Wednesday, October 31, 2007

boo, bitches!

Gavin's having a Halloween Party and barstool forgot to invite me. Whatever...

and no trick or treating...

I have no idea where my Culture Blog is today, but maybe with earthquakes and shit, they have bigger fish to fry than my make believe Halloween Party at Casa Newsom. I'm too hungover to really care, but I'll keep you updated. In the meantime, get a load of these Halloween rules for Tennessee sex offenders:
-Do not answer the door to trick-or-treaters
-No passing out of candy to children
-No holiday decorations on homes
-No visits to haunted houses, corn mazes, hay rides or other seasonal activities
-Do not attend any party where children are gathered
-No costumes
-No trick-or-treating
I'm going straight to hell anyway, so I have no problem telling you that I find this hilarious. No hay rides for you, child raper! And what the hell is a corn maze and why is it filled with sex offenders? It never really occurred to me that Halloween is to child molesters as Valentine's Day is to spinsters...

it's only a movie

Tune in at noon for Gavin's Halloween Party!

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

ima finish up real soon, y'all...

Yesterday was Gavin's State of the City and according to everyone on earth, it was like watching paint dry. Personally, I'd pay to listen to Gavin read directly from religious pamphlets, but that's just me. Anyway, I missed the speech because some of us have jobs and can't sit around all day discussing hobos and litter. Now, if he was actually reading religious pamphlets for an hour and a half, I would've called in sick, but that's neither here nor there.
My favorite part of the State of the City press coverage is Cecilia's article, entitled "Newsom High on S.F."
Oh my god. She called him high.
More importantly, Cecilia reports, "Newsom who, despite being a Bay Area native, at times incorporated a southern drawl and down-home manner of speech."
Yes! That is pure fucking heaven.
Gavin also apparently gave shout outs to insiders. Needless to say, I would shit myself and die on the spot if Gavin gave me a shout out from KMEL, much less at the State of the City. And everyone's hollering that his whole schitck was ripped off from Al Gore in The Inconvenient Truth. I wouldn't know, as I recycle and thus, don't need to see it.
I really wish he would have incorporated "The state of my relationship" or "The state of my alcoholism" into his speech, since that what everyone cares about anyway...

Monday, October 29, 2007

brian l. better watch out...

Brian D. escorted me to a family party in the basement of Pete's Tavern on Friday where he was subjected to 80% of my parents friends. It's safe to say that these people live to attend the weddings of each other's children, so I had a fabulous time parading Brian around and announcing, "This is Brian. He's a lawyer."
You'd have thought we were already registered at Gump's, the reaction was so huge and approving. Christ, I didn't realize my spinsterhood was of such concern.
As is standard, considering we were all so drunk, someone ate dancefloor on their way to make a speech, I called my mother Saturday morning to gossip. We both sipped coffee and dished about the party, discussing at length who looked good, who didn't, who was really interesting and who we find annoying. And then my mother goes, "Oh! get a load of this!"
Apparently, well into the evening, 'The Thompsons' apprached my mother. "We just looove Brian. He and Beth are so cute together. Are they very serious?"
My mother took a long swig of her wine. "You guys. Brian's gay."
"He's not. Sometimes they just say that."
On and on, they went, attempting to convince her that Brian and I were madly in love, which we are, and about to set a date. Now, keep in mind, Brian and I were feeding the flames a little. The Thompsons were the ones who instantly asked us if we were 'together.'
"Of course!"
Brian also told Alex that he was going to wait until everyone was sufficiently sloshed and then take the microphone and propose to me in front of my nearest and dearest. That would have made my year, and apparently The Thomnpsons year as well.
My mother and I wrapped up our gossip and then she handed the phone to my father, reading in bed next to her.
"Hi Daddy. Did you have fun last night?"
"Yeah! I really like Brian."
Jesus Christ...

By the way, if we were to register, we'd be registering for this...
And this...
Oh, and this...
This too...

Friday, October 26, 2007

happy anniversary...

New Chris was quoted in THIS article about something really boring that no one really understands or particularly cares about.
I mean, lobby reform? Wha?
I was going to make some crappy "hotel lobbies? What's with the big ottoman?" joke here, but I'm starting to worry that I'm becoming increasingly lame.
Anyway, congratulations New Chris! Let's go to bacar to celebrate...


A bear named David Phillips has recently revealed to Wonkette his tale of Larry Craig lovin' and I think I'm going to be ill. I can't get into the nastier parts of poor David's encounter because I might have to kill myself, but I will say he's got a divine, trashy novel-esque way of telling a story.
Props to Wonkette, an apparent fellow hag who coaxed her traumatized friend into going national with his totally embarrassing hook up. Like any of us needed confirmation that Larry likes boys, but still.
My favorite part of David's story are when he described Larry's house thusly: "The bric-a-brac with family pictures didn't scream 'old queen' to me; it announced a woman's influence."
Larry's sex scandal has been tough on David, flooding back the memory of that horrible night decades ago, leaving him "feeling cold and used all over again." He actually describes this as "close" to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Jesus Christ.
Currently "celebrating two years off meds and dealing with carpal tunnel release surgery," I love that David compares getting screwed by Larry Craig as "close" to, oh, I don't know, losing one's limb in a war or systematic rape by a parent.
Um, you had shitty sex with an asshole. Welcome to the club...

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

he's my boo...

