guess who my new bff is...

Zoe can go fuck herself. Because I have a new Best Friend Forever!
Eve and I went to the GavinWatch launch party at El Rio last night, and upon arrival, N Judah instantly found us and announced that Dan Noyes was in the house.
“Oh god, I write publicly about his excessive mascara use.”
“No, no. He’s cool.”
“He’s gonna I-Team me. I know it.”
None the less, we were immediately led to Dan, standing beneath a colorfully lit tree, chatting with his myriad of fans and glowing like the golden boy of local news that he is.
OMG. Dan.
I wasn’t totally scared of the wrath of Dan and his cameras because I was with Eve, who, if anyone dared to question our ‘work’, would gladly and loudly tell them to go fuck themselves. Some people have those WWJD? bracelets. I’m all WWED?
Anyway, I stuck my hand out at Dan and said, “I’m Beth.”
“Beth! Give me a hug!”
OMG. Embraced by Dan.
Even better, after ‘bustin’ my chops’ about making fun of his excessive make-up use, he agreed to let me tour Channel 7! AND write about it for the Culture Blog!
Um, I highly doubt Ross and Andy get scoops like that shit.
Why?
Because they are not BFF with Dan Noyes.
OMG. BFF with Dan.
Needless to say, total celeb that he is, everyone wanted to talk with Dan. But as the evening wore on, I found my BFF again and Tony and I stopped to chat with him. Much later as we walked to the car, Eve asked me, “What was that animated performance Dan Noyes was doing for you in the middle of the patio?”
Oh, wait until you get a load of this.
So Dan’s, all, “If you want to come on a night that I anchor, it’s kind of crazy in the studio, but probably more interesting than just a tour.”
“Yeah, I know, Dan. I’ve seen Broadcast News.”
“Beth! I was in that movie!”
It was all I could do to stop myself from doing the Elaine Benes “Shut up!” shove.
My BFF? Yeah, he’s an extra in one of my top 5 movies of all time. He even re-enacted his scene for us.
OMG. Thespian Dan.
Dan had this awesome story of how William Hurt went ballistic and stormed off the set and they had to shut down shooting for the day. I was all, “I always knew William Hurt was a douchebag.” And Dan was all, “For serious.” (I’m paraphrasing. Drinks were $2.50.)
I promised Dan that when I came to Channel 7, I’d behave. “Relax, Dan. I’m a good girl, a gal’s gal, a broad’s broad, a dame’s dame.”
OMG. Laughing Dan.
Anyway, Dan gave me his super secret cell number, and I get to call him on it to schedule my big tour. As I left, I considered announcing to my friends, “Hey, anyone wanna crank call Dan Noyes at 3am?”
But then I asked myself, WWDD?

*Check our h.brown's review and Luke Thomas' gorgeous photos of the evening, with me about halfway down!!!

i'm cheating on gavin...

So that I cover every possible Gavin Christopher Newsom base in my never-ending quest to one-up Han Sup (yeah, I like saying it too), I’ll not only be attending GavinWatch’s (rescheduled) launch party tonight, but an un-named close and connected friend will be taking notes for me at the Gavin fundraiser she’ll be attending. She’s under specific orders to report back to me on 3 things: Swiss Miss status, ensemble choice and breathalyzer test. Tune in tomorrow for the results!
I would hate for Gavin to think that my attendance at an anti-Gavin happy hour might in any way indicate that I no longer support his hotness. I so hella do.
Plus, I like to keep people on their toes. I mean, if I had a nickel for every time someone was all, “So, do you really like Gavin or are you kidding?” I’d be almost as rich as if I had a dime for every time someone was all, “How dare you not discuss the pressing issues facing our city! Save the hobos!” or whatever. I tend not to be able to hear those people over their lack of deodorant and perception.
Which is why I love the folks at GavinWatch. Those bitches put together one hell of a photo montage, which makes me think they can party. But if I may, a suggestion for my pals hosting tonight’s soiree; I appreciate, convenience wise, that we’re getting down in my hood tonight, but how bad-ass would it have been to throw this shit at the Matrix…

#33, baby. riggins all the way...

