Wednesday, February 28, 2007

step off, honey...

It's Hump Day, and you know what that means: Culture Blog! Check out my latest psychotic thoughts on Gavin Newsom's newest girlfriend...

you don't know me...

Berkeleyist sent me this link and I love it. Take the quiz and let's see who's actually reading this shit. Do well, and I'll make it worth your while...
Create your own Friend Quiz here

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

i work one hell of a room, peter...

I don’t know how Peter Ragone feels about his new job, but I couldn’t be more thrilled. I guess working at boring old City Hall with the hobos trying to eat and the homos trying to marry wasn’t doing it for PWR any more so they moved him over to Gavin’s campaign.
Maybe now my glowing endorsements might be better utilized. I have reason to suspect PWR is a Spotsfan (feel free to start a fan-site, Peter) and I just know that he’ll be calling me up at any minute to appear on Gavin’s behalf at various fundraisers and events throughout the city.
I’m perfectly willing to make myself available as an outspoken Gavin supporter in a myriad of ways, be it at various personal appearances or for private one on one time with the current (and future) mayor. Obviously, I not only represent the charming and irreverent voice of so many Newsom enthusiasts, but my public persona gives me valuable celeb cache.
Use me, PWR! Use me!
That is, provided Han Shin isn’t available…

he's mine, bitch...

I'll obviously have a lot to say about this, probably on tomorrow's Culture Blog, but I'd just like to thank my drinking buddy for immediately comparing me to my new hero.
Stay tuned!

Monday, February 26, 2007

i loved you on roseanne...

Because my life is wildly glamorous, I totally partied with Ed Begley Jr. on Thursday night.
Kind of.
My folks have these fabulous friends, Richard and Barbara, who are basically supermodel, jet-setting diplomats and amazingly enough, they e-mailed me last week saying they had 2 extra seats to some big fancy dinner at the Fairmont.
Oh hell yes.
So I talked Mikey into skipping class, promising him a night of free food and an open bar if he’d be charming and pretty for a few hours. We arrive at the hotel, check in and are delighted to find our names actually on the list. We then find Richard and Barbara and scope out the amazing silent auction. Mikey and I were just wandering around, drinks in hand, when Mikey and I suddenly look up and at the same time say, “Is that Ed Begley Jr?”
Oh my god, it totally was.
You’d have thought it was Clooney, we were so star-struck.
Ed was kind of wandering around, saying hi to a few people but otherwise, not nearly as mobbed as you’d expect for someone who starred in She Devil. Soon he ended up standing alone RIGHT NEXT TO US, who obviously stood at the bar.
“Oh my god, what do we do?”
“I don’t know but I can not die without meeting Ed Begley Jr.”
“Me too.”
Conveniently, our hosts are hardcore movers and shakers, marching right over to Ed and asking him about the sneakers he was wearing.
Yeah, Ed Begley Jr. is so big he wears (old) sneakers to the Fairmont.
After a myriad of flashes from some society photographer captured this moment, Richard and Barbara announce, “Ed, there’s someone you have to meet!”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
I bet they mean me!
So here I am, being introduced to Ed. Begley Jr., Richard referring to me as appallingly funny “and the next Oprah Winfrey!” and I can’t think of anything funny or Oprah-esque to say. I just stood there, staring at him, waiting for him to do lines from Best in Show or desperate to ask how his speech impediment has affected his career.
Seriously, I’ve always maintained that you can stick me in some heels, throw a drink in my hand and shove me into cocktail conversation ANYWHWERE and I will rock. But my one weakness, my kryptonite as it were, is basically anyone with a SAG card. I’m the biggest celeb-whore in the world, and I’d pretty much be speechless meeting Extra # 4 from Monk (totally happened).
The only time I was able to push past this bizarre inability to be cool was when I partied with Gavin Booze-som, because that drunk fell madly in love with me AND my jokes.
Needless to say, Ed Begley Jr. did not fall in love with me.
Maybe it’s because I don’t recycle.
Anyway, soon it was time for dinner and marvelously, our table rocked. Most of them even joined us for drinks afterwards at the Big Four. It was a fabulous, glamorous evening and I loved every second.
Well, every second except for the second where I failed in my quest to become close, personal friends with Ed. Begley Jr…

Thursday, February 22, 2007

what the hell is a plante?