Happy Wednesday, you little monsters. Here're my thoughts on Gavin's Halloween costume. I'm probably going straight to hell. Enjoy...

care to cut a rug...

Being awake at this ungodly hour means that I’m drinking tea and reading like some kind of institutionalized geriatric waiting for the dining room to open. However, I discovered THIS fabulous article about cruise ship gigolos, a breed that’s always fascinated me.
Gigolos and serial killers. Go figure.
Anyway, I’ve always pictured cruise ship gigolos, older men who get a free ride in exchange for dancing with blue hairs, as anyone who would have played a love interest on Golden Girls. And as I’ve learned in this article, I’m pretty close.
Only I didn’t realize they had to wear crappy tuxedos and nametags. If I’m doing the foxtrot with some cruise ship employee and his nametag, I assure you it’ll be a hot 20 year old Mediterranean dishwasher. Not some 60 year old named Alan with 3 ex-wives and a failed pyramid scheme is Pensacola.
However, it got me thinking. How come there aren’t female cruise ship gigolos? I had no idea thousands of single, older women go on cruises by themselves, actually looking forward to “Alan” and his nametag. Men don’t do this?
Because I could be one hell of a female gigolo.
I think we know I enjoy the occasional cocktail.
Chatting with strangers is quite possibly my greatest skill.
And perhaps you’re unaware, but I know my way beneath a disco ball.
In doing a little cruise research, I’m realized that perhaps my services would best be used on a Gay Cruise, where I KNOW there are a ton of single men who need a drinking hag until they finally muster the courage to steal my dishwasher and lock me out of our cabin…

that's just wrong...

I am awake at 4:23am because I've just experienced yet another disturbing dream.
I just shot out of bed in a panic of moral dilemma. Why? Because I dreamt that I'd found a YouTube video of Gavin Newsom having sex with what I believed to be a hooker. Somehow, this travesty had yet to be discovered and miraculously, I, of all people, had stumbled upon it. Worse, I couldn't decide whether or not to hide this filth and silently wallow in its horror or alternately, share it with the world.
The extent to which I was torn over this discovery has actually thrown me into pre-dawn consciousness. And now that I'm fully awake, the grainy, obscured hooker sex burned into my brain forever, I realize that it's highly unlikely that I'd happen upon a YouTube of the Mayor of San Francisco screwing a working girl simply by searching "Gavin" and "Newsom"...

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

he thinks it's judge judy...

What the hell is this? First of all, I think anyone running for public office should be required to post all existing photos of them with celebrities. It's far more interesting that hearing about boring issues. Second of all, talk about Dead Man Walking.
Step away from the crazy, Sam!
Now that Carole and I are so close on Facebook, I discovered that she has her dorky website up and running. It's called Carole Migden Leading and I think it's means she's leading us into the dark abyss of insanity...

Monday, October 22, 2007


I have no idea if this is news or not, but today I discovered a little treasure!
Some guy who owns an Italian joint posts pictures of all the "celebrities" that patronize his establishment, proudly displaying them on his website and Flickr page.
Gavin is featured prominently and I happened to stumble upon a photo, posted January 2, 2007.
Um, folks, this is less than a month before the shit hit the fan and here we have Gavin, Alex Tourk, a table full of wine and the Mayor working some blonde. Please tell me THIS is Ruby...

The more I look at it, the more I'm convinced it's her. Eve points out that the photo could've been taken ages ago and simply posted on January 2nd. Which means it's possible that it was taken in the midst of their torrid affair! Look at that body language! I can't believe no one's found this yet. Alternately, it could be no big deal because it's just another blonde ho with scraggly hair making the moves on my boyfriend. What else is new? But if it is her? Treasure indeed...

the ghost...

Some genius in my building dropped the last roll of toilet paper into the toilet.
That's great.
This wouldn't happen if people would stick toilet paper IN the dispenser as opposed to on it.
So, um, what do you do if you drop a roll of toilet paper in the toilet?
Apparently, you place it on that back of the toilet, because it might dry and become good as new. If this weren't horrific enough, I had to go in the men's room and and steal toilet paper from them. And while I know this is ridiculous, I have a huge phobia about going in men's rooms. It really freaks me out, as if I'm breaking the unspoken 11th Commandment.
Thow shalt not enter the restroom of the opposite gender.
Which reminds me of a story Alex has been desperate that I blog about.
I work in this funky old building, virtually empty except for my coworkers and the occasional scraggler who drops entire rolls of toilet paper in the toilet. Our building has been managed for a million years Frank who looks like he's about 102 years old and smells of whiskey. Frank drives a tan hatchback which he parks out in back, filled with so much crap, there's barely room for a driver. Frank pops by once or twice a week, hands us our newspaper and then stands around rambling on about nothing.
So, a couple of months ago I spent a Friday in my office alone. I took advantage of the situation of course, showing up late, leaving early, wandering to downtown Mill Valley for lunch. I listened to my iPod and didn't talk to a soul all day.
Monday, everyone's back in the office and some man from PG&E shows up claiming he has an appointment with Frank. We explain that Frank wanders around when he feels like it.
So PG&E gives us a lecture about gas and splits.
Not 15 minutes later, 2 middle aged women come in.
"We're here about Frank."
"Oh, I don't think Frank's around right now." I casually respond. "Someone was just here looking for him and he's not here."
They gave each other nervous, knowing looks.
"You mean you don't know?"
"Know what?"
"Frank's dead. We're from the County. I can't believe no one told you."
"Dead!?! Frank? Oh my god, when?"
"When Friday?"
"Lunchtime, I think. His ladyfriend was worried when Frank didn't come home for lunch. So she called someone who came over here to find Frank."
"And they found him dead."
"On Friday?"
Oh my god. I was here alone with a dead body. Dead Frank!
So now I'm convinced he's haunting this old building and probably knows that I went in the men's room to steal toilet paper...

i'm thankful for upgrades...