I haven’t talked about my television obsessions in awhile, so bear with me. The Office is still in reruns and continues to leave us hanging with the whole Jim vs. Roy scandal. (We are on Team Jim, obviously.) So without my peeps at Dunder Mifflin, I’ve become more and more engrossed in the high school goings on of Dillon, Texas.
That’s right, y’all.
Friday Night Lights.
Go Panthers!
I know it doesn’t look it, but this is a fucking good show. I missed last nights episode due to a personal episode of my own, and upon returning home, discovered that, according to the roommate, there was much to discuss.
By the time I sat myself in front of the TiVo early this morning, I was psyched. I mean, it’s the Semi-Finals, people. One game until state, baby!
And in one little hour of prime time television, we had an attempted violent rape, a huge, toxic train derailment, a town-dividing law suit finally settled, mysterious player bribes, a guy in a wheelchair get water thrown in his face, a muddy semi-final win, a bi-polar, all-female target practice and Riggins is hooking up with the MILF next door.
Oh, and I love Landry.
Landry is basically the “Chandler” of Friday Night Lights.
Because everyone needs a smart ass. Even in West Central Texas…

humpday hijinks...

It's Wednesday, bitches! Read all about my super hot date with Gavin RIGHT HERE...

you can put the defibrillator away, fellas...

My supermodel best friend has this habit of roping me into her Saturday morning bootcamp, a 2 hour session designated by this marathon runner as a “hardcore weekend workout.” And they way she gets me to agree to this?
“We’ll go from your house up the 17th Street hill to the fire station on Stanyan!”
Oooh. Firemen. Okay.
So I jog my way from the ghetto through the Castro, stopping to meet said marathoning supermodel at the big rainbow flag.
“17th doesn’t look so steep if you tilt your head!”
Shut up and book it, lady. Let’s get this shit over with.
The big problem with my drill sergeant’s genius plan to woo me up a mountain was that by the time we made it to the goddamn fire station, we looked like sweaty, butch lesbians with heart conditions. Conveniently, there were no fire emergencies, so all the super hot firemen remained inside and no doubt mocked us from above. I continued my forced fitness until I was excused to jog my ass back home, skipping along to my iPod and thanking my lucky stars I’d avoided certain humiliation.
I mean, we know how I feel about firemen.
I’d just about made it back to my front door. I could almost see my couch and my TV and my fridge full of wine. That’s when I looked up and realized, to my immense horror that I was standing directly in front of yet another fire station, this one with a fabulous array of the hottest, most smokin’ rescue personnel around.
They looked at me as if I was in need of immediate medical attention. In reality, they probably should’ve called the cops as a certain supermodel marathoner was about to get manually strangled…

right before he broke into a little tap dance...

You'll have to wait until tomorrow for the scoop on my hot date with Gavin last night, but here's a shot of it from date-crasher Eric, who posted a bunch of fabulous photos on his Flickr site. Is it just me, or is Gavin channeling Al Sharpton...

how do we feel about a beret...

I have a hot date with Gavin tonight and I totally can’t figure out what to wear. The last time we went out, I was all casual in jeans and a black turtleneck, because Eve told me to look like I just rolled out of bed and was only there to discuss hobos and litter or whatever. And since I spent that morning feeling like a big, rain covered lesbian, I really want to step it up sartorially for tonight’s rendezvous. In planning my ensemble, I thought it best to review all of the outfits Gavin has seen me in and come up with something new and exciting for tonight.

First meeting: turquoise blazer and black pants at my dad’s lunch group. I know, I know. Gross.

Meeting two: Slutty boobs all up in my face and high heels, this time in breathless anticipation of Gavin’s appearance at said lunch group. (Interestingly, guests are no longer allowed when Gavin comes to lunch. Coincidence? Probably not.)

Meeting three: Frilly, twirly black skirt and cardigan. This was the time Gavin totally caressed the entire back portion of my body while laughing at my jokes in the back room of Tosca. So, this was obviously a good Gavin outfit. I wore it to dinner this Saturday, but I didn’t spill that much shit on it, so we may be good. It’s a little dressy for policy talk in the ghetto, but I’m a classy kind of broad.

And finally, the whole jeans, black sweater, bed head, rain-soaked look of February 10th.

So just to recap, we went from loser to slut to frilly to lesbian.

And you know Swiss Miss is going to show tonight, trying to upstage me in her stupid checkered monstrosities and visible ribcage. Which reminds me, I should probably wear something that provides ease of mobility in case I need to throw down.
Right now, as its pouring rain, I’m thinking jeans, a white dress shirt and my trench coat, although whenever I wear it, Gray Cloud calls me McGruff the Crime Dog, so clearly, I’m open to suggestions…

feel free to use this too...

