Friday, September 28, 2007

bonding...

Pops is out of town. I had a late meeting in Mill Valley. And my mom offered to buy dinner.
So last night, I crashed at the Spotswood Estate and Grounds.
Hanging out with the Spotswood women means lots of plastic containers of prepared salads from Bryan's Fine Foods, lots of white wine and lots of intense discussion.
It's nice spending time alone with my mom. She's been doing all of this dicey volunteer work that I'm not allowed to write about (a black Jesus poster is involved) but offers the Spotswood-esque perspective on her outreach which is both hilarious and frightening.
One day, I'll be as pious as my mother.
Eh, maybe.
And all of a sudden, over bottle 2 of Pinot Grigio, "Survivor is on!"
Wha? Who? Really?
Yeah. My mother, who is smarter than everyone and works with the poor is addicted to Survivor.
Which, as I learned last night, is the most embarrassing, stupid, ridiculous show on television.
It's just like the Real World. Formerly filled with interesting, complex personalities, it's now a blend of scantily clad, sexed up, retarded characters.
But Joanne is hooked. Engrossed. Enthralled. Entranced.
I guess after seeing black Jesus pinned to a tenement wall, even my mom needs an escape...

Thursday, September 27, 2007

i'm with mark...

Mark Leno and I are totally having an affair and you heard it here first.
Much to my delight, I'm attending the Sierra Club Something or Other dinner with Mark. (I'm having the chicken. He's having the petrale sole. FYI.) And much to my further delight, he's agreed to introduce me as his "plus one."
Even typing this gives me the giggles.
But wait. According to my sources, Judge Judy on crack will be there too!
I'm sure she's having the chicken off of someone else's plate.
Anyway, just to recap, so reader anticipation builds, Mark "my boyfriend" Leno and I, in our first public appearance as a couple will be attending the same hippie awards dinner as Carole "Bolero" Migden.
I predict fisticuffs.
Oh! And my dad's the Master of Ceremonies. Which I will refuse to acknowledge, as I'm with Mark...

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

new - jew = chu...

I didn't think of that title. Mikey did (after I explained local current events to him). Enjoy...

sweet hog...

As I was minding my own business this morning, driving down Van Ness on my way to work, I was distracted by the leather clad gentleman on a motorcycle next to me. At the light, right as I was about to turn onto Lombard, he looked over and saw me judging his ensemble.
Oh shit. Some handlebar moustache thinks I'm eyeing him.
He screamed over his motor, "Do you know where the Harley dealership is?"
I was dumbstruck.
Do I look like I know where the Harley dealership is? Wait. Actually, I do.
"Do you know the address?"
"I'm supposed to go south."
Yeah, I totally know where it is. It's on South Van Ness. I passed it like, 10 minutes ago.
"Um, you're going north."
"Oh shit this is a big city! Maybe I should pull over and check my map."
"Just turn around. It's on this street, like 20 blocks SOUTH. On the left side of the road."
"Will you pull over and show me on my map."
No. No I will not. This is how Lifetime movies begin. The next thing you know, my mother will speak before Congress as they enact 'Beth's Law' so you can just forget it, belt buckle.
Like a horrible Samaritan, I smiled like I'd never heard that last part and drove off, slightly concerned that I knew where the Harley dealership was and some man with leather pants pulled over his jeans didn't...

mrs. doubtfire was bad enough...

I cannot express to you how obsessed I am with seeing Into the Wild. I can't stand the wait until Friday, and not since Ghostbusters 2, have I been this excited about a movie.
When my family was on vacation 10 years ago, my brother brought along this book he seemed really into. If a 14 year old Alex was engrossed in non-sports related literature, I was suddenly interested. So when we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, sleeping on rice mats and bean pillows, I tore through Into the Wild in 2 days. Of course, I skipped the annoying John Krakauer part where he talks about himself. But otherwise, the book was one of those books that you have dreams about while you read it.
(The same thing happened to me while reading Alive. Dicey crash dreams.)
The highlight of my Into the Wild anticipation has been the Into the Wild Oprah! Needless to say, fabulous. Oprah was moved. Sean was moved. That little Emile Hirsch was charming. And moved.
Oprah promises that we will laugh and cry and be inspired and want to go starve ourselves to death in Alaska.
I can't wait!
Oh, and she's madly in love with Sean Penn, which I have to admit, other than his obvious shortness, I am too. I guess Sean wanted to make this movie 10 years ago, but as this book is based on a true story, Mr. True Story's mom had a bad dream and decided, millions or not, she didn't want a movie.
And Sean, as he's said in about 562 recent interviews, responded, "If I didn't respect dreams, I wouldn't make movies."
(Eyeroll. I can't help it. I'm more cynical than Sean Penn.)
10 years later, I guess she had a different dream or some bills to pay, which means on Friday, I'll be front and center, rocking back and forth in my seat unable to contain my excitement and joy at yet another personal tragedy.
Oh, and since I'm turning into a sick and twisted movie buff, tune in next week for my review of the Klaus Barbie documentary I'm seeing (alone, as everyone refused to go with me) at the Mill Valley Film Festival. The Spotswoods are seeing The Darjeeling Limited on the festival's opening night (because 1, I want to see Owen Wilson play someone who tried to commit suicide immediately before actually trying to commit suicide and 2, we couldn't get into anything else on Opening Night) and having dinner at D'Angelo's where I've decided the most celebrities will be milling around...