Because I'll be having spring rolls and rice for Thanksgiving, I've decided to have a traditional American, colonists and Injuns Thanksgiving prior to my trip. My brother and I were discussing which aspect of Thanksgiving we'd miss the most and we both readilly agreed.
So basically, we're going to have this huge Thanksgiving dinner consisting exclusively of various kinds of stuffing. Everyone's invited. You just have to be really into stuffing and willing to pretend it's actually Thanksgiving. And as this faux Thanksgiving is being hosted by Beth and Alex, we'll be watching an array of Thanksgiving movies while we eat our stuffing.
Who's in...

Friday, October 19, 2007

ugh. here, you can use my shell card...

I’ve recently had the immense pleasure of watching “The Taking of Flight 847: the Uli Derickson Story” which is currently available gratis on Comcast on Demand.
Ah yes, it’s a glamorous life I lead.
This is a TV movie based on real life, German Flight Attendant Uli, who was on a hijacked TWA plane in 1985 and basically saved everyone’s ass due to her calming, womanly ways.
I actually remember this hijacking, which occurred when I was 7. A frequent TWA passenger and unable to sleep, I slowly walked in my parents’ living room to find my father sitting by the fire, smoking a pipe and reading the newspaper. I assure you this visual is accurate, as my father fashions his life after Agatha Christie miniseries on Public Television. Anyway, I expressed concern and fret over this ongoing hijacking situation which, at age 7, no one had any problem exposing me to. And after seeing this movie again, I asked my dad if he remembered what he told young, scared, little Bethy by the fireside.
“Yep, I remember. Odds wise, you’re more likely to get hit by a meteor. That’s what you should really be worried about instead of hijacking.”
It explains so much.
This traumatic childhood experience came flooding back as I watched “The Taking of Flight 847” although this time, I was all over it. As a frequent viewer of terrorist drama, I found this 20 year old act of terrorism pretty tame. But the 80’s, ridiculous and unrealistic depiction of Flight 847 is right up my alley. We have the two terrorists, mouthing prayers, sweating and nervously rocking back and forth before the plane takes off, one of whom is in a sleeveless t-shirt with his long, Middle Eastern hair all messed up. As soon as the plane takes off, he screams “Algiers!” and runs up and down the aisle holding grenades and showing everyone his muscles. I won’t make any obvious “gun” references here. It’s too easy.
Then we have Uli, played brilliantly by Lindsey Wagner, who stays totally calm yet concerned, hides the Jewish passengers’ passports, translates between the terrorists and the pilots and even uses her own credit card to buy more fuel to get to Lebanon because TWA is too fucking cheap.
Oh, and Uli sings lullabies to everyone at the terrorists request.
She also has a heart to heart with the main terrorist, who’s slightly more put together than muscles/grenades guy. There appeared to be an undercurrent of sexual tension.
I enjoyed the passenger dialogue, especially the very serious and overacted following:
Male Passenger Number 1: “What do we do? What do we DO?!?”
Male Passenger Number 2: “I don’t know. (sigh) They have grenades.”
At one point, the hijackers make some lady dump the contents of her purse, and a tampon falls out. And Lindsey Wagner has total Migden hair. It was distracting, yet wonderfully hypnotic, European and era-appropriate.
Finally, the best part of this whole TV movie is the fact that it has commercial breaks built in, complete with the cliffhanging, nail biting fade to black that would make you sit through crappy 80’s ads.
Only there are no commercials!
It’s free. It’s got terrorists. Everyone lives.
You’ve got to watch it…

is it wrong...

...that I kinda want to go to THIS GUY'S ice cream party? Just say so, if it is...

Thursday, October 18, 2007

this is a sickness...

Bill Wilson is enabling my fetish. Blame him. Because this has made up for today's Melanie Daniels moment as detailed in my previous post. The above photo should be made into an urban mural with an eternal flame and changing of the guard. How come he didn't pose like that with me?
Does this little shit not realize the glory of his (or god forbid, her) situation. Wake up! Gavin looks like he's giving parenting advice, which is fabulous because all I'm doing is imagining me by his side, rolling my eyes and grinning because the father of my children just loves discussing their care and development. Oh, Gavin.
What, oh what could he be saying to her. The options are too numerous. My head's going to explode. I hope he's recommending Judy Blume books.No. Not the bunny ears. Come on. Don't be that guy. You're NOT THAT GUY!
I really encourage each and every one of you to check out Bill's brilliant work at this library opening. There's a whole sequence with Gavin sitting on a sidewalk talking to some little girl and then he ends up letting her cut the ribbon. It's so goddamn precious, I can barely contain myself...

ghetto jesus...

THIS is the most appalling thing I have ever seen in my life. I love it. Note Jesus' little bed. Fabulous...

kids and animals, apparently...