In one of the more surreal twists of my life, Swiss Miss has fucking quoted me on her website.
I know. I know. I can't believe it either.
A little while back, my pal Rita offered me a sneak peek at Swiss Miss' new movie if I'd review it for SFist. So I did.
I pretty much just called her stunning and retarded over and over.
And this is what she brilliantly pulls from it:

"Jennifer Siebel is stunning... (her) performance in "TheTrouble with Romance" is highly watchable."-The SFist

Oh, it was actually "...highly watchable, if for nothing else, to get a scantily clad glimpse into what I can only imagine to be the boudoir goings on of our Mayor and his soon to be ex-girlfriend."

1. I deeply, deeply love whomever found this and alerted me to it's existence.
2. I can't believe Jennifer Siebel actually read this. I am simultaneously thrilled and horrified.
3. I can't believe that after reading it, she actually pulls a quote from it for her fucking website.
4. There's a "The" in front of SFist? I had no idea.
5. This is the act of someone who is both insane and genius. Or simply, as stated repeatedly elsewhere, retarded.
6. I'm only sorry she didn't comment...

they should link to dlisted...

Every once in awhile (meaning constantly), I swing by Gavin’s website to get updates on pressing municipal issues and policy. And today I noticed in his link section, the following website recommendations:

“Mean but Interesting”: San Francisco Bay Guardian
“Mean but Funny”: SFist
“No Sense of Humor but Interesting”: Beyond Chron

Where the fuck is Spots?
I love that Gavin and his minions regard themselves as the benchmark of what’s funny, which they kind of are, because I’ve spent the past few months laughing my ass off. Unlike Beyond Chron, I have a sense of humor.
At the bottom of the page, there’s a “Suggest a link!” button and here are my top five suggestions for Gavers:

“Hot but Retarded”: Swiss Miss
“Ridiculous but Addictive”: Nob Hill Gazette
“Mean but Crazy”: Chris Daly
“Equal Opportunity Employer but Irrelevant”: Benefit Magazine
“Stunning but Brilliant”: what the hell do you think…

why is my chardonnay all bubbly...

I’d already read about this horrifying date raper in the Chronicle, but Jason forwarded it to me just in case I was about to let some douchebag slip me a mickey. If you’re unaware, allow me to enlighten you to Slimebag McSleazy who hangs out at salsa classes, picking up chicks and raping them.
Slimebag talks one unsuspecting salsa chick into joining him for drinks at Noe Bar, where my new hero, the eagle eyed server Karri spotted Slimebag slip a mysterious powder into salsa-aficionado’s beer. Karri was on that shit like Olivia Benson, and immediately concocted a ruse to snatch that beer up and confer with her bartender, my other hero Hannah. The quick-thinking crime fighters approached salsa chick, who was standing outside smoking a cigarette oblivious to Slimebag and his attempts at super-sicko unconscious rape. As they filled the poor gal in on Mr. Wonderful, they looked back into the bar and saw Slimebag do it again.
Nice work, criminal mastermind.
Upon confronting him, Slimebag offers to buy everyone a shot before nervously splitting on his way to being arrested.
Okay.
First of all, salsa?
Second of all, if someone thinks they’re getting any kind of first date play from me, Noe Bar’s not cutting it.
Finally, what kind of retard is all, “Sorry I tried to rape you. Let’s do shots!”?
So thank you, dear friend Jason for the heads up on the infestation of cheapskate date rapers, but uh, you should be more than aware that I would never go out with someone this about-to-go-to-jail-and-find-out-the-true-meaning-of-rape idiot…

if they only had onions...

I know you've been waiting all week to hear about how much I hate Bourbon and Branch. Well, you're in luck! Today's Chron blog is up...

spots + dan = love...

My super hot, super secret crush Dan Noyes has apparently been desperate to get an interview with Ruby “the culprit” Tourk. Uh, get in line, Dan. I’ve got some questions for her myself. Well, now Matier and Ross are all sassing him and shit in their column, making fun of the fact that my boy Dan is a pavement pounder.
Wait. That sounded wrong.
Anyway, Ruby isn’t really feeling the whole interview thing right now and who can blame her. If Dan’s so desperate to interview a chick involved in this whole girl fight, I’m more than happy to make myself available. After all, I think it’s safe to say I’ve reached expert level status as to the personal life of our fine mayor. I’m guessing our interview would go a little something like this:

Dan: Hi Beth. Thanks for sitting down with me and the I-Team to discuss the volatile personal drama going on in Room 200.

Spots: No problem, Dan. I love your mascara, by the way.

Dan: Oh thanks. It’s just Great Lash. Anyway, what are your thoughts on Jennifer Siebel’s comments on SFist?

Spots: While difficult to read, I found them enlightening and hilarious.

Dan: Off the record, me too. It’s like, Hello? Shut up!

