the car, we marveled at how openly pissed MarinaGym employee was, getting slightly miffed ourselves at his blatant hatred of us and our stupid mistake. I hugged my drill instructor goodbye and unlocked my car. All of a sudden, I heard it again.
The goddamn alarm.
Apparently, we weren’t the only retards at MarinaGym.
Suddenly, GhettoGym wasn’t looking that bad. Their jaded employees wouldn’t set an alarm if they had one, and sadly, I’m the hottest ho in that place…

i aspire to such greatness...

Happy Monday from Spots...

Friday, December 08, 2006

question time...

What are you guys doing on January 13th?
Wanna hang out?
Hmmmm. What should we do? Where should we go?
Oh, I don’t know. How about HERE!
Yep. Gavin Christopher is having a Town Hall meeting in someone’s Richmond District Rumpus Room.
We get to ask questions and everything.
Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I’ll be going in disguise.
You might remember the 10 questions I’d previously proposed to Gavin and his staff almost a year ago. Surprisingly, they went unanswered. But I’ve got new ones for next month and I can be one pushy broad. I’ll start preparing now:

10. What’s the best hobo sign you’ve ever seen?
9. What’s your favorite thing about my blog?
8. What fragrance are you currently wearing?
7. What color is your bedding?
6. What the hell happened in your childhood, making you date freakshows in adulthood?
5. Who’s your best friend?
4. What’s the stupidest thing Brittanie ever said? (take all the time you need.)
3. Why do ghetto ass bitches keep breaking into my car?
2. Say one nice thing about Chris Daly.
1. What will San Francisco be doing to celebrate “The Last Hurrah”, aka: my 29th birthday? I like high end wine, surprises and I’m registered at Tiffany & Co.

I think I can already hear City Hall tightening security. Whatever...

what's that smell? ah, yes...

GhettoGas, I love you. You never cease to amaze me. Any time of day or night, I can darken your doorway and know I’m in for a treat. Why, just this morning I swung by your dilapidated, sagging structure to find not one, not two, but three gentlemen all sipping from paper bags blocking the front entrance to your “store.”
And once inside, after subjecting myself to blatant staring and uncomfortable giggling by said brown baggers, I was delighted to find yet another toothless gentleman ordering chimichangas. Imported by hatchback and warmed by heatlamp, these chimichangas had the undeniable scent of the men’s room at Great America, shocking my senses awake and preparing me for the day ahead.
Convenience is key at GhettoGas. I knew that when I returned to my car to find a hobo washing my windshield for me, slapping water all over the place and shoving his weathered outstretched hand in my face. If only I hadn’t spent my last dollar on a vintage Diet Snapple from your dusty shelves. Maybe then, he would have maintained his composure.
But it’s all part of the experience at GhettoGas. And I wouldn’t change it for the world…

Thursday, December 07, 2006

you're a pal and a confidant...

Poor Gavin.
Seriously. People. All I want to do is wrap my arms around his divine designer suit and tell him everything’s going to be alright. Unless he doesn’t get re-elected. In which case, we’re totally breaking up.
I guess he tried to get some chick a job thwarting terrorism or earthquakes or something and those Stupidvisors said no.
How dare they deny him anything. He could ask me to shave my head and I wouldn’t be able to get to a razor fast enough. Does anyone even bother to think of the kind of friendship it takes to completely invent a crazy job for someone? Did it occur to that hideous Board that Gavin approval is qualification enough?
When did these crack whores get so picky?
Following GCN’s glowing example of friendship, I’m going to help him out and come up with other totally necessary jobs for Linda Tripp’s less hot twin.

Hobo Communications Advisor and Stolen Grocery Cart Specialist
City and County of San Francisco Mayoral Date Screener and ID Checker
Co-Chair of the Honorary Committee to Stockpile Men’s Toiletries
“Um, hi. Our Mayor’s hotter than yours” International Advocate
Official Divorce Settlement Negotiator with Kimberly’s Attorneys on Jupiter

If none of these work for those “spiteful” Stupidvisors, I’m sure I can come up with some more strokes of genius. But come on. This ho would be fabulous at stealing Safeway carts back.
Ya hired…

i left my heart in san francisco. it's at some motherfucking disco...

