Tuesday, July 31, 2007

shouldn't you be getting someone a latte...

As soon as I heard about Matt Roloff's DUI, I forwarded the link to Mikey. What follows is the ensuing e-mail conversation:

To: M
From B
DUI????
Jesus Christ. What was he drinking? Pumpkin juice?

To: B
From: M
probably drinking a tall-boy. waaawaaaa.

To: M
From: B
Mikey made a funny!
Hold on. I'll alert the press.

To: B
From: M
Headline: "Mikey's comedy continues to be fresh and hilarious"

To: M
From: B
And wisecracks about this one, Carrot Top?

To: B
From: M
"A race to be the 500th jumper occurred in October 1973." What's the deal with that? How do you race to be the 500th jumper? Aw, 497, so close, try again.
And it's not really racing, it's waiting and counting.

To: M
From: B
Clearly inspired by 1990's stand-up, Mikey Sermersheim exploded onto the comedy scene in 2007, 13 years after his jokes were funny.

To: B
From: M
In a pathetic attempt to under-cut a clearly comedic superior, Bethy Spotswood embarrassed herself today claiming Mikey Sermersheim's craft is out-dated unfunny. In the words of Bethy herself, "Hi kettle."

To: M
From: B
In exciting comedy news, Michael "Mikey" Sermersheim has teamed up with his mentor, Orny Adams for a tour of the United States Midwest, performing mainly in convalescent homes and livestock auctions. When called for comment, Sermersheim is "honored and humbled" to be opening for the "legendary" Adams and eagerly anticipates the nations' response to his "how come they don't make the whole plane out of the black box" bit.

To: B
From: M
"Bethy Spotswood Dies On Stage"
and by 'die' I mean 'fails,' and by 'on stage' I mean 'at her keyboard.' Known (hardly) for her being able to read news articles and regurgitate them in biased, uneducated ways, Bethy Spotswood is unfortunately not dead at all. It has been rumored that the person (plural?) that actually does read her work is is not a fan at all and is doing all that he can to make her 'please stop.' This polite vigilante has my full support.

To: M
From: B
"Sermersheim sacked from Adams tour. Spotswood responds"
Michael "Mikey" Sermersheim, "The Banker's Comic" was slated to join comedian Orny Adams on his "Midwest Hijinx Festival" this summer, but was let go after one brief performance, in which Sermersheim awkwardly left the stage after 3 and a half minutes. Sermersheim is, not surprisingly, unavailable for comment. Adams, however, had this to say. "The kid's green. He's got no sense of timing or slapstick nuance. He's good at getting someone a cup of coffee, but that's about it. Jeez, his first minute up there, they were pelting him with rotten tomatoes. I didn't even know they did that anymore."
Calls to Sermersheim's current employer, satirist Bethy Spotswood, went unreturned. Spotswood's publicist however, issued the following statement to the press.
"Ms. Spotswood is happy to be able to financially support her friend in his time of personal disgrace and failure. While she has never been a particular fan of his brand of "comedy", she prides herself on helping those less fortunate. She wishes Mr. Sermersheim only the best, and looks forward to his proving himself within her company. Ms. Spotswood asks that the press give Mr. Sermersheim his space at this humiliating time."
-end-

To: B
From: M
"Spotswood admitted at Mental Institution"
Beth Spotswood, the lesser-known of the Mill Valley Spotswoods, was recently admitted to Forest Knolls in Marin. Though, at first glance, this is not very newsworthy, some digging reveals that what little power and money Beth's parents (Dick and Joanne Spotswood) had allowed her to have what appears to be a "successful writing career."
Joanne comments: "Beth had wanted to be a writer for some time, but we knew her 'condition' would make it impossible." Well, at least for most people. "We just felt so bad for poor Bethy, we wanted her to have all that we could give her." The Spotswoods had raised her as if she was a mentally healthy child, all the while knowing that she has an IQ of 38. Their power and (mostly) money reached the San Francisco Chronicle earlier this year, where it was agreed that the Chronicle's website SFGate.com would publish Beth's work and post it weekly on their site. For each of these posts, Beth would receive 2 crisp twenty dollar bills. Darling.
Ms. Spotswood clearly has some very loving parents to go all this way to make her feel normal and quasi successful, but this recipe of deception and manipulation was not to last forever. Beth's supposed status eventually went to her head. Illusions of a relationship with San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom and nasty phone calls from Senators proved that this charade had gone too far. This is admittedly a sad story of trying to do good for the less fortunate but making matters worse. There is no telling how long Beth will be at Forest Knolls - the process of bringing someone to a reality that they have never realized is a long and arduous one, especially for someone with such little mental capacity.
And it should not be hidden, the Spotswoods asked me to write this.