Because he’s a total attention whore, Gavin sat down to a television interview with Channel 5’s Hank Plante yesterday and needless to say, it was glorious. First of all, Sober Gavin’s celebrity equivalent is Michael Corleone in The Godfather II. I can’t explain it, other than to say that after such turmoil and scandal, disillusionment and personal resolve, Gavin is very Tahoe-Michael right now.
Sadly, I think that makes Peter Ragone ‘Fredo’. If I were him, I wouldn’t go fishing anytime soon.
Back to the interview, Gavin mentioned something about how, instead of being a hardcore wino 24/7, he’s on the treadmill everyday.
Jesus Christ.
I’ve been complaining that he’s too thin lately. The last thing Gavin needs is more cardio. If he wants to spend his sober time remembering his goddamn spirit, what’s wrong with a little yoga or meditation of tai chi?
Hank also mentioned Gavin’s breaking of the man code.
Ah yes. The man code.
Among other things, the man code clearly states that you don’t screw your best friend’s wife. And obviously, Gavin is highly guilty and regretful of this.
But throughout this interview he mentioned REPEATEDLY that his alcohol problem is exclusively with wine. Isn’t there something in the man code about that? I mean, call me crazy, but Scotch is significantly hotter. Gavin makes it seem like he’s stumbling all over town sipping on Pinot Grigio and cosmos. If the man’s going to have a drinking problem, I think it should be with something a little less girly.
Christ, I pound Gibsons like there’s no tomorrow and you don’t see me working at a Christmas tree lot.
We all know that my favorite Gavin is hot and bothered Gavin, so I was delighted to see my boy get ear-steaming mad when Hank asked him about cocaine.
Gavin dives into this tirade that’s all, “I know how that rumor got started and shame on them!”
Wait. What?
I heard that rumor. And because of my journalistic integrity, I never wrote anything about it. Actually, the reason I never wrote anything about it is because I don’t really care. It’s not interesting to me because I’m not into coke. I never wanted to sit around snorting lines with Gavin. That’s super tacky and 80’s. I’ve always maintained we’d be great drunks together. Booze is way classier.
But I don’t get why he’s so pissed about one measly hint that he might dig the nose candy.
He’s fine with drinking himself into a stupor while performing his civic duties. He’s fine with banging his campaign manager’s wife. But oh hell to the no did he ever enjoy recreational drugs. Shame on them!
Finally, and I haven’t decided how I feel about this yet, Gavin is really cultivating his sudden Southern accent. What’s that about? Seriously, folks. It’s beyond noticeable. It’s becoming distracting. That being said, Gavin could develop some sort of stress-induced speech impediment or eye twitch and I’d still be all over his fine ass…

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

psycho killer, ques que ce...

It's Wednesday. So we all know what that means. Before I direct you to today's Culture Blog (up NOW), let me just warn you: I have problems. Like, really serious issues.
And today's post is particularly, um...disturbing. I've sort of...what's the phrase I'm looking for?... 'made up' some notes from a Gavin's former girlfriend Support Group Meeting and well... it's weird.
That being said, I have no idea if these bitches have a support group, but if they do, I'm willing to bet this account is pretty accurate...

uncanny, no?

Many thanks to "I'll Flip You" reader CF, who created this beautiful and glorious comparison.

*Hair by Patsy Ramsey...

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

somewhere, loni anderson is pissed...