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Monday, September 24, 2007

oh, it reeks of taste...

Last night, prior to falling asleep in the middle of "The War," I went over to Alex and Ben's for dim sum and Mrs. Doubtfire. The boys had swung by Goodwill, where Ben purchased several VHS cassettes for $1.
And who can say no to Mrs. Doubtfire? Anyone growing up round these parts has a collection of nostaligic, mid-90's, locally filmed favorites. I'm partial to So I Married an Axe Murderer, but that might cost more than a buck.
Perhaps watching this movie for the first time in decades, I finally noticed the immense stupidity of the concept. It was driving me nuts. How do you not recognize your own husband and father in mild-drag?
It's the same thing that always bugged me about Inspector Gadget. It's your own dog, dipshit. Not a Cold War Era spy.
Anyway, Ben's brilliant solution to the obvious conundrum of "You can't be an old British lady forever" was that Robin Williams' character, Daniel Hillard simply have Mrs. Doubtfire die in some kind of evidence-less accident.
"Like a bomb."
"That's a really realistic plan, Ben."
"Well, he's going to get his kids back, now that he's got the great TV gig, so the courts will award him custody and he won't need to be a maid anymore."
"Then he just fakes a bombing 'accident', thus freeing us all of Euphegnia Doubtfire."
"Yeah."
"Actually," my brother chimed in, "That'd make it a better movie."
"It's more realistic than pretending to be your own, foreign sister by covering yourself in frosting."
Excellent points.
I left just before the farcical ending took place.
"You're going?"
"I can't stand the restaurant scene."
"Yeah, the last part of this movie sucks."
Wise critique, really. After all, once Harvey Fierstein and Scott Capurro's scenes are over, there's really no point...

Saturday, September 22, 2007

it's a tree skirt, bernice...

Well, SHIT. Bernice died.
Folks, it's rare that someones acting skills regularly bring me to both laughter and tears, but Bernice Clifton is probably one of the greatest characters of all time...

Thursday, September 20, 2007

i was afraid to leave it's side...

Check back NOW for an update on my evening at Macy's Passport last night. But you can read what I cranked out in between chugging as much free champagne as possible HERE...
PS. I will never get over this sign. I got the feeling I was supposed to act all sophisticated and not care, but I'll begrudgingly admit I took this sign to the coat room and did dirty things to it, I'm so in love...

get away from her, you bejeweled freak...

This picture is killing me for about 600 reasons. We have Gavin not touching Swiss Miss, wandering through the wind wondering when someone's going to show up and tell them what's next, right past Dede, her stole, her pointy wicked witch shoes and her ONE necklace talking to CBig.
MY CBig!
With her cute little reporter's notebook, no doubt waiting for Dede to say something interesting or kind or, oh, I don't know, perhaps smart. I've got a feeling my girl's got a sniffly nose this morning, because she'd have to wait in the wind a long time for that shit...

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

i hate my passport photo...

If you have nothing better to do tonight (or tomorrow night, for that matter), and I really hope you do, log onto SFGate.com because I'll be live-blogging from the Macy's Passport Event at Fort Mason, whatever that means. Don't worry. Eve's coming with me, because sadly, she has both a fancy laptop, ability to put things online immediately and nothing better to do. And really, neither one of us is capable of turning down free food and booze.
Thank you, Hearst Corporation.
Speaking of which, as a nod to the newspaper that mentioned my name (first AND last) on their front page today, I'll be going as Patty Hearst for Halloween...

run outside...