Spots: Seriously! Are there no skinny, blonde, 30-something rocket scientists for Gavin to date? I’m getting bored by the dumb ones.

Dan: Okay, okay. We’ve GOT to stop gabbing. Let me put on my reporter’s hat for a second.

Spots: Sure.

Dan: You’ve met Gavin. How did he strike you?

Spots: Perfect in every way. And by perfect, I mean well-dressed and drunk.

Dan: So this was before his admission of “looking forward” to drinking.

Spots: Yeah. And he was with a chick who was neither Jen or Ruby.

Dan: OMG. For serious?

Spots: Totally.

Dan: Too funny. What are you doing later? Do you want to, like, hang out?

Spots: Finally! Yes, Dan. I so do.

Dan: Fabulous! I love you, Spots!

Spots: OMG, Dan. I love you to.

End scene…

welcome home...

This is the only thing making me feel better right now. I found these on someone's Flickr and it's delighting me. Obviously, Gavin was in a sassy mood and I dig it. I can't tell if that's a rubber chicken or Swiss Miss, but either way, I wanna ride his bike - if you get my drift...

how can you not have onions...

I am never drinking again.
I mean it this time.
Seriously.
I kicked off the weekend with Kate’s Surprise Birthday Party at MoMo’s, arriving home in the middle of the night with both my keys in my hand and an apparent need to ring my doorbell 67 times anyway. Saturday night, Lo and I took Mikey out to dinner at the House of Prime Rib, where we washed down our creamed spinach with vodka and I’m pretty sure the coat check guy made a pass at me. And last night was my father’s Surprise Birthday Party at bacar. Spending the entire evening making drunken toasts and abusing the open bar, we were finally winding down and about to stumble home when the birthday boy threw his arm around my shoulder and said, “Let’s go to Bourbon and Branch!”
What? Like I was going to turn that down…

do yourself a favor...

I can’t stop talking about Zodiac. I’m telling you, this is a fabulous movie. It’s 2 hours and 40 minutes long, but if you ask me, it feels like an hour. There is no person in this world that I love going to movies with more than my brother, so I was thrilled when we made plans to go together last weekend, sneaking in burritos and sitting up front.
As the opening credits began, I whispered, “Oh my god, Zodiac!!!”
“I know. I’m so excited.”
“Oh, and guess what. The cop guy was Da’s partner.”
“What? NO!”
“YES!”
Get a load of this.
Da is our late, great grandfather. And Da was quite easily one of the most glorious characters to ever grace this planet. I won’t even attempt to describe his greatness, as I could never do him justice, except to say that my Da wrote me A LETTER A DAY my entire 4 years of college. Da, however, was also a San Francisco cop AND during his career, he was partners with Dave Toschi.
Um, yeah. That’s Mark Ruffalo.
My dad just drops this info on me one night, saying, “Hey, you have got to go see this Dave Toschi movie?”
“Who’s Dave Toschi.”
“He was the cop assigned to the Zodiac case. And he was Da’s partner was before that.”
“SHUT UP. Did you ever meet him?”
“Are you kidding me? I’ve had dinner at his house! What are you talking about? Of course I knew him. He was Da’s partner.”
“And wait. Was Da still a cop during the Zodiac thing.”
“Oh yeah. He retired when you were born.”
That, FYI, was 1978. So just to recap, my Da was totally on the force when San Francisco was packed with serial killers. Um, what’s my main area of expertise?
Serial killers.
How I wish he were still alive to hook me up with the juice.
As my Da would say, “Run, don’t walk” to Zodiac and when Mark Ruffalo is standing around the police headquarters furrowing his brow and trying to catch Zodiac, check out the cops in the background and know that one of them is unwittingly playing my Da…

the trouble with swiss miss...

Because I'm such a media whore, I've reviewed Swiss Miss' practically naked performance in The Trouble with Romance for SFist. Check it out, film lovers...

there's nothing to see here...