To: M
From: B
San Francisco Man found in dumpster
Michael "Mikey" Sermersheim, a San Francisco resident, was found raped to death in a dumpster behind the Campus All Male theater early Wednesday morning. Witness accounts claim the deceased had spent over 24 hours within the theater, on an alcohol and porn fueled bender, before wandering outside in search of "the real thing." Sermersheim approached a gentleman, identified only as "Smokey" who agreed to the deceased's sexual request. Out of respect for the dead, no matter how sick he be, we will not print the details of his fetish, other than to say, live black cats were involved. According to Smokey, "things gots out of control", particularly once other vagrants and displaced locals joined the two men in their back alley sex acts. We spoke with Smokey via his social worker, Sr. Mary Clarence, who had this to say, "We's all fuckin' and shit like crazy. I donts even knows where he's (the deceased) was at, cuz I got all distracted by the kitty I was doin' and the next thing I knows, I wake up and I got this blood and shit everywheres and I ran to tell da POlice. But, you know, it was werf it."
Police notified the roommate of the deceased, who asked to remain anonymous and responded, "Color me surprised."

To: B
From: M
Forest Knolls resident found dead in Psych Ward
Beth Spotswood, retarded daughter of Dick and Joanne Spotswood, was found dead this morning in her padded, windowless room at Forest Knolls Mental Institution. Known for her dangerous infatuation with San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom, Beth was found dead in a most unusual fashion.
Dressed in a navy blue suit, black cap-toe shoes and a white oxford shirt with the two top buttons undone, Spotswood had a Venti Starbucks cup full of her own urine in one hand and a container of, what the authorities are calling 'hair gel' in the other. In her last homage to the Mayor, she even had her hair slicked back.
"She liked to go see Mr. Newsom speak," comments her roommate, successful private banker Michael Sermersheim. "One of these times she took his empty coffee cup and brought it home a souvenir. I'm not surprised it was involved in her death, she was crazy about that thing. Pun intended."
Someone who works very closely to the Mayor stated: "Neither I nor the Mayor have ever heard of or met this person. The whole office is very sorry for Spotswood family's loss, but the fact that she was found in a suit way too large for her from a second-hand store drives home that she was not mentally well. The Mayor wouldn't be caught dead looking like that." This was followed by uncontrollable laughter by the staff member and myself...

he probably had some funky vinegar...

On a good week, I communicate with my BFF approximately 3-4 times a day. Which is about half as much as I talk to my mother.
ANYway, I generally wake up to an e-mail from the BFF, then a commute to work call with the BFF, e-mails at work with the BFF, and texting at night with the BFF. I'm so used to this schedule, any variations tend to ruffle my feathers.
Like right now.
I check my e-mail first thing in the morning. Religiously. If I claim I didn't get an e-mail until days later, I'm lying. I probably got it 10 seconds after you sent it.
Normally, my morning e-mail from the BFF contains activity suggestions, gossip or personal reflection.
I guess this morning isn't normal.
Here's what I opened:
"a DUI?!? our little matt? say it ain't so! amy's going to ground him for a long, long time. you know she wears the pants.
good morning.
zo"
Wait. What? Don't leave me that shit without a link.
Matt? Amy? Pants?
That means only one thing.
Oh my god. Matt? DUI?
I love Matt! Matt's the weirdest! Mikey has perfected his Matt impression! This simply can't be! DUI? Really?
(It's at this point that I wondered what the world ever did without Google.)
Turns out, Matt indeed got a DUI. WTF? The guy's like 2 feet tall. What's it take him to get past .08? NyQuil?
And the BFF is right. Amy no doubt went biscuit-hands ape shit..

Monday, July 30, 2007

i am not paul avery...

I'm a paranoid person in general.
So last weekend, when Mikey and I came home to find a creepy man drinking a beer at our front door, I got a little nervous. It was 1am, dark and ghetto.
You'd be nervous too.
Saturday night, Lo came over and the three of us made dinner and sat in the living room, drinking wine and watching Zodiac. Around midnight, Lo announced she needed a "nap" and crawled in my bed, immediately passing out.
So, we're sitting in the darkened living room, watching this super creepy movie when all of a sudden, Mikey whispers, "Did you hear that?"
We paused the movie. And we listened.
Someone was outside.
Fuuuuuuuck.
"Someone's outside."
"I know."
"What do we do?
"Shit, I don't know."
Mikey slowly got up and peeked out the front door window, onto our dark stoop just outside.
"There's a guy there."
"Fuck!"
"Didn't you hear the can open?"
"What?"
"I heard a beer can open."
Creepy beer guy was back. Fantastic.
Mikey flicked on the porch light and stared him down through the window in the door, attempting to look intimidating and potentially violent. Creepy beer guy waved and stumbled away.
Needless to say, that porch light and my trusty alarm will remain on for eternity.
God, I hate the ghetto...

ph balanced for a woman...