My reign of terror continues!
I failed to mention it, because I didn't want Degeneres-esque backlash, but a couple of months ago, I ran over a pigeon in the Whole Foods parking lot. Worse, and I can't believe I'm confessing to this, when I sped the hell out of there to avoid the wrath of rich hippies, I peeked in my rear view mirror to see it writhing in the middle of the parking lot.
Did I call some type of authority?
No. I did not.
I know. I know. The guilt haunts me.
Well, I guess pigeons talk, because this morning those bitches got me back.
Driving through the ghetto, minding my own business and singing along to the sadly forgotten Pointer Sisters, this pigeon flies right in front of Rhonda the Honda at like, 2 miles an hour. How is this possible? I have a basic, 8th grade understanding of the physics of flight and this pigeon was flapping in front of my car as if held on invisible strings by the Lord himself.
So much time passed with this damn bird moseying through the air that it actually, I swear to God, hit my windshield.
Then it just kinda rolled off.
I know. I know.
But in driving on, in complete amusement and shock, I checked out how the bird was handling it's fall and it really just seemed to dust itself off and get back to business.
I drive on, bridges, tunnels, etc. and head to SuburbaGym, where I crank out 45 minutes of hungover, half-assed commitment to health.
I emerge to discover my car COVERED in bird shit.
This was not one rouge turd.
My car is no longer silver. It's now white. And brown. And sorta green...

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

carole, is that you...

What the hell is THIS?
Someone is dissing my gay boyfriend and I simply won't have it. Why would someone create a website called "Leno the Lapdog" and then have lots of clip art of rabbits on their back? I don't get it. This anonymous website seems to be run by someone without any interest in aesthetics but a deep and profound obsession with really boring policy.
Oh, also and much to my delight, it claims that Bob B, the man who made me a cougar, gets a bunch of money to write phony blogs.
I don't really know what that means but I love it!
So, who is the anonymous web bitch?
I'm guessing it's not JAV, only because he probably thinks the internet is for dorks.
And Carole can't drive a car, much less master html.
So I'm guessing it's Carole's wife. It's a shot in the dark, but one never knows.
I was out carousing with Big Chris last night, who referred to my gay BF as "Marky Mark." Loves it. Spread the word...

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

i hate kids...

But somehow, my favorite thing in the world is to see Gavin interact with them. I have no comments. I just love this shit. Oh, actually I've got one new comment for you people. I think Mike Farrah is my new secret boyfriend. I know, I know. I've come up with this crap before. But Ragone's been boring lately. He's in hiding. And I'm really just Leno's fag hag. He listens to my dating woes.
But Mike Farrah?
Love him. All of a sudden, he's showing up, fucking around in wacky photos and not giving a particular shit about looking like a retard.
Keep in mind, he's the one I completely freaked out at some baby killer benefit, so he's probably not down to get drunk with me and make some bad decisions. But we're facebook friends, so this relationship is obviously moving in the right direction. Plus, we're both Ignatians and could probably swap some wacky Brother Draper stories.
So much in common.
Anyway, it's just something I've been mulling over. I wanted to share. You know, young love and all...

milf is losing it, too...

You know what jumping the shark is, right?
Well, it's happening to the totally fabulous Friday Night Lights and I think I like it.
You remember Landry? The dorky and wonderful Chandler of West Central Texas?
Yeah, he just killed a guy and dumped his body over a bridge.
Julie and Matt are breaking up.
And Lyla's born again.
Hell yes.
Start watching so we can discuss...

Monday, October 15, 2007

forbidden fruit...

Last night, my mother and I attended The Kite Runner on the closing night of the Mill Valley Film Festival. The theater was PACKED, and as a townie, I found myself surrounded by pretty much every familiar face in town, including the friend who witnessed my physical expulsion from the Opening Night Party.
"A travesty!" He screamed over the masses. "A goddamn disgrace!"
The movie started late, but it was well worth it as the author, screenwriter and star were all in attendance for introductions before the film and Q&A after. As pretty much the only retard in the room who didn't read the book, I had no idea what to expect and didn't really see what the big deal was. You'd think Oprah was in the house, the place was so abuzz.
When the author introduced the main actor, he said, "This is Khallid Abdalla, and he IS Amir."
200 well-read people gasped.
Oh god. This better not be like The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or some shit. All I knew was that some kid gets raped and I wasn't into watching that, much less with my mother sucking down Diet Coke 2 inches away.
The movie began, and before I get to my main point of today's post, I must point out that The Kite Runner is one of the most amazing films I've ever seen in my life.
More importantly, Amir is hot.
Suddenly, something occurred to me.
I leaned over to my mother. "Um, that actor. Amir. The guy standing about 15 feet away."
"He was one of the terrorists in Flight 93."
I'll point out that when our precious Khalid was stabbing pilots and praising Allah as he downed a jet bound for SFO, I was not thinking to myself, "Ding Dong, Ziad Jarrah." However, all smoldering and running around Afghanistan trying to rescue some kid, I was smitten.
Then I felt like a shitty American racist for not finding someone hot just because he was a terrorist.
Because, seriously. This guy is really foxy in a "Let's stay home and read books with big words in them" kind of way.
Which is why, when the movie and Q&A ended, in which Khalid was appallingly profound and brilliant and sexy, I tried to track his fine ass down and say something smart, like, "I loved you in Flight 93!"
But the masses of Kite Runner fanatics kicked me to the curb, where I found my mother, pushed our way past all the TV cameras and went to dinner.
I was almost hoping Khalid would show up, quietly sitting at the bar in his perfect black suit just waiting for someone to come up and ask him questions about the Taliban, artistic responsibility and whether our wedding would be a traditional Muslim/Catholic ceremony or something a little more Hollywood.
Alas, Khalid probably got to go to the big party and didn't give a shit about talking to some freak who's seen Flight 93 eight times. I resigned myself to my Gibson and my mother, but silently wondered just how long Khalid would be in town and whether or not he reads blogs...