It’s rare that I get a gift on someone else’s birthday, but in the previous post’s comments, Gray Cloud alerted me to the most glorious museum in the free world: The Burt Reynolds and Friends Museum. Located in Jupiter, Florida, its existence alone is a beautiful statement about the values of our fine country. But to peruse their EXTENSIVE website, you’ll be amazed at the vastness of Burt’s career. The website proudly announces that “…the museum walls are covered with autographed pictures of presidents, sports heroes, and celebrities that Burt has rubbed shoulders with over the years.” And get a load of this: “Mr. Reynolds” runs an acting school out of his museum, where he regales his students with anecdotes, sometimes “until 3 or 4 in the morning.”
There’s even a bar.
And it’s available for private parties.
To dare, but to dream.
I can’t believe Burt Reynolds has not only deemed himself this historically important, but he’s convinced apparently thousands of supporters and fans of the need for a huge shrine to his manliness. Burt lists the 14 (yes, fourteen) towns and cities in which he is an Honorary Sheriff, and I can only assume he was bestowed these honors based on moustache cultivation alone. You can even fill out a form to volunteer at the museum, potentially helping to sell Burt Reynolds and Friends t-shirts and beer cozies.
In celebration of this glorious organization, I’ve compiled my Top 5 List of Comparable Performers who deserve their very own museum:

5. LeVar Burton & Friends Museum
4. Bronson Pinchot & Friends Museum
3. Montel Williams & Friends Museum
2. Eric Carmen & Friends Museum
1. Jeff Goldblum & Friends Museum…

happy birthday gray cloud...

As is tradition, everyone (except poor Jason) gets a blog on their birthday and while Gray Cloud hates celebrating another year, I’ll tell you a quick story about one of our adventures.
GC and I used to drive around the hills of Marin, killing time by picking out mansions. While highly strange, we’d literally spend hours in his fancy-ass car arguing over who had better taste in high-end real estate. One rainy afternoon, we passed this kid walking along the street, hair falling in his glasses, long raincoat billowing behind him.
“Jesus Christ, that kid looks JUST like Harry Potter.”
“I know. I was thinking the same thing.”
“It’s uncanny.”
“Seriously. It’s like he’s in costume.”
We drove around some more, somehow ending up passing this kid again. This time, as we approached, we could see something scrawled in Sharpee on his white t-shirt. As we got closer, we were able to make it out.
“Oh my god, that’s awesome.”
“I love this kid.”
On his shirt, clearly penned by a frustrated hand was the phrase, “Yeah, I know I look like Harry Potter. Get over it.”
We agreed that once we could afford our mansions, we’d adopt Angry Harry and celebrate his bitter adolescence.
Because seriously, he looked EXACTLY like Harry Potter…

Friday, February 16, 2007


I literally have nothing to write about today, other than Gavin paying his bitch's hush money. I wonder if she has to pay it back, now that she Step 9’d it all over the place? Anyway, so as to keep you entertained, and just to piss off the dude that hate-mailed me, I’m posting my answers to a lame MySpace questionnaire Joey sent me.