I'm delighted to report that the fabulous Bill Wilson will so be featured as my next celebrity interview. In the meantime, Gavin gets even hotter. I know. I didn't think it was possible either.


Friday, July 27, 2007

hello guy lipa...

God Bless him, Grey Cloud has sent me the most glorious article. Ladies and Gents, the 50 Most Beautiful People on Capitol Hill.
And I am now obsessed with Number 13, Guy Lipa.
Jesus Christ.
I think it might be his charming tie that's putting me over the edge.
Guy is a Pisces and plays ice hockey.
Guy was a drummer in a band in college.
Guy likes laid back, attractive and active girls.
Shit, they even talk about his lashes. And I'm a sucker for a fella with long lashes.
I've also got a little thing for Charlie Hurt. He seems very Spots style.
And I would have the hots for Brady Von Engelen, but the guy's got a metal plate in his head...

Thursday, July 26, 2007

i simply can't help myself. this one's for leslie...

I know. I get it. You're fixin' to have me committed.
Hey, just as long as I get to room with Lohan. I love that loon.
But you guys, it's not my fault. Blame the genius of Bill Wilson.
These photos are all from something gloriously called the Mo' Magic Art Show which Gavin apparently attended in what Big Chris would call an attempt at 'keeping it real.'

What are they talking about? "So then I dated this girl who turned out to be WAY younger..."

Well, shit. This is just wonderful. This makes me want to make out with him.
Like, right now. I'm not kidding.

I love the kid in the green most of all. Then I love the kid in the yellow second. And finally, I love Gavin's 'keepin' it real' stance.


We can only assume this is Gavin sharing advice on love, loss and player hating.

And this obviously isn't from Mo' Magic or whatever. But it's Gavin confronted with a hobo and clearly unaware of how to handle this dicey situation. Hey, who the hell am I to judge? I'd hug that curb like it was going out of style. But, come on. You can practiucally hear what's going through his head. "Oh god, oh god, oh god. Gross."
Didn't Phil Collins write a song about this...


Wednesday, July 25, 2007

my favorite architect...

Oh my god, people. Jason is famous!
Well, almost as famous as me.

Folks, it is a sad, sad day when BTOB doesn't even call me to get advice on what to wear when he's photographed for the goddamn paper. None the less, clearly my years of fashion counseling have paid off. J looks hot. You're all welcome.

I'm so excited. I'm so proud! I can't believe I'm not mentioned!

i'm becoming obsessed...

God Bless those kids over at Act Locally. They take pictures of every single thing Gavin does and them post then on the internet. Check them out and place your bets on what the fuck is in Gavin's CONSTANT cup of coffee. I love the man, but if you're going to swing by Starbucks 83 times a day, save a tree and get a commuter mug or something. And yes, I realize that a large portion of my life is taken up with stalking the Mayor of San Francisco. But after a while, you just get hooked. Especially when you find gems like these all the goddamn time: I know. I know. I just want to push that little slut out of his arms and take her place.

Seriously? You dress your kid like this? Bitch needs to step off.
Total BFF. I bet they're on the phone right now. Just chatting, probably about girls and sweater vests. I like the way that Gavin's hair is slicked back and BFF's hair is slicked forward.
They compliment each other.

They're for me...

bring it...

It's Wednesday. Again...

Monday, July 23, 2007

is it just me, or does this make you cry...



The greatest sequel ever...

how is this a sport...