Apparently, when one spends a great deal of one's time making fun of local celebrities on the internet, one’s karma builds up. Which is probably why I was pulled over on my way home last night.
Immediately upon seeing flashing lights in my review mirror I pulled over to the side of the road, a mere 2 blocks from my front door.
This MUST be the work of Swiss Miss!
“Hi there. License and registration, please.”
Shit. I handed over my paperwork and nervously eyed the less than hot cop. “What’d I do?”
“Oh, your stickers are out of date, that’s all.”
Fabulous.
The worst part about being pulled over isn’t the monetary fine or the knot in your stomach.
The worst part about being pulled over is the fact that every other driver, cyclist and pedestrian stares at you with abandon. After all, I’m clearly a criminal. The staring rule doesn’t apply to me.
What’s worse, for some reason, less than hot felt the need to call for backup. 2 cruisers were on the scene in seconds, as if me and my out of date registration were going to go on the lam. I eyed them in my rearview mirror, watching them in serious conversation and then suspiciously eyeing me back.
I even tried to smile at one elderly woman across the street, a frightened spectator to my apparent arrest. She looked like she was expecting the fuzz to set up barricades any minute.
Not so hot finally returned, handed me a fix-it-ticket and told me to have a great night. I was tempted to respond that I would indeed have a great night if he’d get on his loudspeaker and explain to my neighborhood that I’m not a drug dealer or child molester or similar, but figured I might as well quit while I’m behind…

i'm such a wednesday's wednesday...

As promised, here are my eloquent thoughts on the latest and greatest Newsom Ho Scandal. Thank you San Francisco Culture Blog for the opportunity to vent. I feel so much better...

official thoughts due tomorrow...

It's getting weird out there, people. Swiss Miss has lost it (!) and as I lay in bed last night, I imagined Gavin holding her and reassuring her that the unfortunate crazy newspaper and internet ramblings are no big deal, while he's secretly plotting a way to dump her stupid ass.
But then I head Gavin is currently in Chicago, which is even better.
This reminds me of the time when I crashed my parents' car while they were on vacation. I mean, Swiss Miss had to explain this whole debacle to him over the phone.
Ugh, even I feel bad for her.
But not so bad as to ignore it in tomorrow's Culture Blog! Tune in at noon.
Because, and I'm calling this right now, they're breaking up ASAP. What? Like he's going to marry her now?
I think she officially jumped the shark with her whole "Gavin was lonely and vulnerable and in a misspelled crisis and that culprit, Ruby "High Road" Tourk passed out on his doorstep, forcing him to screw her unconscious body."
So, basically date rape.
Yeah, relationship over...

the white glove told me to...

I was always the last kid picked up from day care.
I know, I know. My poor mother is rolling her eyes, having endured years of therapy and yelling and guilt over such unforgivable acts as like, having a job when I was a kid.
But still. I was always the last kid picked up from day care.
My entire life.
And among the many things I desperately desired as a child was a mom who was waiting in a minivan in the school parking lot at 3pm, ready to drive me home to the brand name foods and after school programming I was never allowed to enjoy.
I didn’t want cookies made from scratch. I wanted them from that forbidden tube.
There was no Kraft in the Spotswood household. We had $9 mustard and weird cheese and leftover osso bucco.
And lots of babysitters.
But no Kraft.
Okay, seriously mom. I’m over it.
Now a big food snob myself, my adult fridge is shockingly similar to the one I grew up with. Right down to the mustard. However, on occasion, I’ll see those once forbidden middle-American brand name items and be unable to help myself.
Which is why I made Hamburger Helper yesterday.
First of all, it was only $2.
Second of all, I picked what I deemed the classiest of their many flavors: Four Cheese Lasagna. It even had Italian flag clip art on the box. Obviously, authentic.
So basically all you need for Hamburger Helper is the $2 box of chemicals and a pound of ground chuck.
Mikey sat in the living room studying for his big, boring test.
“Are you making snacks???”
“Yes! I’m making Hamburger Helper.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously.”
“Ewwww. Make me some.”
So once you brown your chuck, you’re supposed to add 2 cups of hot water, 2 cups of milk, the bag of “noodles” they give you, and the cheese powder of death. Then you stir it all together and let it simmer for 14 minutes.
I jazzed it up by adding fresh garlic. Because, you know, I’m all gourmet and shit.
After 14 minutes, you’ve basically got yourself a big pan of vomit which looks nothing like either the commercials or the picture on the box. I served up two steaming bowls of said vomit and Mikey and I dove in.
Imagine track meet nacho cheese mixed with chewed hamburger. Seriously. I’m not exaggerating. That’s pretty accurate.
All I could think of were those ads from my childhood of happy honky families, oblivious to Chinese food and brie while cheerily sitting down to Hamburger Helper after dad gets home from his big job as the sole breadwinner.
They didn’t even have salad.
Mikey looked up from his bowl. “This is not helping the hamburger.”
“Yeah, they should call it Hamburger Ruiner.”
Never mind, mom. I get it…

i got your culprit right here...

If you’re waiting for my thoughts on this appalling and wonderful incident, I’m saving it for Wednesday’s Culture Blog. I mean, this shit is so good, I should be getting paid for it…

it always ends like this...