1. Can you cook? Hell to the yes. Have you not tried my butternut squash, blue cheese, caramelized onion and cranberry galette?
2. What was your dream growing up? To be the only female member of New Kids on the Block.
3. What talent do you wish you had? Foreign Language skills/auto repair.
4. Favorite place? Gavin’s pied a terre.
5. Favorite vegetable? Onions. Easily onions.
6. What was the last book you read? For Laci: A Mother’s Story of Love, Loss and Justice.
7. What zodiac sign are u? Aquarius.
8. Any Tattoos and/or Piercings? I have a tattoo of a cross on my ankle for identification purposes, in case I end up in a dumpster or similar.
9. Worst habit? I am an incredibly obnoxious, boozy, gossipy, judgmental slut.
10. Do we know each other outside of myspace? Oh, yes. I actually know Joey.
11. What is your favorite sport? Whatever that sport is where people go away to English manors for hunting weekends.
12. Negative or Optimistic attitude? I think I’m bi-polar. So both.
13. What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator with me? Be obnoxious, boozy, gossipy, judgmental and slutty.
14. Worst thing to ever happen to you? Oh Christ, I don’t know. A broken heart.
15. Tell me one weird fact about you: I interview myself in mirrors/microwave reflections.
16. Do u have any pets? I live with a black cat named Pheobe, and we’re currently working on our relationship.
17. Do u know how to do the macerana? Ewwww. But yes.
18. What time is it where u are now? 2:26.
19. Do you think clowns are cute or scary? I think clowns are stupid, so neither.
20. If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be??? I’d be dramatically thinner and 3” shorter.
21. Would you be my crime partner or my conscience? I’d be your crime boss.
22. What color eyes do you have? Brown.
23. Ever been arrested? Not yet.
24. What is your favorite drink? Diet Snapple and Pinot Noir…not together.
25. If you won $10,000 dollars today, what would you do with it? Get my car fixed, go to the dentist, buy lots of clothes/wine/gigolos and go out to dinner.
26. What kind of bubble gum do you prefer to chew? The magic kind that makes you thinner and shorter.
27. What 's your favorite place to hang at? The place where people don’t end sentences with ‘at.’
28. Do you believe in ghosts? I believe in Patrick Swayze.
29. Favorite thing to do in your spare time? Say the word ‘fabulous’ as much as possible.
30. Do you swear a lot? People seem to fucking think so.
31. Biggest pet peeve? People that talk while chewing, thus prolonging the food actually being in their mouth. And people that leave their window shade up during the in-flight movie. Oh, and the elderly.
32. In one word, how would you describe yourself? Unstable.
33. Will you repost this so I can fill it out and do the same for you? Uh, kind of…

Thursday, February 15, 2007

the night the lights went out in georgia...

I listen to gay radio and the other morning, Fernando and Greg were discussing everyone’s favorite topic, Designing Women vs. Golden Girls.*
Oh my god, I am so torn.
First of all, any sitcom about 4 women hanging out in the living room together, I’m all over. And at first, I was leaning towards the Golden Girls. After all, we know how I feel about Dorothy. Her costumes alone…genius.
But when push comes to shove, Designing Women wins out. Allow me to count the ways:
1. Anthony: Anthony is a flaming closeted ex-con who works with a bunch of Southern decorators and his last name is Bouvier. Enough said.
2. Bernice: Bernice wore a tree skirt as an actual skirt, which only fit halfway up her legs.
3. Julia Sugarbaker: Any episode in which Julia Sugarbaker defends justice by ripping someone a new asshole is glorious.
4. Suzanne Sugarbaker: I love her. I love her thin. I love her fat. I love her pig. I love her furs. I love how she won’t go on a diet until she meets some Ethiopian refugee. I love everything about her. Suzanne Sugarbaker performed a Supreme’s song in blackface. That, folks, is good TV and when I see Bea Arthur pull that shit, I might change my mind.

Feel free to share because I know you all have strong opinions on this hot topic...

*Do yourself a favor and click on those links. You'll thank me later.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

talk about chemistry...

It's Wednesday and you all know what that means: It's Chronicle Culture Blog time people! And you can read all about my morning with Gavin, where we basically did it in a storage closet...

happy valentines day, bitches...

I was horrified to read the appalling report on high-end matchmakers in the Chronicle this morning. I get that it’s Valentine’s Day and going with a schmaltzy puff piece on dateless nerds in what all of us want to read. But the subject of their story makes me ashamed of my gender. 30 year old Amy Anderson founded a matchmaking company to set up the single bachelors of Silicon Valley who possess “Ivy League degrees and high powered careers” with her San Francisco spinster friends, who possess “Junior League pedigrees and Pilates-sculpted bodies.”
So basically, you’re fixing up rich dorks with retarded trophy wives? And charging thousands of dollars to schlubs who don’t care that their betrothed can’t count to 100 or pronounce words containing more than three syllables?
Yeah. That’s gonna last.
Amy also takes them to Banana Republic and tells them to shave.
In other words, Amy is Satan. Or Carson Kressley.
Oh, oh, oh! The worst part? Amy met her very own geek spouse by moving herself to the South Bay, hiring a trainer, giving up booze and starving herself. And then she ends up with THIS GUY. Yeah, he’s a CEO. But he’s the spitting image of Carole Migden, only less masculine.
This just makes me want to resign myself to my cats and my rocking chair and commit myself to a life of soap operas, Dr. Phil and gay sidekicks. Because if it costs 6 grand to meet these assholes, I give up…

Monday, February 12, 2007

i'm sure it's nothing...