I'd never hit a golf ball until yesterday, but turns out, I'm basically Tiger Woods. Only with a personality.
My roommate often spends sunny weekends staring off into the distance and exhaling, "I want to play golf today."
Oh, I'll hit some golf balls. Where do we go? What do we wear?
Unlike the male members of my family, I do not garner inclusion in their club, even now that it deigns to let women in. And I've never really been that pissed about it. It's my dad and brother's thing. All they do is play racquet ball and take steams.
Pass.
I know their little code number anyway, so I can charge drinks at the bar. The only thing that really kills me is that the little cafe has one hell of a curried chicken salad sandwich, which is my main argument for why I deserve a membership. I mean, that's a fucking great sandwich.
And it's not available to the general public.
Which obviously, only makes it better.
But otherwise, I've managed to survive adulthood without country club affiliation and it's not as bad as one might imagine.
Until all of a sudden, one day you want to play golf.
Turns out, it's really expensive to show up at a golf course and try to play. Christ, it's really expensive just to get the outfits and clubs and various accoutrements required to blend with Muffy and Skipper.
But Mikey, my roommate/golf coach decided that if we went to the driving range, it'd be really cheap and more fun than playing 18 holes with someone who has no idea what the hell she's doing.
Oh, driving range. How Something About Mary.
I tried on like, 12 outfits.
And it's a shame we forgot the camera because I really feel like I captured the sartorial essence of golf attire based upon my exsisting options. I mean, I rocked the sweater tied over the shoulders of my Polo.
And pearls.
I borrowed Karen's clubs and little Michael Jackson glove and we headed to the top floor of the driving range.
With MINIMAL instruction, I took my first swing and to quote Mikey, "Oh my god. That was actually good."
What's up.
Folks, I like a 9 iron. And I find if I relax, I do a lot better. As I told those around me, "Golf is 90% mental."
My golf coach, however, was stealing my goddamn thunder. This old man comes over, complete with cell phone earpeice and asks to watch Mikey swing. Turns out, "George" thinks my golf coach is some kind of undiscovered golf talent and I had to stand around listening to them talk about form and shit.
"Hey George, how come you don't want to watch my swing? I got 80 yards on my last one!"
George, not comprehending the complexity of my emerging skill, consoled me, "Oh, that's okay." And then went back to kissing Mikey's ass.
Whatever. I focused on hitting the kid in the armored golf ball retreiver cart and wondered whether or not Gavin was into golf.
Suddenly, Mikey revealed the best part of a day at a golf course.
"Okay, we're out of balls. Let's go to the bar."
Ah yes. I understand it now.
We sat outside, watching those far less talented that us smack golf balls into the sky and sipped our cocktails.
Then I cracked open the menu.
As if a sign from god, there it was.
A curried chicken salad sandwich.
Seriously. I could really get into this golf thing...

Friday, July 20, 2007

i want to be bill wilson...

Once again, thank God for Bill Wilson. I don't know how this photographer has such glorious access to everything Gavin does, nor do I care. I am only delighted and honored that Bill chooses to share this with us via the internet.






I don't know who's more frightened.


I think Gavin just sat on a kid.
Shovels!
What the hell are these people doing? It's a pile of dirt on some asphault. Why are shovels and hardhats necessary? You an see the entire array of Portola Library Groundbreaking here. It's really quite something.
And then I recommend you spend some time with Gavin and Heather here.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

so we've covered serial killers and long term kidnappings...

...both of which fascinate me! But it's time for something new.
Like airplane stowaways.
This morning, SFO crews found a dead body in the nose of a plane having just come from Shanghai. This news pretty much insures my place in hell for writing this.
Anyway, it's also made me wonder with what frequency air stowaway is attempted, if they die and how.
And here is what I've learned:
About 20% survive, which if you ask me, ain't bad odds.
They die from freezing, suffocating and the highly dramatic falling.
AND, sometimes the fuzz finds dead bodies in random places and has a really hard time determining cause of death. Was it a car accident? Attacked by animals? Oh wait. It's a wheel-well stowaway.
Somehow, I'm all over this.
But wait. It gets better.
So as I google around, looking for the sickness that always interests me, I invariably end up on Wikipedia which seems to sense what a depraved nutjob I am. You get to stowaway on Wikipedia and god bless 'em, they have "See Also: Human Mail."
Um, what's up.
Can I get a Nova on this shit...

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

top 3 most embarrassing things about spots...