After an "eh" dinner at Cav, Lo and I headed over to Biron and as we rounded the corner were met with screams.
"Shut up! Holy shit! Beth!"
Oh my god.

It's Itty and Joe.

Due to circumstances beyond anyone's control, we'd lost touch.

For a really long time.

But lo and behold, half a drink later we picked up right where we left off...

...which was basically in the midst of a 1am photo shoot in the middle of Valencia Street...

he's driving me to drink...

As I sucked down coffee while drying my hair this morning, my cell phone glowed with a text.
“From Mikey: Gavins on KFOG.”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!
As I believe radio is a dying medium and only listen in my car, I once again raced around the house in desperate search of this highly unnecessary contraption. Why anyone would have a working radio in their home is beyond me, but at this moment, I was desperate for some FM action.
Unable to hook myself up, I tossed my hair in ponytail and raced out the door, looking like a lesbian. Those that know me know I won’t run for my life, but let me tell you, I booked it to my car. I couldn’t get my key in the ignition fast enough, desperate to hear that familiar gravelly voice discussing adultery, hangovers and rehab.
“…And we’re back with San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom.”
Yes!
People could even call in and ask questions. Any questions! The anticipation was killing me, I was so sure he’d start crying or apologizing or revealing intimate details about his personal life.
Oh, oh, oh! I hope someone asks about Han Sup Shin!
But question after Foghead question dealt exclusively with boring, crappy things no one cares about.
Hobos? Big deal.
Filthy piers? What else is new.
Market Street is a shithole? Duh.
Come ON, people. Let’s get to the good stuff.
But no. Sober Gavin is a boring Gavin, and makes everyone stand around asking boring policy questions and ignoring the big, drunk, adulterous elephant in the room.
To quote Eve, Gavin is now officially Fun Bobby…

don't worry. i tivo'd it...

Since Wednesday is the new Thursday, I stayed home last night and watched a 2 hour History Channel documentary on the Plague.
Jealous?
Well, you should be because it was AWESOME.
I’ve got to do some research on who funds and produces these masterpieces because while highly educational, it was also, to use Gavin’s favorite word, salacious.
The greatest acting gig in the world has got to be a reenactor, and had I known when and where they were casting for this show, I’d have been all over it.
According to lore, the Plague made its way to Europe from the apparently dirty, filthy far east when the Mongols were about to win this big war and then suddenly all got sick. So the Mongol survivors put their dead bodies on catapults and flung them over the walls, onto their enemy soldiers.
Cue plague.
Most major cities lost 50% of their population. So what I don’t understand is how the other 50% survived. Because I’d have headed for the hills and waited that shit out. According to the incredibly dramatic narrator, the cowardly rich ran to the countryside, abandoning the poor in the plague infested cities. And shame on them.
Um, no shit.
Are you telling me that in the interest of making some self-righteous point about the equality of humanity, you’d take the incredibly high risk that you and your entire family will die a disgusting, gross, painful, indescribably horrible death?
Call me crazy, but I’m going to my country house.
You know Gavin would be at Carneros before you could say, “What’s that on your neck?”

i hate you too...

My father once told me that if no one’s bitching about your writing, no one’s reading it. This, however, was from the man who proudly posted a letter to the editor on our family fridge, proclaiming “Spotswood- Idiot.”
Well, on today’s Culture Blog comments, people are bitching not just about my writing, but about bitchy old me! Apparently, making fun of alcoholism, homelessness, broken families and criminals is cool, but taking 12 items in the 9 item aisle at Safeway is an act of terrorism.
First of all, that old man had one foot in the ground anyway. If he’s still alive, lo these 72 hours later, I’m sure he’s long forgotten about our verbal sparring. Second of all, I’m well aware that rules apply to everyone, including me. And while I’m sure my sneaking 12 items into the 9 item aisle was a blatant act of selfishness, I’ve done far worse. Hey, you people should be happy I didn’t wait in the parking lot and run over that bag of bones and his goddamn Martinelli’s.
Finally, bitches need to lighten up. I was in Safeway for 15 minutes, exchanged 3 sentences with some old smelly codger, went home, wrote that shit in 45 minutes and sent it to my editor with the subject line, “This is stupid.”
So those riled up commenters can rest easy in the knowledge that no one thinks I’m dumber, ruder or uglier than I do, my proud father is probably printing out those comments for framing at this very minute and you know what, fuckers?
I’d do it again…

humpday...

It's Wednesday again! And you know what THAT means...

here's me talking to a hobo...