I shun western medicine. Laziness, poverty and stupidity make me think that I can diagnose and treat pretty much anything wrong with my body. Ignoring something generally makes it go away, folks. Furthermore, I’m somewhat certain I could perform surgery on myself, should the opportunity present itself.
I should also point out that right now, I don’t have dental.
Which makes the funky tooth vibe I’m getting on the upper left side of my mouth somewhat worrisome.
I can’t really see anything wrong, and I’d determined a few months ago that I must be grinding my teeth in my sleep, so I suspect my current problem to be related. Everyday, it’s been getting the teeniest bit worse, and while I’m not yet drowning in full blown tooth pain, something is definitely up.
I was just dispatched to Whole Foods to pick up office snack supplies and decided this 7 minute drive was the perfect opportunity to further explore my concerning oral problem. While stopped at a red light, I opened my make-up compact, shoved the mirrored half in my mouth and examined the reflection of my troubling tooth in my rear view mirror.
I am well aware that most of you have now run from your computers screaming in disgust. Hey, I don’t blame you. I am indeed quite disgusting. I mean, I drive around town with a make-up compact shoved in my mouth investigating a pressing dental problem. If any of you did that shit, I would not be friends with you.
At all.
What’s even more disturbing is the fact that I chose to share this personal horror with all of cyberspace. I’ve clearly got bigger problems than a wonky tooth.
But I’ve long ago given up on dignity and grace.
My tooth hurts. And I wanted to see it. Okay?
So I’m sitting here at this stoplight with an Almay Oil Free Pressed Powder hanging out of my mouth, oblivious to the world around me. All of a sudden, I’m jolted into reality by an orchestra of honking.
“Hey lady! What the hell are you doing?”
Oh my god. The light is green. And I’ve been sitting here channeling Dr. Jang.
I am the grossest person alive…

rafe fines...

While not Gavin-related, this is my favorite story of the week:
Ralph Fiennes was flying from Australia to India, in what I would assume to be the first class cabin of a Quantas jet. Apparently, while flight attendant Lisa Robertson was “on her break” she struck up a conversation with Ralph and suddenly announced she had to pee. Here is her statement:
“While conversing with Mr. Fiennes during my break, I expressed a need to go to the toilet. I went to the nearby toilet and entered it, he followed me and entered the same toilet. I explained to him that this was inappropriate and asked him to leave. Mr Fiennes became amorous towards me and, after a short period of time, I convinced him to leave the toilet, which he did. I left the toilet a short time later.”
Yeah. Right.
First of all, who says, “Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you, but I have to fucking pee real bad.”
Second of all, in this age of terrorism and in-flight paranoia, if someone follows you into a bathroom and you don’t want them there, you scream bloody murder. If a hot movie star follows you into a bathroom, you take a knee and help the guy out.
Ralph isn’t really my speed. I mean, all I can see is Red Dragon. But hey, Clooney follows me into the ladies, I’m thanking my lucky stars while unhooking my bra.
Forget amorous. Let’s get busy...

Sunday, February 11, 2007

just guess who is sitting directly behind this woman's weave......

Uh, oh my god. It was INCREDIBLE. Swiss Miss was there. SFMike is right; Wade Crowsfeet is h.o.t.. And I had extended eye contact with Gavin 2 times (it would have been three, but I wasn't sure about that last one.) You'll have to wait until Wednesday's Culture Blog for my recap of this glorious morning in the ghetto. But I will tell you that Gavin gave this woman a forehead kiss (I audibly gasped) and Eve is sitting right in between them, staring ahead, probably at my new boyfriend, Dwayne Jones. I witnessed 2 forehead kisses, by the way. And I'm not kidding when I say this: It was moving.
I think sometimes we give what we need. I'm just sayin...