...and grab a Chronicle. Look on the front page. In the lower, lower left hand corner. Squint. And you'll see "Beth Spotswood sends the mayor her resignation letter." Hazaa! Dead trees...

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

friendly skies my ass...

Nova is pretty much the most fabulous show on television. Especially when they show programs like "The Deadliest Plane Crash" like they did last night.
For those that missed this excellent programming, I TiVo'd it. Come over. I'll gladly watch it again and feed you peanuts and vodka in mini-bottles.
Anyway, it basically comes down to cocky cockpit error and it's got me thinking.
Come November, yours truly will be flying quite a bit in countries whose aeronautical history is less than Quantas-esque. And while my gorgeous blog readers will get to read bitchy posts about my family driving me nuts and illegal knockoff purchases, I'll apparently be putting my life in extreme danger. After all, according to Nova, it's only a matter of time until the next DEADLIER plane crash.
You know who this will suck for the most?
My brother.
The first leg of our trip, he and I will spend 15 glorious hours together, travelling from SFO to LAX to Hong Kong, where we'll meet up with our benefactors, the parents.
Poor Alex. He's the only one who's allowed to sit next to me on airplanes anyway. Apparently, he's the only one who knows how to "handle" me. I have to sit my the window, so I can sleep on the airplane wall. And as Alex is even freakishly taller than myself, his shoulder is the perfect height for switching my head rest. My dad's tall too, but he tends to sleep too much, making my need to talk and/or pee nearly impossible. Alex also lets me wake him up when I'm bored and will willingly beg the flight crew to give me more booze.
I'm fun to fly with until about hour 2. Then I get antsy. Alex is the only one who will develop wacky in-flight games with me and spy on other passengers. Well, actually my mom will too. But only after half a Valium and a cocktail. By hour 7, I turn into a psychopath. And by hour 10, I'm willing to force others to suffer with me.
I hate to say it, but after last night's revelation that I will probably die when our huge jetliner collides with a 747 on a remote runway, I think I'll be even tenser than normal.
Usually, take-offs and landings are my favorite parts of flying, which is stupid because those are the most dangerous times of an air journey. Not only are take-offs and landings far more prone to disaster, but apparently, terrorists usually try and take over planes within like, half an hour. Big deal. I just smile at anyone suspicious looking anyway, thwarting any terror plots with my pearly, American whites.
None the less, odds wise, you'd think, the beginning and the end of the flight would freak me out. Nope.
Turbulence. I fucking hate turbulence. I grip Alex's arms and whisper prayers and quietly weep, confident that at any minute, our tin can will fall from the sky into a mountain or ocean.
Highly unlikely, I know.
But still.
I've got a feeling that'll all change on our upcoming adventure.
After all, as I learned last night, statistically there's about to be another huge plane crash on a runway and it'll probably happen just about the time I touch down somewhere dicey...

Monday, September 17, 2007

butterflies in the sky, i could go twice as high...

Last night, I went to dinner at Tres Agaves with Mikey (don't go. Michael Bauer has lost his mind.) which meant I missed the Emmy telecast.
But like a dutiful hag, I woke this morning with my coffee and English muffin and tuned into TiVo. Some questions:
Why was the Emmy stage the stage from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
Why was Ryan Seacrest hosting? Either he has a really great agent or Carrot Top was booked.
And finally, Queen Latifah introduced this lovely 30th Anniversary tribute to Roots and then they have the rapidly aging cast onstage who emerges from... a cage!
A cage? Really? You stick the people who played slaves back in a cage?
Nice touch. Was that Seacrest's idea...

i've always been partial to you don't know jack...

Check this out. A guy in China died after playing internet games for 3 days straight. He dropped dead in the middle of an internet cafe, prompting 100 other internet freaks to perhaps, rethink their hobby and get some fresh air. What kind of internet cafe has 101 people playing video games? It kinda sounds like a great place to score a date, provided you can speak intelligently about Zolton, lord of the underworld. In Chinese...

Sunday, September 16, 2007

worlds colliding...