Friday, October 12, 2007

don't do it...

Last night was the Mayoral Debate that, unlike me, the Mayor actually attended.
Hey, I live in the Mission. I can see a gratis freakshow just by looking out the window.
I guess Gavin was 5 minutes late and candidates only got to talk for 30 minutes and oh my golly, the coverage is really biased.
No shit.
So 3 weeks to go until my boyfriend wins this thing and honestly, who cares anymore? I’m over it. I need another scandal. And word on the street is that I just might get it.
Apparently once the election is over, Gavin’s getting engaged.
Wha? Who? Why?
Now I just get to dread the next three weeks feeling all crappy and nervous, which isn’t all that different than normal, except that I’ll have to read about stupid nuptial planning and invite lists. Just thinking about this puts a knot in my stomach. I mean, what if they start pooping* out babies with really obnoxious names and outfits? What if they do some kind of horrible photo shoot in a vineyard? What if Gavin ends up in a holiday sweater?
I simply can’t deal with the possible repercussions of this horrible decision.
But I’m telling you fine people so we can all suffer together…

*For Brock.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

20 days to go...

I really thought there would have been more national coverage of Gavin Day. Who cares about the war and the constant child molesting (seriously. have you noticed this?) when it's Christmas in October! Anyway, the next big event is Halloween and I need a costume.
Last year I went as nothing.
The year before that, I went as one third of Rock, Paper, Scissors.
And the year before that I was Mama Fratelli.

So here are my Top 5 Halloween '07 costume ideas:

5: Han Sup Shin
4: Larry Craig's fag hag (this requires minimal effort)
3: Phyllis from the Office
2: Carole Migden
1:Patty Hearst...

happy d.a.g.d...

The sun has set on Gavin Day and the mystery of how his excellency celebrated remains. Any hot tips would be most appreciated.
But almost as importantly, today is the day that 30 years ago, in addition to being the day after Gavin's 10th birthday, was the day Dani Marcus was born!
And thank god she was.
But with one third of the Trifecta now 30, I'm realizing that I'm next and those that know me know that I am not looking forward to this dark, dark day.
I wonder if Gavin was dreading the 40 or embracing it. I like to think it's the former, just to keep him humble.
Anyway, Happy Birthday Dan and Happy Day After Gavin Day to everyone else...

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

gavin day continues...

Viva le Gavin Day! Check out my complilation of well wishes for Gavin on SFGate! My apologies to those respondees who got cut. Welcome to show biz. How's everyone's Gavin Day going? Where's the party at...

cheating on gavin...

Here's Mark and my first official public date. And don't forget to tune into the Culture Blog at 3pm for Gavin's Birthday Post...

lordy, lordy, gavin's forty...

I love kids with accents. In fact, those are the only kids I like. Okay, this next video is 2 whole minutes long (I regard that as beyond my attention span) but trust me and just watch the whole thing.

So kicks off the First International Gavin Day. My name is Beth and I will be your Mistress of Ceremonies. I will now light the ceremonial Marc Jacobs scented candle and go to Starbucks...

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

twenty four hours...

Gavin turns 40 tomorrow.
Oh. My. God.
You KNOW he's having a party. How could he not? My boy loves to get down. Even if it's with a Fresca and some cheap tail.
You can look forward to more of my thoughts on Gavin's Birthday in tomorrow's Culture Blog, as well as a rundown of my hot and very public date with Mark Leno, but in preparing said Culture Blog, I e-mailed some cronies and mentioned Gavin Birthday as a future national holiday. The brilliant Barbara responded by asking what dorky little traditions would represent Gavin's annual birthday celebration, like pumpkins on Halloween, belligerence on St. Patrick's Day, etc.
Genius question, Barb.
Well, obviously we need some wacky character, like Santa or the Easter Bunny as the Gavin Day mascot. So I'm voting for a slightly wasted, cocky frat boy named "Trip" or "Trent" who slaps young women on the ass and high fives anyone in a baseball hat.
We won't give each other presents on Gavin Day, because Gavin Newsom is gift enough. But we will sip scotch from coffee mugs and hope no one smells our breath. We'll also wear pinstriped suits and talk like old black men. Oh, and each of us has to go on a really boring, awkward date with someone we find attractive yet annoying.
People will hang cut outs from Men's Vogue over their mantels and stores will stockpile hairgel months in advance, alongside fun-size candy and Christmas lights. Obviously, no one goes to work on Gavin Day, but we all have to spend the day pretending to care about some arbitrary issue, like the planet or hobos.
Finally, we pass out at 2am, wasted and regretful, feeling guilty yet fabulous.
Anyway, 24 hours until the first official Gavin Day. Get ready...
*I love the kid in this photo. I guess he's on Team Daly.

Sunday, October 07, 2007

i got them wine glasses...