You know how I said I don’t believe in live music?
I’m converted.
When Thadd claimed he could get tickets to Alice in Winterland, I pretty much shit myself. Why? Oh, only because my favorite band of all time was performing in my favorite venue of all time. That’s right, readers. The Scissor Sisters were at Bimbo’s last night. And I was 20 feet away from them the entire time.
Wisely skipping the uninteresting Soul Asylum, we showed up just as the Sisters were preparing to take the stage. I found some gays at the bar, let them buy our drinks and took my dancing place as close to the stage as humanly possible.
Bimbo’s is little and the Sisters are a huge band.
And I was starting to get really, really, really excited.
I don’t go to concerts. I like radio edits. I’m pissed if there’s some guy strumming a guitar in a bar. But when those bitches took the stage last night, I lost it. I was screaming, dancing, jumping up and down like a crazy person. I actually called Mo and Lo and held my ghetto-ass phone up so they could hear the heaven that is this glorious, glittery, gay, gay band.
And in between every song, I’d just stand there, saying “Oh my god” over and over and over.
As Michael K. would say, I’m one hot mess this morning but it was so worth it. I can still hear Ana Matronic singing her fabulous heart out as I sit here, pounding Advil, sipping tea and looking filthy.
Well, filthy/gorgeous…

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

i don't like you that way...

Last night, Alex, Mikey and Hamid met me for drinks and dinner at Bungalow 44. As we sat around the bar, I offered to help Hamid think of clubs to hold his 24th birthday party, what with my vast knowledge of the San Francisco straight people night club scene.
Mikey leaned over, “Well where do you want to go for your birthday, Bethy?”
“Beats me. Somewhere awesome.”
“How old are you turning?” Hamid politely asked.
I cringed. “29.”
“Oh my god! You’re 28! Seriously? I had no idea!” He couldn’t get over my advanced age, going on and on and on about how shocked he was that I’ve been alive since, like, the 70’s.
“Okay, we can stop talking about how old I am now.”
The conversation turned to party attendees. I reviewed my list. “You’ve got a lot of guy friends.” Hamid remarked.
Turns out, I do. In fact, I’ve got more guy friends than chicks or gays. Weird.
I smiled. “I love my boys.”
“Any guy that is friends with a girl wants to fuck her.”
“Pardon me.”
“There’s no such thing as platonic friends.”
Alex dove in. “Yeah there is. I’ve got friends that are girls.”
“No way." Hamid sat back. "There’s always sexual tension.”
“Hamid, that’s ridiculous. I’ve got tons of platonic guy friends.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes. I do.”
In circles we went, Hamid expressing his very firm belief that men and women simply can’t be friends.
“Well, WE’RE friends, Hamid. Do you want to fuck me?”
He paused.
“No. You’re too old.”
Touche…

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

everyone needs a cause...

I know you’re probably sitting at your desk right now asking yourself, “What can I do for Spots?”
Well folks, I’ve got the answer for you.
I’m sure you’re all aware of the appalling Nob Hill Gazette (An Attitude, Not an Address), a neighborhood paper for people that are rude to restaurant staff. Needless to say, I read it religiously and was delighted to discover the following announcement:

ATTENTION all single males and females!
If you’d like to be considered for inclusion in our Eligibles List for February, please send your name, phone number, address and a line or two about yourself to Marlowe Rafelle (Marlowe@nobhillgazette.com) by January 10th, 2007. Pictures will be returned if you include a stamped, self-addressed envelope.
If you’d like to recommend friends or relatives for inclusion, please feel free to do so with the same info.
Oh. My. God.
Um, hello? I HAVE to get on this list. I don’t care what I have to do, how much photo-shopping we need to employ or what lies we’ll need to invent. I want in, people. And I want it bad. I think it’s really cheeseball to nominate oneself, although I’m perfectly willing to do so. But come hell or high water, even if I have to track down every single crappy issue and hand-write my name and bio in, sketching my likeness in the margins, I’m making it on this bullshit list if it’s the last thing I do.
Commence e-mail campaigning…

Monday, December 04, 2006

at least i didn't ask to see a wine list...