Long ago, when I was madly and secretly in love with a married man, I attempted to befriend his wife in some sad and sick attempt to find out the intimate details of his life. As I roped her into peeing with me, he saw us and looked at the bartender, muttering "Worlds colliding."
I loved that.
Anyway, I felt much the same yesterday when, upon SFist, I obviously read the article about the Gavin Campaign once again using volunteers to call people up during dinner or family arguments or sex to urge them to vote for the obvious.
And the photo they used?
Kate! My Kate! Just my best friend since March 18, 1979.
When I saw it. I immediately called Kate, who was of course, in a bar, and relayed her fame. She was appropriately shocked.
Today, I went back just to check up on Kate displayed upon my favorite SF News Source and clicked on her picture. Oddly, and I don't know how MattyMatt stumbled upon it, the photo isn't from some old Newsom campaign site (where Kate worked on Gavin first campaign, under Mr. Alex Tourk) but from a UCSF article about her eyes.
Kate's eyes are legendary, ever since we snuck underage drinks an the Barcelona Hard Rock Cafe and Isreal, the bartender wouldn't shut up about them. And Kate's eyes are kinda famous for being baby eyes that were very, very sick.
When Kate was 2, she had cataracts removed from both of her eyes. And in reading the UCSF article, I remembered a million sleepovers, where my mom had to run down to Long's in the middle of the night to get contact solution and a million hotel bathrooms covered in optical medicine. Really, you don't know Kate if you haven't seen her "real" glasses. They're like two Hubble telescopes. Kate's eyes have always been a funky little part of our lives, but I didn't realize she was a medical oddity and incredibly famous.
And I certainly didn't expect to find out in an SFist article about Gavin Newsom.
Yet again, another sign...

Friday, September 14, 2007

fight over...

Never mind. I was being high maintenance. Fight over. We're back in love.
This, I'd not seen. And this reminds me why I do what I do...

Oh, and by the way, Chris Matthews is gay...

oh hell newsom...

Guess who got bumped out of Gavin's Number One????
What the fuck?
Now it's some chick who claims to keep homes in both Ess-Eff (barf) and Hayward.
Ohhhhhh! Glamorous.
Check out her profile. It will be worth it, I promise.
I wonder if she'll "friend request" me.
Gavin, why am I always feeling like we're in a fight? This relationship is way too drama-filled for me right now. If you'd ever call and come over and let me cry on your shoulder, you'd realize that these days, all I need is a little TLC. And I'm not talking about Left Eye.
Let's drink lots of naughty booze, do naughty things (we could prank call Peskin!) and make-up/out.
Come on. You know you love me...

drink the juice, sherice...

After drinks at the cool kids table with Eve, Rita*, CBig and Brock, I decided to swing by Safeway and get something appropriately ghetto for dinner. My Safeway is of course the most ghetto Safeway in town, and if I shop there anytime after dusk, I will inevitably run into Sherice.
Sherice has pigtails. Sherice has a moustache. Sherice could not be more over her job.
And it seems that everytime I get to the front of Sherice's line, she goes on break. She might as well wait for me to unload my basket, stare me straight in the eyes and grunt, "Break time, bitch."
And I certainly don't blame her.
I've become fascinated with Sherice and often wonder about her personal life, assuming that she has one.
Does Sherice date? Is she married? Does she have kids? What does Sherice do for fun? What's her home look like? Where does she shop? Does Sherice party? What does Sherice think of Safeway shoppers? Does Sherice have a friend at work? Does Sherice go out to dinner? What does Sherice watch on TV?
Who, I ask you, is Sherice?
And here's what I'm guessing. I think Sherice's walls of her small apartment are covered in TeanBeat posters of various early 90's heart throbs. I think Sherice might have a couple of internet friends, but hates most people in general. Sherice's heart was broken early, perhaps by someone currently incarcerated. I think Sherice lives in a magical, very specific fantasy world where everyone loves little braided pigtails and there is no Safeway Club Card. I think Sherice is a big fan of chips with dip and The Hills. I think Sherice might have a difficult relationship with her much better looking sister. And I think Sherice has a pet.
That's about all I've come up with.
Last night, I finally made my way to Sherice, who for once, didn't take a break at the site of me, and I tried to make conversation. After all, this was my chance to discover the woman behind the nametag. But Sherice didn't want to chat. Sherice didn't want to bag anything. Sherice didn't even look at my receipt and struggle with my last name. Sherice, it seems, is enjoying her air of mystery...

*I like how in Rita's link, she's pictured reading what I presume to be some gigantic legal book about defending hippies while oblivious to someone taking her picture. Fabulous!

Thursday, September 13, 2007

goodbye my lover...