If anyone at the Olema Inn is wondering who spilled red wine all over the place, wonder no further. Last night was my favorite architect's wedding and I had a fabulous time, right up until I decided to paint everything burgundy. As I lamented to Zoe yesterday morning, I was worried I wouldn't know a ton of people and thus, be relegated to discussion with middle aged women about what to do with my life.
This happens a lot.
But Jason and Sam have very hip friends and I ended up falling madly in love with John and Adam, the latter of whom is the only witness to my crime of Pinot. He responded by making fun of me and refilling my glass. (Hence my falling in love.)
I also ended up sitting at Table 5, Jason and Sam's table, which made me feel very fabulous and important and meant I happened to be seated with 2 gorgeous women, both sharing my freakish height to the inch.
Sweet, sweet solidarity.
Finally, and pardon my reflective sentimentality, there were a myriad of toasts, led my the best man, which were hilarious and touching and sweet and lovely. But I spent these speeches half listening and half looking at my friend sitting across from me, glowing and gorgeous, holding hands with this very hot bride and having a fabulous time. I won't get into the 483 reasons I love Jason, but last night, it became 484...

Friday, October 05, 2007

do you know who i am...

Due to a hot tip from an anonymous (and now deeply loved) blog reader, we changed our reservations from one Mill Valley hot spot to another, assured that we’d run into the entirety of in-town celebrities.
Last night was the opening night of the Mill Valley Film Festival.
Many (3) years ago, I was the Assistant Volunteer Coordinator, and while I got paid pennies, I also got to go to all the parties.
Therefore, I also know how to sneak into all the parties.
But wait. I’m getting ahead of myself.
Our movie started at 9:30 in downtown Mill Valley, so beforehand, thanks to anonymous tipster, we made 7:15 reservations at Frantoio, where Dori joined my folks and me for celebrity stalking and dinner.
Craning our necks, we barely spoke until all of a sudden, in walked the head of the festival with a huge group.
“That’s Laura Linney!”
“And that’s Ang Lee!”
“Which one?”
“The Asian guy.”
“There are two Asian guys!”
“The one that looks more Brokeback.”
We eventually got over it, until my mother, who had the best view of the big celebrity table, leaned in.
“Laura Linney is going to the bathroom. “
You don’t need to tell me twice. I was 10 feet behind her.
I walked into the bathroom to discover one stall occupied and no one else.
OMG. LL peeing.
Here’s the problem. I didn’t have to pee. At all. I tried.
So I waited a second, flushed and went to wash my hands.
Laura Linney exited the stall (looking motherfucking flawless) and smiled at me.
“Oh my god.” (fake shock at celebrity in bathroom.) “Hi!”
“You’re not going to your own movie tonight?”
“Oh god, no. I never watch myself.”
“Well, you should. You’re fabulous.”
“Thank you!”
“I just watched Tales of the City.” (Lie.) “It’s amazing.”
“Thanks so much.”
She then tried to leave and like a complete psychopath, I followed her, not so much because I wanted to keep freaking her out, but so my family could see this and thus, laugh hysterically.
I said something rude about my impending film with Owen Wilson playing someone who tries to kill himself and isn’t that interesting because he just tried to kill himself. LL nodded and smiled politely and as she went to her table, I said, “Have fun at the festival!”
My table was duly impressed.
In the middle of dinner, something (minor yet funny) happened with Ang Lee and my dad but Mr. Paranoia says I can’t say what.
Anyway, we headed over to the movie and got in line, dad and I with our “Gold” membership and thus, in the fancy people line and mom and Dori stuck with the commoners.
We saved them seats, schmoozed with the people we ran into and watched the movie, agreeing that we all planned to crash the big Opening Night Party going on in the square, a block away.
I will admit, when I worked at the festival, I was in charge of the wristbands for this very party. And I will admit, when I worked at the festival, I stole some wristbands and gave them to my friends.
And my mom.
I mean, we’re talking hundreds of people. Open top shelf bars. Really fancy food. And celebrities.
What’s it hurt?
My father, former mayor of this very town and the only one of us who could actually wander in there and no one would kick his fancy ass out, was the only one too chicken to try.
But I’d already run into several old employees from my old days there, all of whom responded to my, “So I’m crashing the party” with “Fabulous!”
It was winding down anyway, now 11:30.
I just walked right in like I owned the place, pretending not to notice mom and Dori stopped behind me. I made a bee-line for the bar.
But I could just feel this one volunteer was tailing me, aware that I was with those two well-dressed ladies she'd had the immense authority to ban.
These are people that get a fucking t-shirt and think they run the place. And these are people I used to tell what to do. You know what I used to tell them?
“You can figure out who to kick out and who you should just let in and pretend you never saw it.”
Obviously, I regard myself as the latter.
But green t-shirt was having none of it.
So grabbed a drink, found the most important person in this huge tent I knew, and did a big dramatic, Euro-kiss hello.
“Beth, you look fabulous! We’re having dinner next week?”
“Yes, darling! Are you having fun? I peed with Laura Linney!”
I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Oh god.
Suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm.
“Do you have a wristband?”
Some Nazi housewife in a green t-shirt stared me down.
My fancy friend protested. “Can’t I just give her mine?”
“No, we’re really cracking down this year!”
Oh god. The place was half-empty and my poor friend was freaking out, trying to explain how fabulous I was and how I should be allowed to stay and “class this place up.”
“Forget it.” I whispered to him. “I snuck in. Daddy’s hiding outside. You should go say hi. I’m about to be arrested.
Nazi housewife was joined by another volunteer, this one someone I’d “coordinated” 3 years ago. But while sweet and apologetic, he was clearly whipped by this bitch who was now physically pulling me to the front door.
In the commotion, I didn’t have the presence of mind to tell her she might want to get her acrylic pawns off me, but the look of horror on my face made whipped volunteer jump in.
Wisely, he took my arm. “I’ll escort her!”
Very gallantly, he had me take his elbow and in some failed attempt to restore my dignity, walked me out of the tent, just as mom and Dori waltzed in.
I stood on the red carpet, finding my father drinking a scotch or something and talking to a Supervisor. Thrilled to see me, he called me over. “You know my daughter, Beth. She’s a writer for the Chronicle’s website AND, you’ll love this, she’s Mark Leno’s date to the Sierra Club thing tomorrow.”
“Yeah, here’s hoping I won’t be physically removed from THAT. Jesus Christ.”
But then I noticed that even outside, where Nazi housewife had banished me, had a huge bar set up. People were just wandering around, the scragglers having cigarettes and wine and schmoozing.
I got another drink, found my family and noticed all the volunteers heading home.
Great. I’m glad I showed up just in time to get thrown out.
I bet Laura Linney didn't need no stinking wrist band...