Friday, February 09, 2007

what on earth to wear...

Because I am now a total media whore, I am attending Ghetto Gavin Day tomorrow and plan to share my thoughts with the world in Wednesday’s Culture Blog. Provided Gavin shows, I will be noting the following:

Ragone/John Nelson/Byorn attendance
Weirdo turnout

And since we’re supposed to be talking about poor people in the HP, I plan to 3x5 the following questions:

Why is there no Plumpjack Ingleside?
How come you always date white bitches?
Are you wearing a bullet proof vest or have you been working out?

Please alert me immediately if you want me to observe or ask anything else.
Oh my god, 22 hours until Gavin and I are in the same Child Development Center

Thursday, February 08, 2007

one hell of a way to kick off your cardio...

I had some suburban time to kill before a meeting last night, so I headed over to my folks’ place for some free wine and fancy cheese. My mother and I chatted in the kitchen and discussed my blog.
“You know, Bethy, I like it when you write about little things that happen to all of us, but turn it into some wacky story. And I was saying to Daddy and Alex last night that it makes me look at all these little things happen to me differently.”
“Like what?”
Get a load of this:
My mother goes to the gym every Sunday after mass. The gym in inside the very big, very cutsey Community Center, where they have geriatric tai chi, yoga for 2 year olds, paraplegic pilates, etc. Every Sunday, my mother, whose celebrity equivalent it pretty much Annette Benning in American Beauty but less psychotic, walks past Praise Jesus Ministries, which are services taking place in one of the community rooms. And every Sunday, the Reverend, who my father describes as “George Foreman-esque”, enthusiastically waves at my mom. Needless to say, my mother enthusiastically waves back.
This Sunday however, the Reverend was outside chatting with a member of his congregation and waved my mother over to him.
“There she is, that marvelous, beautiful smile I see every Sunday!” He grabs my mother’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “You need to come on down to our services.”
“Well, I would,” responded my mother, “but we attend Mass at Mt. Carmel on Sunday mornings.”
“I see!” He bellowed. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Brother Thomas and this is Sister Yolanda.”
“Well it’s very lovely to meet you.”
Brother Thomas then grabs her shoulder with one arm, throws his other arm around Yolanda, looks to the heavens and yells, “Dear Lord! Thank you for Sister Joanne and Sister Yolanda and this beautiful day you’ve given us, here today! In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
Go ahead, Sister Joanne…

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

take that, nob hill...

I have to say, I'm pretty delighted with my latest offering to Eve and her minions of San Francisco Chronicle Culture Blog readers. How ya like me now, Lois...

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Mayor McHooch...

Okay, I’m finally coming to terms with this and managed to calm my frazzled and concerned emotions enough to focus my feelings.

Oh my god, Gavin I am so here for you!!!

Er, uh, anyway…I called this shit.
Allow me to chronicle the downfall.
Exhibit A: If you’ll recall, Gavin made the moves on me (and by moves, I mean he touched my back while laughing at my jokes. Uh, hello? L. O. V. E.) and I thought at the time he appeared “slightly drunk.” He date was slumped in a chair in the corner during our seven minutes of intense sexual tension.
Exhibit B: Dakota Fanning. Seriously. I can understand stupid hos and gorgeous hos and foreign hos and even hos from outer space. But child hos? He’s no rocket scientist, but Gavin is smarter than to cavort around town with a 12 year old Republican ho-stess. Something was going horribly, horribly wrong.
Exhibit C: The blueprint is clear; when in scandal, go to rehab. Everyone does it. Gavin is hardly original. I hope to one day be famous enough to do it myself. So as soon as Gavin stood before us looking gaunt and sad and lonely and in need of my affections proclaiming himself guilty of screwing his best friend’s wife, I was all up in everyone’s face screaming, “Rehab, bitches.”
Exhibit D: I invited Barstool to my high school reunion AND my birthday party. Boozsom didn’t even RSVP. There can only be one explanation for that, folks. He was passed out in his marble tiled bathroom, unable to think of a witty Evite response.
Finally, I’m not seeing this as a huge problem in terms of re-election. Please. Carole Migden is on crack and no one’s freaking out about that. Ross Mirkarimi has 17th century conquistador facial hair. And Aaron Peskin just posed in a fucking Speedo and goggles. My god, is no one asking what pharmaceutical concoction convinced him that was a good idea?
So I say rock on, Mayor Hooch. You’re okay by me. I love you both off and on the wagon…