So, I feel really guilty about slacking on my blog. I have no excuse. I'm simply lazy. I've been harping that I have nothing to write about but truth be told, that's complete bullshit. No matter what, I should always be able to crank out 2 paragraphs about riding a bus, getting my hair cut or running over a pigeon, all of which have recently happened and all of which I've recently denied you...due to sloth.
So, in an effort to make it up to you, because really, and don't let this go to your head, I motherfucking love that you read my stupid, stupid nonsense, I'm spilling my guts and telling you the three most embarrassing things about myself. Lo claims these are her favorite posts, when I detail my extreme dorkiness. So, I'm not holding back. I owe you.
Oh god. Here goes:
3: I interview myself.
In the mirror. In the car. In my reflection in the microwave.
I'm serious.
In fact, in a recent moment of non-coital intimacy, I revealed this sad fact to the guy I was then-dating and he did not find it charming, which I somehow assumed he would. But fuck it. As New Chris once unwittingly discovered, I conduct entire, Letterman-esque interviews with myself. Deal with it. Oh! And they involve not only true, autobiographical facts and stories, but faux anecdotes about me and my pretend celebrity friends.
Yeah.
I know.
Fuck you. It makes me indescribably happy.
2: Sometimes, in conjunction with Number 1, I pretend I have my own Kathy Griffin-esque reality show. This extends to all aspects of my life. For example, tonight as I shopped alone at Safeway, buying discount diet food and sale wine (they cancel each other out), I kinda acted as if I was sharing this experience with my Bravo! watchers.
Relax. I get it. No one wants to buy Lean Cuisine Paninis with me. Obviously. It just, you know, makes the time fly.
1: And finally, and golly, this is sad, when I'm lonely or blue or just plain bored, I listen to my saved voicemails. Yep, friends. I save certain voicemails. For months. To revisit.
(Think about it. People leave great snippets of life on answering machines. You should save them and crack 'em open like a photo album.)
I did this last night. Before going to bed at 9pm.
Here's my current rotation, all of which delight me:
-BCFS, who in a late night drunk dial, simply sings "Bethy" over and over.
-Grey Cloud (2 concurrent voicemails) detailing the Burt Reynolds Friends and Family Museum online store offerings, which seriously, you should listen to. Pure gold.
-Pete, looking for a restaurant recommendation, expressing shock and delight of his brother's impending wedding and ending with "Love ya, babe. Call me. Let's get cocktails and make some bad decisions."
-Robyn, my PA mom crying into her phone about my Grandma blog posts.
-Jason, Pete's brother and my favorite architect, discovering Zoe eating baby shit in my kitchen on public access television.
-My day job boss, calling to tell me Carole Migden hates me.
-Mikey, bored and potentially drunk, rambling about nothing.
-And my mother, whose birthday it is today, calling to "gossip." Which defines the glory of our relationship.
There you have it, the three things about myself which, were I someone else and meeting me, would be dealbreakers.
I mean, my god.
I should be committed...

Monday, July 16, 2007

i wanna be friends with a little person...

Because I rock so hard, I spent Saturday night going for a walk by myself and crawling in bed with a salad and a Snapple to watch my favorite show, 'Little People, Big World.' The jist of LPBW is basically that we follow the Roloffs, an Oregon family with a confusing amount of money and dwarf parents of 4 kids, only one of whom is a dwarf. And get this: the dwarf kid's twin is, you know, regular.
That's gotta be rough.
Anyway, as I watched the latest episode, involving the dad paying a bunch of the boys friends $40 to remodel some room in their vast farm/estate/playground, I noticed I was getting one hell of a kick out of the mom. I kept thinking, 'Wait until Amy gets a load of this shit. Boy, Amy'll have none of this. Oh look! Amy's making pizza on a stool.'
And finally, 'I know what's missing in my life. I'm not friends with a dwarf.'
I mean, if you Google "I Hate Being Tall", I'm number 2. I come right after 'Joerg's Website for Tall Women', which I refuse to even visit.
So consider this my personal ad: ISO little person/dwarf for companionship and dinner parties. Will provide stool...

Thursday, July 12, 2007

i don't know who made this, but i want to be friends with them...


That Gavin. He's so wacky!
I love how he's doing the Queen wave. At the Gay Pride Parade. Queens! Get it?
He's too much.

Wait, wait, wait. This is WAY funnier. The jeans. The plain talkin'. The choice of salons...


Is it just me, or is the 'stylist' a tad pissed by Gavin's intrusion on his eyebrow sculpting? I also love the sliding of the hand into the back pocket, like he's grabbing is own ass. Hell yes.
Tell me you don't love him. I'd like to see him in a darker denim, but otherwise...

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

to the left...

On the flight from LaGuardia to Chicago, mom and I bookended (with out insistence on window seats) a family of four headed to Alabama. The mom was about 35 and really laid back and friendly, telling me about the job she hates working on the production line at a JVC factory in Tuscaloosa. She travelled with her silent but dutiful 17 year old son, her polite and soft spoken 9 year old daughter and her precocious and hilarious 4 year old, Kaneesha, seated next to me.
I was focused on my iPod and Vanity Fair article about the Anne Bass home invasion when Kaneesha tapped my knee.
Oh shit. I gotta talk to a kid.
"What you listening to?"
"Scissor Sisters."
"Lemme listen."
"Your ears are too little."
"Lemme listen!"
"Okay."
I plugged her little ears with my totally tainted and used earphones.
"You got 'You just don't know about me'?
Oh. Hell. Yes.
"You mean "Irreplaceable'? The Beyonce song?"
"Yeah."
Which is how I came to share my earphones with a 4 year old from Tuscaloosa. We harmonized OUT LOUD to the Beyonce hit, 'Irreplaceable.' We then moved on to Gwen Stefani's 'Sweet Escape.'
"Woo Hoo. Wee Hoo."
Kaneesha played with my hair. Kaneesha sat on my lap. Kaneesha learned about Vanity Fair and designer handbags.
And as we got ready to land in Chicago, Kaneesha looked up at me and asked, "You comin' with us?"
"No." Her mother answered. "She's going to California."
"You can't come with us?" Huge brown eyes stared me down.
"Nope, sweetpea. I wish I could."
And with that, Kaneesha patted my knee.
"I'm fixin' to miss you."