I’m sure you saw it on Monday night, but just in case you didn’t, I TiVo’d it.
NBC 11 gave Gavin a camera and asked him to capture his life as part of their “Moving Pictures” series. I guess they handed cameras to zookeepers and Marines and similar “real people” so we can patronizingly glimpse their dramatically different lives.
Like people that work at Google.
Anyway, Gavin was supposed to present his incredibly boring photos a few weeks ago, but he got a little busy. So finally, on Monday night he sits down with NBC 11 and discusses why he felt the need to take a million pictures of little Asian children.

"Because the kids don't care about the salacious headlines of the day. They have a quality of imagination and exuberance and enthusiasm and innocence.”

Snooze.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?

I wanted it to be all like, “This is me passed out at La Barca. And this is me giving someone hush money. Oh, and here’s me about to get a Thai massage.”

Nope. It was more like, “Here’s reporters not giving me space. And here’s an unflattering picture of Kamala Harris. Oh, and here’s the view from my “small” apartment.

Oh! Wait! Gavin’s apartment? Now we’re talking.
First of all, I know someone (other than the glorious Han Shin) that has ventured inside Gavin’s pad. And it ain’t small. He only shows us his appallingly perfect view, but word on the street is he has a gorgeous pied a terre with fabulous taste and a closet that’s to die for. I can only hope to one day sit post-coitally at that window with the perfect view and secretly text message my friends. Second of all, when he looks at that view, he apparently thinks, “"Everyday it's magnificent. It's completely different. It's totally new. The sunsets, the sunrises, the fog."

Jesus Christ. That idiot Swiss Miss is rubbing off on him.

Finally, we get to see pictures of Gavin’s desk, including his packed array of framed personal photos. There appear to be hundreds worthy of a framed spot on Gavin’s desk and I couldn’t help but think, why not one more?
Like he actually looks at them.
Seriously. This is a great idea.
I’ll require an accomplice on the inside. A hot, blendable photo of me. And a silver Tiffany frame with my phone number engraved on it…

my night with ed begley jr...

...was totally captured on film!
Because I am a nosey loser, I go to society photographer Drew Altizer's website every so often and scope out all the parties I don't get invited to. But then I saw it.
Oh my god. I was at THAT one.
And look, here's me and Mikey with some friend of my folks we ran into.
And look, here's Ed! Note the people in the background, pretending not to freak out.
Oh my god, CBig, why was this not in Swells...

oh, and my 'at bat' song is brickhouse...

With nothing to do on a Saturday night, I did what people apparently did all the time 30 years ago.
I watched Saturday Night Live.
One of my lifelong ridiculous dreams is to be an SNL writer circa 1977. While most likely impossible, I have this fabulous image of myself in cuffed jeans and a corduroy blazer with elbow patches, sitting in an NBC hallway at 3am, taking qualudes and flirting with Bill Murray while simultaneously creating moments of timeless comedic genius.
I also want my own little opening intro thing.
You know the opening intro thing, right?
Each cast member gets their own opening intro thing, where they’re surprised yet delighted by the camera in some type of hot, Manhattan night spot.
It’s always the same.
They’re either sipping a cocktail.
Telling a joke.
Or emerging from a cab.
Then suddenly, oh my god, it’s my wacky friend with the camera.
So I had to ask myself. Which one am I?
Am I sipping a martini alone in a crowded bar?
Am I surrounded by adoring friends, about to deliver the punch line when, “Oh, the camera! Ha!” and then back to my joke?
Or, am I emerging in something vintage and beaded from an old-timey cab?
One’s SNL opening intro thing like your “at bat” song. It speaks volumes.
SNL is famous for it’s sexism and I noticed that exclusively men cast members get the “telling a joke” intro thing, and the women are all silently looking pretty at a bar or daintily coming out of a cab.
Screw that shit.
I can totally pretend to be telling a joke and suddenly turn and wink at the camera. I’m busting through the SNL opening intro thing glass ceiling and going with option number two.
Although, I still want to be wearing something vintage and beaded…

yeah, but what are you...