seriously. i love him more...

I think we all know how much I love a troubled man. My god, it's like he asked himself, "What could I do to make Spots MORE attracted to me? Oh, I know. Declare myself an alcoholic."
I'm entirely serious.
First of all, I'd just like to thank everyone who called and e-mailed expressing support. It means so much to know that in trying times like this, so many are there for us. Obviously, I'll have extensive thoughts on THIS throughout the day. I mean, who knows what's next? Maybe when he was 12, he was abducted by aliens? Maybe Gavin always felt he was born as the wrong gender?
Oh god, news at eleven. The Mayor comes out of the closet.
I'm ready for anything.
As for now, until I can process my thoughts and give you my Gavin vs. Mel breakdown, I think we should all join the Mayor in an act of solidarity.
And have Bloody Marys for breakfast.
I'm entirely serious...

*Photo from some dude's flickr account.

Monday, February 05, 2007

who the hell are these people, anyway...

The Nob Hill Gazette is a piece of shit.
I didn’t want to be on their stupid list anyway.
First of all, I know for a fact that I’m way cooler than pretty much every bitch on that list, except for CBig, whom we love because she came to my birthday. Second of all, what is the point of them CALLING MY OFFICE and asking all kinds of stupid questions about me if they were just planning on toying with my incredibly fragile emotions and screwing me over?
As I was lamenting my crappy life to Lo the other day, she reminded me, “Relax. The Nob Hill Gazette is coming out any day. And you’re in it!”
Oh. She’s right, I told myself. After all, I made her call them back and pretend to be my secretary in a move deemed to be “sick” and “just sad” by some, but to me, a profound and touching act of sisterhood. You’d think Lo would know, considering she gave them my bullshit bio and made me appear hilarious, philanthropic and difficult to get a hold of. And after ALL that, you’d think they’d have the sense to include my sorry ass in their crappy newspaper/magazine/loser neighborhood newsletter.
Mais non.
Whatever. As I’ve said before, the Nob Hill Gazette is basically read by posers that get off on being rude to waitstaff. And you can tell them I said so.
Or Lo can, when I make her call them back and yell at them…

Friday, February 02, 2007

oh. like an adventure...