Oh shit. I think I like a kid...

Monday, July 09, 2007

vic and the cougar...


okay, maybe i'm a cub...

I cannot wait to tell you all about my super hot date with Mark Leno, but you'll have to wait for Wednesday's Culture Blog because I'm still recovering from our intense emotional connection. I'm too aflutter to articulate right now.
But get a load of this:
After my big date with Mark, the very chivalrous Leno staffer Bob walked me back to the big show with the hats I'm not allowed to mention, where I planned to pop in and catch the finale. In my wild youth, I worked at this show biz institution and occasionally swing by to say hi to my gays. But when I got there, they were in between shows and I had to wade through tourists just to get in the front door of Capp's, the bar on the corner. I figured I'd recover from my date (again, with Mark Leno) with a drink and my little notebook, hoping to jot down Mark's gems before I forgot them.
As I scribbled away, 4 drunk douchebags started asking me retarded questions. I will admit, all I ever need to do to meet men is sit alone at a bar with a Gibson and a notebook, but sometimes, those 2 things are all I really want. Sometimes, males, we really don't want to talk to you. It's rare, but it happens.
Douchebags finally leave, and I move over to the end of the bar, where I found myself on a little note-taking roll.
There's only one other guy at the bar now, sitting alone having a beer.
And he's hot.
Hmmmm. Okay.
I was just about done and ready to head home when I hear, "Okay. I'll bite. What's up with the notebook?"
Oh yeah. I still got it.
"Um, I just had this interview/meeting thing and I didn't want to forget anything."
Cue chatting.
And flirting.
And moving stools closer together.
His name was Vic and much to my horror, Vic was 24.
None the less, Vic was also hot and funny, taking the shit I was giving him and throwing it right back.
And then Vic said, "Listen, I'm starving. Do you want to get some dinner?"
Oh my golly, two dates in one night.
So we got dinner. Which is, in accordance with God's plan, where things started to go wrong.
How do I put this? Well, let's see. Um...Vic's girlfriend is pregnant.
Yeah.
I thought he was kidding too.
Nope. He's "excited."
Not so much about his on and off girlfriend, but about his impending daughter, who he's already named.
Suddenly, Millie the local hobo/loon comes around, offering to take our polaroid for $5. Vic readily agrees and commissions two photos, in both of which his eyes are closed.
We return to our dinner, where I proceed to give Vic a hard time about his age, his kid and his girlfriend who he is obviously and randomly cheating on.
Which is when it happened.
Vic called me...A COUGAR.
I will admit, as I sat there, sharing this huge piece of pork with a 24 year old dad named Vic, I thought to myself, 'What the fuck are you doing, Spotswood? Go home."
Did I go home?
Oh no. I sure didn't.
As Vic paid for dinner, he's all, "Where are we going now? Let's get some drinks, cougar!"
He even wrote "Vic and the cougar" on the polaroid.
Sweet Jesus.
Know that it pains me to tell you this. Know that I'm fully aware this is pathetic and sad. Know that obviously, I have some issues. But sometimes, I get blinded by the hotness.
So I took Vic to see the finale of the show with the big hats.
Again, afterwards, he starts in with "Alright, let's get some cocktails. Where are we going?"
It was now midnight and I was now tired.
"Seriously, I have to go home. I'm exhausted."
"What kind of cougar are you, Beth? Come on! One drink. We'll go somewhere fancy so you feel comfortable. I mean, I'd hate for you to slum it."
Oh, Vic.
Okay.
We go to Joe DiMaggio's.
Where Vic then orders two shots of Patron.
I sip my shot, turn to Vic and announce, "Just to clarify, there will be no sex."
"Bullshit."
At this point, I cannot figure out what the fuck I'm still doing with this guy, why the fuck his hand in on my leg and when the fuck I'm going to face reality and get lost.
I think perhaps it's when Vic requested the shots with pineapple juice back.
That's my cue.
Vic walks me out to the sidewalk, still trying to figure out where to go next.
"Vic, I'm done. It's 1am and I seriously have to get home."
"Oh, okay. Well, I'm grabbing this cab. You sure you don't want me to call you a cab?"
"No, I'm sure I don't want..."
But he was gone.
In the cab, off to drink his ghetto ass drinks with other strangers and find someone else to impregnate.
And I stood there, like an OLD idiot alone on a sidewalk, still unable to fathom that I'd spent the past 4 hours with some 24 year old with a pregnant girlfriend, a wandering eye and a penchant for calling a 29 year old a goddamn cougar!
Mark Leno would never pull this shit...