my name is beth spotswood...

...and tonight, I peed (and chatted) with Laura Linney, saw Owen Wilson play a guy who tried to kill himself and was physically escorted (I swear to God. Grabbed by the arm. So was Dori) out of the Mill Valley Film Festival Opening Night Gala.
More, needless to say, tomorrow...

Thursday, October 04, 2007

everybody say four more years...

Thank god you freaks have me. Countdown: 6 days:

I wish I was an American of Iranian descent! And not registered to vote!
But then I found this:

Hey, I don't blame him. That was asking for trouble. Where were they? It looks like Pier 23? I thought that dump closed.
And ponytail needs to move. And get a new suit. And have it tailored.
I preferred Gavin on the bongos anyway...

*Also, I'm starting a new concept. We'll see how long it lasts. It's called Pet Peeve of the Week. This week, I am torn between people that stomp the floor when they yawn and inspirational quotes at the end of emails.

oh, and my eyes are bloodshot...

As you may have heard, I was wide awake at 5am this morning, resulting in my actually getting my shit together and heading to the suburbs, where my gym with it's big fancy pool is located. The only form of exercise I actually enjoy is swimming, and if I'm going to do it, it needs to be amidst little old ladies or on some remote island due to my severe body issues brought upon by 20 years of women's magazines and female role models on diets.
If it were up to me, I'd wear THIS.
Anyway, I left the ghetto at 6:30, swung by slightly-less-GhettoGas and was in the locker room by "daybreak." (It grossed me out to type that.)
I was delighted to find one empty lane as I slipped into the pool and claimed it. One either side of me were little old ladies, and although I was slightly concerned the bluehair on my right had on the same bathing suit as me, I was just happy no one was paying any attention, especially the 15 year old lifeguard who called me "ma'am."
I soon discovered that another swimmer had joined me in my lane, this one a plain looking teenage girl in one of those athletic bikinis that give everyone unaboob. As far as I'm concerned, get a TYR and call it a day, but whatever. So when you share a lane with someone, you have to swim at the same speed as them, and it's kind of customary to pass each other in the middle. As I freestyled it back to the other side of the pool, I looked up and noticed this middle aged man in a Speedo sitting right at the end of my lane, talking to unaboob. Just sitting there, both of them staring at me coming closer and neither of them moving.
The thought of coming near old man panties slowed me down as I tried to figure out what the fuck was up. I guess unaboob and her dad wanted to share a lane, forcing lonely old me to share with someone else.
I stopped before them and breathlessly asked, "Do you two want to share this lane? I'm happy to move one over."
The dad looked at me, agitated. "Whatever. If not, we can just circle."
Thank you, Mark Spitz.
The thought of circling with a family of Olympiads was not what I had in mind at 7am. I was a Sea Serpent from 1986-1990 and I recall the dreaded laps in which the pressure to keep up with the person in front of you and maintain for the person behind you would often overwhelm me and much like a gay kid in gym class, I'd come up with random excuses to get the hell out of there.
So I moved one lane over, miffed but unwilling to be intimidated out of the water by some douche in a baggy Speedo.
I continued swimming, mentally congratulating myself on being so productive and healthy. I pretended I was in a breakfast cereal commercial and looked forward to walking out of the locker room, sun shining and freshly blow dried hair bouncing.
The next thing I know, some shithead too old to be wearing the yellow boardshorts he was sporting JUMPED into the pool right next to me. I looked over, noticeably startled as he grunted, "Move over."
Shocked into submission, I moved over.
Keep in mind, I'd been in the pool for a mere 20 minutes and already, I was on my second fight. So now, I'm fucking circling with an old lady and boardshorts, who, not that I'm any athlete, was a really shitty swimmer. He wasn't even swimming. He was playing, just kind of floating around in an almost standing position as he moseyed the length of the pool.
I'm no protocol Nazi, but this was ridiculous.
I couldn't move lanes again. I didn't want to cause any more 'trouble.' I merely cranked out 10 more minutes, hugging the floaty lane divider thing so as not to touch boardshorts, and stormed out of the pool.
By 8am, I emerged from the locker room, sun shining and hair bouncing. But I'm guessing the people in breakfast cereal commercials are calling people 'shitheads' under their breath...

get me some ambien...