It is amazing that 2 relatively intelligent and resourceful adults, when presented with a new challenge, completely freak out.
This morning, I was sitting at my desk checking my e-mail when my cell buzzed and glowed.
I grabbed my phone as my co-workers stared at me.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning!”
“What’s up?”
“Um, I ran out of gas.”
“You what?”
“I. Ran. Out. Of. Gas.”
I’m still amazed this is possible. Apparently, Mikey made it all the way through San Francisco, across the bridge, through the rainbow tunnel and suddenly, in the middle of the freeway, ran out of gas. He coasted the entire way down the hill, off the freeway and to the side of the road near the Buckeye.
“Well, I can either walk to the gas station or you can come get me.”
“I don’t want to walk.”
“Relax. I’m coming right now.”
I raced over there, finding a frustrated Mikey sitting in the passenger seat of his huge, white Buick Regal. At this point, I was laughing so hard, I couldn’t breathe. Sheepishly, he got into my car.
“How is this possible?”
“Shut up! Oh my god, this is so embarrassing. I left a note on my car.”
“In case a cop comes by.”
Oh. Of course.
We headed over to a gas station and I waited in the car, watching Mikey walk inside, grab a giant, red gas can from atop the Snapple themed fridge. My laughter was causing a scene, I found the site of my horrified, casual-Friday-chino’d roommate carry this gigantic plastic gas can across the station so ridiculous.
Opening the can and making it function was an ordeal in itself, requiring a profoundly embarrassed Mikey to go back into the little gas office and request scissors. They had all of the gas can accoutrements and corresponding instructions attached to the can with one of those plastic handcuff things. It actually required assembly.
We then drove back to the Buick, its hazards still unnecessarily flashing, and basically stood in the middle of the freeway off-ramp, cars whizzing by us. Mikey hates most forms of attention, and standing around holding a giant, dripping, bright red gas can was almost more than he could handle, thus making it dramatically funnier to me. So overcome by the hilarity of the situation, I actually had to brace myself on the car. Then I saw his note, scrawled on valet slip and placed under his windshield wiper.
“Ran out of gas, walking to station. Michael, 9:45am.”
I like that he signed it.
Seriously, this had become so funny to us, we were actually crying. Getting gas into the car’s gas tank involved Mikey spilling gas all over his casual-Friday-chinos, swearing a lot and screaming, “Shut up! I hate you! This isn’t funny!”
He finally got his $5 worth of gas out of his $15 bright red gas can and mostly into his giant white Buick Regal. Nervously, he started the car.
Lo and behold, putting fuel in a car makes it go.
I grabbed his little stranded note before he could driving away, promising to save it for posterity and put it on the famous bulletin board at home.
It took us 30 minutes to complete this entire process. Christ, if it were a flat tire, I’d still be laughing my ass off in the middle of a freeway. I hate to think what'll happen tomorrow when we try to assemble the new kitchen island my parents got me for my birthday...

Thursday, February 01, 2007

has he even had a chance to unpack...

My fingers are typing so fast my keyboard is beginning to smoke.
Let’s start at the beginning, because I think we all need to get a handle on this situation.
I was minding my own business last night when I noticed that I’d missed a call from Eve. Her voicemail said something along the lines of, “I just wanted to check and make sure that you’re okay.”
If it were anyone else, I’d have called right back asking what the fuck was up.
But this was Eve.
So I ran to the computer and pulled up SFGate.
“Aide Quits as Newsom’s Affair with his Wife is Revealed.”
No, Eve. I am not okay.
Apparently, Gavin was screwing around with his campaign manager’s wife, who subsequently went into rehab and, in accordance with Step Number 9, “made amends” and told her husband of the affair.
With his boss.
Her husband, the apparently highly loyal and hardworking Alex Tourk who pretty much walks around saving hobos and making Gavin look good, waited until Gavin returned from Switzerland, stormed into his office and called him on his shit.
Flies on that wall, I am so jealous.
The worst part of this whole mess? Her name is Ruby Rippey-Tourk.
Here’s the thing; I’ve always liked the fact that Gavin was weirdly loyal, maintaining some kind of old school, frat boy code of bros before hos.
Unless they have coke-head robotic wives with stupid names who look exactly like every chick in the Marina circa 1997.
And what's Swiss Miss have to say about all this? Ugh, I'm no fan but that's got to suck, returning from some whirlwind Swiss vacation with your hunky boyfriend to find out that he was involved in an adulterous affair with his campaign manager's cracked out spouse - as he launches his reelction campaign.
Needless to say, Gavin's foes are all weighing in on this one, including Tony Hall, who's apparently now runnning against him because San Francisco "deserves better."
Wait. Tony Hall? As in Tony Hall and the Hallmarks, the band from the Olympic Club Dinner Dances?
Nice. I love them.
That's what San Francisco deserves. One hell of a bunny hop.
I know what you're asking yourself.
"Spots, how will you go on? What does this mean for you and Gavin?"
Call me Tammy Wynette all you want, but if I can live through the ex-wife from Jupiter, Mama Celeste, Dakota Fanning and Swiss Miss, I can handle this bullshit.
I'm just thinking of it as very Kennedy-esque.
You know who's loving life right now?