*polaroid to come, once I scan it. It's a treasure...

Friday, July 06, 2007

thoughts from spots (oh god, forgive me for that...)

Beth's notes from her 12 hours of air travel, un-edited:

Anything I've ever done in my life that I thought was fabulous, and I've experienced some pretty fabulous shit, was nothing compared to the fabulousness of me sitting alone at the bar at Fred's, the restaurant on the 9th Floor of Barney's New York, having a martini and the chicken soup, sure to "cure your cold and keep you thin." It was all I could do not to wear my huge, glamorous sunglasses the entire time...

I am obsessed with being above the clouds and looking down at them. The weirdest thing is to see another plane flying below you. Why do they seem to be going so much faster than my ATA discontinued shitbox? Is it a private plane? And if so, whose? As I told my mother after I was basically raped with a metal detection wand at the Theorello LaGuardia Intl. Airport yesterday, "Why don't we have our own plane? I mean, my God. Do you not love us?"

The best thing about this flight is that my thighs are thinner than the woman sitting next to me. Barely...

They just handed me a mini-bottle of Vendage Chardonnay. And no plastic cup. What am I? A hobo?

Mom and I have discovered that the only 2 seats together on Southwest's 3x3 configuration is the right side emergency exit over the right wing. And as the people now in charge of the emergency exit, we've also discovered that in the event of a land crash (as opposed to water or, apparently, mid-air), you're not supposed to open the emergency door if you see fire, smoke or debris.
Pardon me?
Dear Southwest Flight 4827, Chicago Midway to Oakland, If we crash (on land) and this fiery tin can is smoking and surrounded by strewn luggage, I'm busting out of this dead bird regardless of what the laminated instructions tell me to do. Not only that, I'm going first. And anyone with brains and balls should follow...

it takes a village...

This is my East Coast family. Somehow, through no carnal acts or official blood ties or inter-marrying, I have another set of parents, 2 sisters and now, 2 brothers in law. Aren't they fucking fabulous? I know...

That's Klaus the sailor, Robyn the artist, Molly the journalist, Brodey the blues musician, Jesse the handbag designer and Shane the architect/old movie watcher. The last time I visited Jesse and Shane in their fabulous Pennsylvanian home, Shane and I stayed up with a case of beer and the Gone with the Wind DVD. Back in college, Shane perfected the art of befriending his future wife's friends. And it was then that we discovered our shared love of the silver screen. Shane, in fact, was named after Shane. Beat that.

Klaus is king of the "dad joke." YOU know the dad joke? I'll give you an example of a dinner conversation at Klaus and Robin's, circa 1999.

Beth: So, I just saw this documentary about this Carnie family of people with claw hands. Like lobster claw hands. They all had them, the parents, the kids...complete freaks, famous in Carnie circles. Anyway, the dad went nuts one night and killed his whole family, in a TRAILER.

Klaus: He musta been crabby.

That's a dad joke, heavy on the puns.

Robyn, after discovering that I was swindeled buying my first television at Sears, wanted to start a company called 'Rent-a-Bitch" in which she would call offending retailers and call them on their shit.

Molly saved my 21st birthday. My folks had gotten us a few hotel rooms in Atlantic City for the grand occasion, the only problem being that I was about to be 21 and everyone else was a young looking 20. Jesse (who'd, in a celebratory gesture, leant me her homecoming tiara) called her big sister, who drove in with fabulous friends and showed me a fabulous time, while my crew sat bored in said rooms.

And Jesse somehow found a freaked out, very strange, highly verbal Californian in the middle of Philadelphia and adopted her.

Which is why I now have another set of parents, 2 sisters, 2 brothers in law and a sailboat...

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

start at the beginning. i want the long version...