Alex is moving to the city this weekend, sharing an apparently “awesome” apartment with a guy and girl from his work. Conveniently, my roommate Mikey and I have been ready to part with an unused armchair taking up space in the living room and I gave my only sibling first dibs before Lo snatched it up.
He and Ben just pulled up to collect his new furniture and I, feeling all big sisterly, insisted they come in for a beer. One of the great benefits of having a brother is the constant insight to the male psyche he and his friends provide.
As we sat around our new glorious kitchen island, Ben and Alex discussed a chick they rated as a “Zero.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” I stopped them. “A zero? On a scale of what?”
They both looked at me and responded;
“One to Zero.”
Maybe you didn’t know this, but a girl is either a one or a zero. You’ll either fuck her. Or you won’t.
Ben clarified. “There’s such a thing as a high zero. Change a couple of things and we’re golden. Oh, oh. And also, someone can fluctuate. Drink enough, she becomes a one. A high sober zero can become a low drunk one.”
Oh my god.
My mind flashed to a million different guys, all of whom I was suddenly convinced had instantly rated me either a zero or a one.
The humiliation of womanhood overwhelmed me.
Again feeling big sisterly, I dove into the boys with a feminist fury, berating their shitty system and obvious lack of sensitivity.
“Gentleman, I raised you better than that. There are people, you’re rating. These are women. With opinions and personalities and BROTHERS. Don’t be that guy.”
Ben took a swig of his beer and smiled. “You’re a high one.”

Oh. Nevermind. I love this system. It’s totally just. Forget I said anything…

don't fuck with aunty lindo...

Lo came over last night to watch Swiss Miss’ movie, a horrifying look at bad filmmaking which I’ve agreed to write about for SFist, and it was so wrong, it actually prompted us to dig through my old VHS tapes looking for a better alternative.
After considering Varsity Blues, Home Alone 2 and Fried Green Tomatoes, we settled on the Joy Luck Club.
“Oh my god, I have the Joy Luck Club.”
“Yes! Awesome! I love this movie.”
“Seriously. Me too. I’m obsessed with it.”
Maybe it’s a chick thing. Maybe it’s a San Francisco thing. But there is an underground Joy Luck Club obsession that’s been going on for years. We’ve even got our own language. For example, if your girlfriend says to you, “Why you pay for his ice cream?” That means that your boyfriend is making you do shit you don’t want to do. Also, if someone tells you that “you take best quality crab,” it’s a dig.
It means you have worst quality heart.
Anyway, we happily switched from Swiss Miss to the Joy Luck Club and let me tell you, I could watch this movie twice a day for the rest of my life, it’s so good.
After our earlier screening, we just kept saying over and over, “Now, this. This is a fucking movie.”
Lo, in a stroke of brilliance also pointed out that the Joy Luck Club is Steel Magnolias for Chinese People.
Um, yeah. It totally is.
Find me a gay man who loves Steel Magnolias and I’ll show you someone who squeals at the mention of Joy Luck Club.
We were in heaven the entire time, adoring this fabulous movie we’d already seen 50 times before. As we sat in the dark, watching Joon’s mom abandon her babies on the wartorn roadside, Lo gasped.
“Oh my god. I wouldn’t even do that to my cats.”
If you were heading to the Asian American Film Festival just to see Swiss Miss, I’d skip it, get Chinese take-out and stay home to revisit the Joy Luck Club. And when you get to the scene where Rose totally goes ape-shit at Andrew McCarthy and sits in the rain talking nonsense, think of me because I cannot watch it without sitting on the floor, messing up my hair and reciting the entire thing…

You're not taking my house, you're not taking my daughter, you're not taking any part of me, because you don't know who I am. I died sixty years ago. I ate opium and I died for my daughter's sake. Now get out of my house!

this is not motivating me...

I’ve finally given up GhettoGym for the luxury and convenience of SuburbaGym, a mere 2 seconds from my place of employment. SuburbaGym smells way less like BO and way more like Ben Gay, but it’s a small price to pay. SuburbaGym is also subsidized by my parents, in what I suspect is a means of making me thinner and thus, married off.
Fine with me.
Anyway, I was marching away on the elliptical last night when I took a second to look around me. In the bank of 4 elliptical trainers, I was not only the only female working out, but the only one not collecting social security. All three grandpas were on like, Level 1, reading newspapers or staring at CNN. Suddenly, I felt far better about myself and my Level 12. I mean, look at these old codgers, thinking they’re prolonging their practically over life by moseying around at SuburbaGym.
Halfway into my US Magazine, the geriatric next to me took his leave, wiping his “sweat” off with the antibacterial towlettes provided by SuburbaGym (note to GhettoGym, not a bad idea, huh?)
And in his place?
She must have been 15. She was practically naked. And she warmed up on Level 20.
My pace slowed, my heart (rate) dropped, and I looked down at my baggy track pants next to Miss Teen USA’s perfect tan thighs.
This sucks.
I’m old. I’m sweaty. And I’m on loser Level 12.
At least at GhettoGym, the hottest bitch I worked out with was a hobo named Patches who’s missing a toe…