It is 5:19am. Why, you're wondering, am I up. Actually, you're probably snuggled all cozy and shit in your bed with some hot piece of ass right now while I'm trapped listening to runway music and searching for random things on Wikipedia.
The reason, to answer your question, that I am up (at now 5:21am) is because I had a dream that my walls were bleeding (blood) and it really freaked me out. Freaked me out to the point where I felt the need to touch them but was afraid to.
One would think I was on drugs. Or at least slowing sobering up. But nope. Mere hours ago, I had Chinese food with Michael 2 and was tucked in with my book and my hot water with lemon (it's my new 'thing') by 9:30.
I don't even know who won Top Chef. (Hold on. OMG. Are you fucking kidding me?)
I thought I was being all responsible and adult, ready to be rewarded for my saintly ways by waking up to birds chirping, refreshed and ready to face this wonderful world.
Screw that.
My boudoir has turned into a cheesy 80's horror film and it's making me paranoid.
Anyway, my plan is to pack all my shit together and go to SuburbaGym when it opens at 6:30, thus giving me time to shower and blow dry before all the old ladies start walking around naked. However, we have a slight problem.
Rhonda the Honda has no gas. I'll be happy if the old girl's engine starts. And as we all know, the nearest gas station is the dreaded GhettoGas. This ain't the kind of place you want to pull out a credit card pre-dawn. I mean, what if the bleeding walls were a sign...

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

i am so torn!

Friday night is my hot date with Mark Leno, at the same event where Bolero and JAV are sure to show. So obviously, the huge mid-date food fight will be perfect Culture Blog fodder for next Wednesday.
I've been excited for weeks! What to wear? What to say? What to throw?
But you know what Next Wednesday is, don't you?
It's Gavin's 40th Birthday.
I repeat, it's Gavin's 40th Birthday.
(It's okay to take a moment. I had to as well.)
This is killing me. Seriously. This is actually physically affecting me right now.
First of all, you can expect nothing but Gavin Birthday blogs for the next 2 weeks. At least from me. And maybe the Sentinel.
Second of all, how will I celebrate this momentous occasion? How will we celebrate on the blog? How will we celebrate it at home? And how will we celebrate with Gavin?
All pressing questions.
We have so many things to discuss! My head is about to explode and I need to stop typing so I can take some deep breaths from a paper bag and calm my ass down.
But before I go, I need some volunteers to help me build a giant cake to jump out of. I'm thinking City Hall steps, Wednesday at around 6ish if there are any takers...

chop those hippies down...

I can smell the patchouli from here. Enjoy...

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

i prefer sister mary clarence...

I'm all riled about about Anita Hill again.
Clarence Coke Can came out with a new book where he claims that, lemme guess... he never sexually harassed anyone.
Anita was a crappy worker. Anita was an over-reactor. Anita was just pissed no one was promoting her.
Oh, and it's so easy to accuse a black man of sexual misconduct.
I bet Larry Craig/Mark Foley/Bill Clinton/Gary Condit/Strom Thurmond/Franklin Roosevelt/Grover Cleveland/Alexander Hamilton/etc. are wishing they could use that one.
So now, because I wasn't old enough to get fully pissed about this when I was 13, I'm livid this morning.
My biggest problem with Clarence is that he's retarded. He's a douchebag. And he gets to make decisions about my uterus.
That's just great.
This genius writes a book reminding us about the time 16 YEARS AGO one of his employees went before a bunch of uptight rich guys AND every television in America to say her crappy boss played around with his pubic hair in the workplace and maybe he shouldn't be in charge of a vending machine much less upholding the Constitution.
Thanks Einstein. I almost forgot about that one.
Oh, and the name of his book is "My Grandfather's Son."
You mean your father? Ooooh. Deep.
Anyway, now that I've travelled in a time machine to get ticked off about something that happened in 1991, I might as well hang out here for awhile. If you need me, I'll be watching Blossom and affixing a "We Believe You Anita" bumper sticker to Rhonda the Honda...

Monday, October 01, 2007

I returned home from a ladies lunch to find Zoe and New Chris sitting on my front steps, chatting about foreign policy or welfare reform or something else no one cares about. As they refused to hang out and watch "The Bridge" with me, the three of us headed down to the Homestead, a bar right by my favorite place to stalk, the firefighter training building. I don't think that's its official name, but that's what I call it.
Chris left, perhaps a little tipsy after his 2 (two) Diet Cokes, and Zoe and I stayed awhile before meandering back to my place to watch True Life. On our way, we passed Gratitude, that wacky hippie joint where nothing is cooked and it all has a stupid name like "I am Smelly" or "I am Annoying." I took this opportunity to fill her in on a friend of a friend who was mugged mere blocks away and came into Gratitude, looking for a cell phone on which to call the cops. As her fiance found said phone and made the call outside, she sat crying alone at a table. The big scandal is that at Gratitude, of all the hippie, freakshow, group sex places in the world, no one came over to offer her a hug or annoying hippie wisdom or even a cup of tea, ironically called, "I am Compassion."
Now, I am an evil soul with a heart like a glacier, but if someone ran into a small cafe proclaiming, "We've just been mugged!" and then sat alone crying, I would not have bought her some goddamn tea. I would have bought her some goddamn booze.
Which is why it never pays to make friends with a hippie...