Say what you want about New York, the greatest city in the world, but you know what's better in San Francisco, aside from the gays and hobos?
The Farmer's Market.
I'm back in my Subway Internet Imporium, where someone on the staff is an apparent Celine Dion devotee.
Yesterday, I met up with mom and Dani at the disappointing Union Square farmer's market, where we left mom and headed uptown to do some shopping.
Dani and I became friends when we both worked at the show I'm not allowed to name with the big hats. She was one of the stars. I was one of the backstage bitches. We both found ourselves and each other over our 3 year introduction to gay men and tequilla. She's moved to New York to become famous and it's rare that I ever get to see her.
We spent the entire afternoon catching up and shopping, eating and shopping, kvetching and shopping. It was fabulous.
And wait until you get a load of my new pumps. I've decided, inspired perhaps by the skyscrapers around me, to wear heels. I know, I know. I'll look like a drag queen. So what? Those bitches are hot.
Dani was off to yoga, so I walked home. I was at like, West 30 something and 7th. And our apartment is at 52nd and 1st.
Through Bryant Park where thousands were setting up picnics to watch HBO's Movies in the Park, through Grand Central Station, elbowing tourists and giving incorrect directions with confidence, past the UN and the appalling amount of hot security...I pretended I was Rhoda. It was fucking fabulous.
Mom and I then headed to Gramercy Park, where we met Dani for dinner at Craftbar. I needed to go to a Caleek hotspot. I am a Top Chef devotee and this man had verbally helped to define my palatte. Plus, he's friends with Bourdain. And we know how I feel about Antny.
Craftbar was spectacular. The onions in my Gibson were off white and huge, the country pate had pistachios in it and the short ribs...dear god. I almost fell off my seat.
Dani excused herself to the bathroom and returned claiming that a celeb was in the house.
OMG! YES! WHO? WHERE?
Celeb my ass.
It was the boring guy from American Pie. You know, the one Tara Reid gave it up to.
He does not count.
Give me DeNiro. Give me SJP. Give me goddamn Woody Allen.
But the guy from American Pie?
Hardly.
Oh, speaking of SJP, Dani and I hit the East Coast chain Steve & Joe's or Phil & Mike's or Tim & Tom's or whatever it's called to check out SJP's new collection. For those who don't watch Oprah, Sarah Jessica Parker has a line of clothing at an H&M-esque chain and I needed to see this shit.
My (educated) opinion.
It's like Old Navy.
Only crappy.
I'm off to meet mom for lunch in the Village, then I'm shopping by myself in SoHo, which is far more efficient, before we go to drinks at the NYC version of Bourbon and Branch. Grey Gardens, some dark musical is at 7 before dinner at Joe Allen.
I think I'm a good week away from turning into Liza Minelli.
So, no wacky adventures yesterday. No booster seats and no "fa the love a Christ!"
But I have to admit, aside from the snoozer Farmer's Market, I like the island Manhattan.
Smoke on your pipe and put that in...

Oh my god. I'm not Liza. I'm Just Jack...

Monday, July 02, 2007

stevie wonder wears a watch...

I have to see a celebrity while I'm here.
And it doesn't count if they're on stage.
Yesterday, mom and I saw Curtains, with David Hyde Pierce AND Gil from Frasier. You know Gil. He's all, "Hello, FRAZIA!"
For some reason, we were seated one behind the other, and I found myself in between the tiniest little old ladies who not only could not see a thing, they wouldn't shut up about it.
"Oh, fa crying out loud. This is tarrable. What am I gonna do? Oh, fa the love a Christ..."
On and on and on and on with this.
I felt like a linebacker sitting between them.
I, needless to say, could see.
So finally, at intermission, the one on my right gets up, takes 45 minutes to collect her 45 overcoats and shimmy past her obsese, disabled friend and goes to the coat check, returning with a red velvet covered booster seat.
This brought her up to approximately my shoulder.
After asking those of us within a 20 foot radius to help her afix it under her ass, that is.
The show was great, however.
And after drinks at the apartment with mom, we met Dani for dinner at Po. It was perfect, the three of us drinking and eating on a little, tree-lined street in the heart of the Village, at the perfect candlelit table by the perfect open window with the perfect gay server. Christmas lights and Stevie Wonder playing and hot breezes and laughing so much, it hurt.
Scuse my cheesyness, but I'm never coming home.
After that, we wandered around until the wee hours before agreeing to meet (oh shit, right now!) at the Union Square Farmer's Market.
This afternoon, Dan and I are off alone for some serious shopping/eating/drinking/bonding. The weather is perfect, Les Halles is in my future and I like my outfit.
Again, I'm never coming home...

Sunday, July 01, 2007

the big apple...

This is short and sweet, as I'm sitting in the middle of a Subway (sandwiches, not trains) where I've found cheap internet access. It's 2 o'clock here and I'm hitting the 3pm matinee of Curtains. And tonight is dinner with the fabulous and talented Dani Marcus, the third member of the rarely united trifecta.
The wedding was fabulous, pulled directly from the pages of J.Crew. I fulfilled my obligation as the obnoxious Californian and mocked Maryland much of the time. These people are really into crabs. I also rocked the dancefloor, although the highligh, I think everyone would agree, was Brodey the Groom jamming with the band. Who new Brodey was really a 65 year old black man?
I hope all of you enjoyed my drunken texting last night. Jesse finally took my cell phone away, and rightfully so.
Carole has yet to call me, although she does indeed have my cell number. Maybe she just wants to ask me out?
I'm off to buy the necessities (wine) for our FABULOUS apartment. I'll be back tomorrow with the tale of what it's like to be 29 years old and spend 6 hours in a car with both of your parents...