Screw you, Caleek and Bourdain.
You clearly know nothing of travel, broccolini and culinary brilliance.
So I'm breaking up with both of you.
CJ? You kick off CJ? The one voice of reason? At least CJ isn't havin lunch on a grounded plane in a Newsies hat.
I could not have been more pissed about last night's episode of Top Chef, apparently brought to us by Bertolli, Continental and the Glad Family of products.
Oh yeah. And some Blender.
As my very CJ-esque brother and I watched last night, we marveled at the constant and overwhelming product placement. I'll all for paying the bills, but I didn't even think Continental was still flying.
Perhaps the placement worked.
Whatever. Like Bravo's so poor.
And I'll echo last week's querry. Where the hell is Gail? Is no one concerned.
You know who else I could not be more over?
Padma "Make me breakfast" Lakshmi. This is not phone sex, Padma. This is a reality cooking show. Why are you talking so goddamn slow? Caleek has a flight to catch...

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

we could just call it spots' park...

I've discovered a totally hobo free park in San Francisco and had to tell you about it.
The BFF invited me over for a mini-hike and vegan soup last night and for reasons beyond me, I agreed. Setting off from her home in Cole Valley, we walked up and up Stanyan until we reached a dead end.
I, I'll have you know, didn't kvetch once because as everyone knows, the hot fire station is on Stanyan and I eagerly anticipate some really attractive and height-appropriate rescue personnel emerging one day to invite us to a rowdy firehouse dinner.
Anyway, you get to the top of Stanyan and then you turn left, heading up whatever street that is until you read this big dirt hill with a little dirt path. Said dirt path requires that you watch each and every step you take, so you don't slip on a rock or misplaced log and go tumbling down an urban ravine.
Which means, by the time you're finally at the fucking top, you can look up and...holy shit. It's the most incredible view. It's like, 75% of the city. Right there. On top of this nameless hill with nary a soul around.
Where are the hobos? I know it's probably really hard to push a stolen Safeway cart up there, but it'd be worth it. The place was pristine and empty. Christ, there wasn't even litter.
And while incredibly windy, someone's clearly maintaining this park. Which means it must have a name.
BFF and I decided it couldn't be a Twin Peak, because those seemed to be next door. We're stumped. Follow my clear and concise directions and see if you can figure it out. If it's unnamed, who gets to name it? Gavin? Because I've got some ideas...

i'm up early today...

Happy Wednesday, Opera fans, including Sid...

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

doesn't that hurt...

GhettoGas never disappoints.
Stopping in for gas this morning, I was instantly taken by the three people in wheelchairs lined up at the front door of the little, crappy, attached shop. It's like someone needed to ditch three old disabled people and figured, why not GhettoGas. Like anyone would notice.
Not wanting to be rude and stare, I got to business, which is when I noticed the gentleman pumping gas next to me.
His car? A pristinely maintained Guido vehicle, custom painted in a glittery lime with a rosary hanging from the rear view mirror. His jeans? Acid wash. His shirt? Illustrated wolf howling at the moon. And his accessories?
Oh, just 2 (two) prominent gold medallions, hanging atop the wolf, paired with a collection of gold bracelets and rings and GIGANTIC gold crucifix earrings.
He basically had two life-size Jesus' on the cross hanging from his earlobes.
I looked at him. I looked at his car. And I figured he must never get in accidents...

god bless dlisted...

My dream in life to have Chris Crocker feel this way about me. He's totally pre-op Hedwig...

Monday, September 10, 2007

i'm just pissed i didn't get one...

It's the case of the mysterious postcard! Where that little Encyclopedia Brown when you need him?
Apparently, wacky and rich pranksters sent out a wacky and expensive postcard to what appears to be a list of registered Democrat women.
Hello? Right here.
The postcard's got Gavin oogling some trollop's rack and looking like a drunk asshole, proclaiming "Fresh out of Rehab. Newly Single and Ready to Service."
It includes two phones numbers. One's Eric Jaye's and one's for some boring campaign guy no one's heard of.
That's it.
Newly single?
I have no idea what Gavin and Swiss Miss' "arrangement" is, but I'm pretty sure she thinks they're exclusive.
And ready to service?
I don't even get what that means? Ready to service what? Or more importantly, whom?
I'm all for distributing anything Gavin, booze and sex related. But I don't find this particularly funny. If you're going to drop that much cash, give us a chuckle. A smirk. SOMEthing. There's so much fodder!
I just don't get the point of a random postcard calling Gavin slutty and drunk.
Duh.
I don't need some postcard to tell me why I love my boyfriend...

mothers...