Friday night, I went to meet the famous Eve for drinks. She suggested three places, the last of which she described as a “dive bar where Chronicle and Good Vibrations employees drink shoulder to shoulder (and smoke indoors) with crack whores and professional alcoholics.”
Needless to say, I picked that one.
I arrived at the Tempest early, finding cheap parking a block away. As I walked down the most deserted alley in all of San Francisco, I wondered what the fuck I’d gotten myself into. I pushed open the heavy black doors and looked inside.
Oh god.
There I stood, in a pencil skirt and pearls in the middle of the front door as every eye turned to me. It was like a scene in a movie, where the music stops and bikers slowly place their beers on the bar wondering who let the stranger in. A smattering a bike messengers and alcoholic crack whores/pimps sat around the bar, drinking Pabst and not talking to each other.
I slowly approached the bar and selected the cleanest bar stool. The middle-aged bartender walked over to me and smiled. While slightly scary, I decided that these people could smell fear. If I acted as if I was in my element, no one would give me a second glace.
I sat back on my stool and ordered.
“I’ll have a Kettle one, straight up with two onions.”
“We don’t have onions.”
“Oh. Okay. Can I get a twist.”
“Well, we got some lemons in the back.”
“Oh, don’t do to all that trouble. I’ll just have a Kettle One, straight up.”
He then grabbed a small glass, a warm bottle of K1 and poured me a big shot.
Oh shit.
“Um, actually, can I get some ice?”
This prompted a laugh from the bartender and a deep regret within me for not ordering a fucking beer. He scooped me some ice and wandered away. I slowly took in my surroundings as I slowly took in my drink.
The crack couple next to me was eating something loudly. I looked over to discover that it was…fried chicken. Fried chicken? Oh yes. It’s provided free, on a table in the corner. So, just a little heads up to any hobos reading my blog: save up $2 and you can get yourself a PBR and all the fried chicken you can handle.
Eve soon appeared, a flurry of funny stories and glorious gossip. And guess who joined us? Oh, just the official arbiter of who’s who in our fair city: Catherine Bigelow.
CBig hangs out at the Tempest. Go fig.
I made my case for an appearance in Swells, subtly begging for inclusion in the column that defines my Sunday, as CBig politely listened to my desperate ramblings. I finally departed, nearly three hours later, filled with warm vodka, a new found respect for the divest of dive bars and the slightest hankering for free fried chicken…

Friday, December 01, 2006

you'll thank me later...

The number of people who find this blog by googling “witty evite responses” is astounding. Sadly, this is my area of expertise and I’ve compiled a list for you, broken down by occasion:

Halloween: “Trick or treat, smell my feet. I hope there are cute boys to meet.”
Christmas: “This ho, ho, ho will be in attendance.”
Dinner Party: “I’m vegan, don’t drink and only eat Kosher. Is that a problem?”
Easter: “Just like Jesus, I will rise to the occasion.”
Cocktail Party: “Shots are cocktails, right?”
Reunion: “Don’t worry. I’ve changed.”
New Year’s Eve: “I’d just like to let the other guests know, I do more than kiss at midnight. You know, just FYI…”

what, i ask you, is so important...

My favorite part of going to the gym is when I get to leave. So after finishing my half-hearted weight training in GhettoGym’s upstairs prison yard, I made my way down the little flight of stairs to the exit.
What’s this? A human traffic jam? Why, bitches? Aunty Beth needs to go.
Still listening to my iPod, I peered around the landing in the middle of the stairs to see a woman on her fucking cell phone, blocking half of the stairwell and chatting away without a care in the world. 12 or 13 people were going either up or down, squeezing around her and rolling their eyes.
It was bizarre, her obvious lack of consideration for people she was clearly aware of. And it pissed me off.
With the Scissor Sisters blasting in my ears, I exhaled, “This is where you choose to stand?”
Everyone in the stairwell stopped and stared at me. With my earplugs in, I didn’t realize it, but had I yelled “THIS IS WHERE YOU CHOOSE TO STAND?” as opposed to saying it to myself in my head, which was my intention.
This often happens to my brother on airplanes, as he refuses to take off his headset and will end up screaming, “YOU WANT TO PLAY CARDS?” or “SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH THIS CHEESE” at 35,000 feet.
But my proximity to my new nemesis made my unfortunate outburst slightly dangerous. As I passed the perp, I waited for a reaction.
Nothing.
Bitch paused long enough to shoot me a look and then kept talking.
Who are these people?
Just when I start to lament referring to my rarely used fitness emporium as, for all intensive purposes, a shitbox, it goes and gets even more goddamn ghetto.
Well played, GhettoGym…