Mothers can drive you crazy.
At least mine does.
Mothers will try to run your life and pick your clothes and remind you to write thank you notes when you've already sent them. Mothers will stick their nose in your business and explain the myriad of ways you're screwing up. Mothers will never know how to operate technology and mis-pronounce celebrity names.
But sometimes, like when you get a raise or make a change or tearfully call at the break of dawn because you've run out of toilet paper and it seems like the end of the world, mothers stop blow-drying their hair, pateintly listen, find a way to understand and then a wait a few hours before sending you incredibly fancy floral arrangements.
At least mine does...

Sunday, September 09, 2007

oh, and gavin was there...

In case you missed it, I had a hot date on Friday. With SFMike. At the Opera.
It was fabulous. And I was under-dressed.
More later, but here's Mike's version of events. I'm delighted he was able to capture my one normal shoulder and my one linebacker shoulder.
I knew I was a freak, but this?
We call this arrangement "The Brain."
Anyway, I care deeply about the arts...

Friday, September 07, 2007

traci's chicken...

Because Lo and I are addicted to the Chronicle's website (I hear they hire really great bloggers) we decided to make Traci Des Jardins chicken featured in the food section.
I'm famous for my roast chicken. It's my speciality. I have tricks and signatures and everything. Really, you should experience it. E-mail me. I'll make it for you.
Moving on...
The recipe required that I "loosen the skin" and stuff it with garlic and basil.
Which I nervously did.
It seemed like a lot of basil to me... like I know what I'm talking about compared to a Beard winner.
None the less, I cut the basil by 2/3rds.
The one comment, by both Mikey and Lo.
"So, so good Bethy. But the basil. Too Much."
Traci, this ain't Tuscany. What the fuck...

Thursday, September 06, 2007

so long howie...

My life is entirely consumed by three things:

My friends.
My blog.
Top Chef.

Pathetic? Perhaps. But it works for me! (other than when I stare out the window and quietly weep.) Moving on, I’m sure you’ve all been watching the drama unfold with Top Chef and my imaginary boyfriend, Chef Tom.
Clearly, CJ is my favorite. Other than that fact that he’s freakishly tall and has one testicle, both of which I somehow regard as pluses, he’s laid back and hilarious and genuinely talented. I was going on and on about CJ and his greatness when Mikey pointed out, “I don’t want you to freak out, but CJ reminds me of your brother.” Exactly! Especially since he named their fake little restaurant after his sister, the unfortunate April. Alex would SO name his restaurant after me, provided he was put on the spot on national television. That being said, Chez Beth sounds like a lesbian bar.
I can’t believe Tre got the boot. I simply can’t believe it. Although, don’t go on and on with your cheekbones and your muscles about how you make the best bread puddin’ under the sun and then have it completely suck. How can you make shitty bread pudding? My father’s version is divine, and he’s no Tre, I assure you. None the less, I disagree with kicking him off. Dale annoys me. Kick HIS ass to the curb.
Casey, I love you and your little highlights and your little t-shirts, but I can rock an onion faster than you can and I could do it with tears in my eyes. You cannot be Top Chef with ghetto knife skills. Of course, it’s not like I could ‘Hung a chicken’, which by the way, is a new verb. But Mikey can.
Where the hell is Gail? I repeat, where the hell is Gail? Padma and her phone sex voice are getting on my nerves. And why was she dressed like a mermaid last night? I miss Gail and her Banana Republic separates.
I don’t care where Ted is, for those of you that have noticed his absence. And nor should you.
Which brings us to last night. Um, bye Howie. You need a lot of things to be a Top Chef. Like, maybe a neck. So obviously, it was time for that short, little, sweaty bulldog to go. His food was hit or miss, but always salted with Howie’s body fluids which I regard as creatively disgusting. I’m only sorry he didn’t pull a Joey on his departure and cry like a 6 year old retarded girl…

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

is it friday yet...

No! It's Wednesday! Lucky you...

i'll update this after i recover...

...from my massive hangover. I guess when you're nearing 30, wine followed by cocktails followed by wine followed by cocktails, mixed with 5 courses and four hours...Tuesday might not be the best night.
But GD is my new boyfriend. Or at least my new hangout. Provided I find some mildly acceptable Sugar Daddy...