Monday, December 31, 2007

happy fucking new year...

Miss Spotswood is currently "vacationing" in glamorous South Lake Tahoe. She has no comment at this time other than to wish Mayor Newsom a painless second divorce...

Saturday, December 29, 2007


I've said it before and I'll say it again.
Mikey loves to dance.
Last night after dinner, we swung by The Big Four for a drink. But half the way through our cocktails, the Van Morrison concert let out next door and the place was packed.
I'm sure you can imagine the type of people that go to Van Morrison concerts.
"Oh, I know where we should go." I offered.
Which is how we ended up at the Tonga Room.
The Tonga Room is in the Fairmont Hotel and consists of a huge, Tiki-themed bar/restaurant with a lake in the middle and a band that floats out and plays cheezy dance music... you can dance on a big pirate ship dancefloor!
Hell yes.
This place is old school and packed with an array of tourists, douchebags and old people getting drunk, paying a $5 entertainment charge and dancing the night away. We were finally seated RIGHT at the dancefloor and halfway into our Lava Bowl for 2, when we heard the thunderstorm and fake rain, announcing the arrival of the band floating out onto the lake.
"Oh my god, this place is amazing."
Song after song, we'd be like, "Oh shit, we're dancing to this."
You've got to love a straight man who will bust a move on a fake pirate ship next to a couple in their 80's and fucking OWN the floor.
Kudos, Michael.
My other Christmastime tale of fun nights out was on Wednesday, when The Brians and I took my mom and Uncle Bill to Martuni's. My uncle lives in Savannah and while technically from the 415, has adopted the ways of his current home.
Bill talks to everyone.
Not only that, he introduces himself per his insistence on calling every waiter, store clerk or stranger by name. Seated right by the microphone and chugging down martinis, Bill personally congratulated every single person that sang. By midnight, he was walking around the room making friends and mingling with old gays. I'm amazed no one hit on him.
We caught a cab back to my place as Bill said, "Martuni's is my new favorite place in San Francisco. Anytime I'm in town, we're coming here.
Gay cabaret bars. That's why god invented nieces...

you would see, the biggest gift would be from me...

Wanna know why she's the BFF? Because she gave me my own website for Christmas...

Thursday, December 27, 2007

that internet's puttin' us outta work...

I'm back in the real pape today!
Go drop a quarter or whatever they cost and pay my bills! Or just read it HERE...

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

shut UP! (cue elaine benes shove)...

So, a tiger named Tatiana escaped her cage and killed someone on Christmas Day at the San Francisco Zoo.
God, I love this city.
Okay, okay. Horrible tragedy, shoulda never happened, my thoughts and prayers are with the victims, etc.
But, Jesus (literally) Christ!
Holy (literally) shit!
Are you (fucking) kidding me?
I can barely wrap my hungover head around it.
Let's review:
1. Amazing it happened on Christmas. You know, of all days.
2. Who goes to the Zoo on Christmas?
3. Tatiana? Fabulous.
Quickly recapping, although I know this is being covered by everyone on Earth, including Fox News who is no doubt blaming our encouragement of homosexuality for this horrible event, a 350lb tiger named Tatiana (sounds like a drag queen, quite frankly) miraculously escaped from her cage at the SFZ (I just made that up) and killed some poor teenager before critically injuring his two friends.
The fuzz showed up and shot Tatiana.
(Please now review 1, 2 and 3. My god!)
This is some serious news and when my Uncle Bill stumbled over to tell me about it last night, I slurred back, "Bullshit, Billy. Stop making shit up and go get me another coffee mug of champagne."
Main non. It's real.
I want to head down to that dreadful un-named neighborhood and find out how exactly a TIGER "leaped" over an un-leapable fence.
What the hell, SFZ...

Sunday, December 23, 2007

windsor knot, my ass...

Wanna know what I did tonight?
I stayed home and had Chinese food whilst watching The Wizard of Oz.
Which is interesting because Joe "We KNOW, relax" Veronese had his his Christmas Party tonight.
My invite must have been lost in the mail.
Hmmm. Interesting. Snubbed. Is this because Mark Leno was my date to my office holiday soiree? Folks, and I feel conficent saying this, Joe wouldn't be caught dead within 10 blocks of an Old Navy, much less my work party.
I'm glad I know where I stand with the Joe "Yeah, we get it" Veronese campaign.
Welcome to Migden territory, bitches. I was ALMOST on your side. I even invited you to my birthday.
Well, forget it! Game ON.
You wanna dance, Joe? Fine with me.
Let's boogie, mamma's boy...

Friday, December 21, 2007

is there any more ham...

Everyone says weddings are the best place to meet people.
Perhaps it's true.
Last night I went on my first date with Adam, whom I met at Jason's wedding.
I know, I know. You're dying for details.
Detail #1: He's a gay.
But that's neither here nor there. Okay, maybe it's a little less here and a little more there, but who cares? We love Adam!
We met for drinks at the Tunnel Top and had our first outing as "independent friends." Independent friends is a big step, one I'm sure you're all familliar with.
We met at a party, you're dating my sibling, new co-worker in the office? Yeah, but do we want to be independent friends?
Anyway, I had the loveliest little time with Adam last night, that I drove myself to work all pleased with my cute and every expanding circle of peeps.
Sipping my Starbucks at a red light on Van Ness, I thought about my new friend Adam and my fabulous conversation with the BFF last night and a play with Mikey tonight and dinner at the Brians tomorrow.
Oh, the holidays. You're so fun!
I looked over to see a hobo in a Santa hat, sitting on the edge of a car dealership kind of dancing around. He looked over at me, so I smiled. Because you know, anything helps. Even a smile.
Yeah. Not Santa Hat Hobo.
He gave me a big grin and the middle finger.
Hmmm, maybe we could be independent friends...

Thursday, December 20, 2007

merry christmas to you, too...

Today I have my first real piece in the real Chronicle! Hazaa! I leapt out of bed and ran to my computer, just to make sure they, you know, spelled my name right.
2 comments already?
Oh shit. I know what this means.
I don't know why I say in my little byline, "Originally from Marin..." because it always gets thrown back at me by some bitch in Bernal Heights who doesn't have a dishwasher.
What's so bad about Marin?
Marin: Home to Muir Woods.
Marin: Home to 1/3 of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Marin: Home to Sean Penn...

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

who sends snail mail...

Actually, I do!
My good friend MOI is currently serving in the Middle East. Somewhere. I don't really get where. I imagine his life much like Jarhead, but how the hell would I know?
Until yesterday!
I opened my mailbox and there, delicately placed atop junk mail and ignored bills was one of those foreign looking envelopes with the blue and red border and the highly dramatic "Par Avion" stamped in the corner.
A letter from a soldier!
MOI has been in the military for a really long time. So long, in fact, that when he began his stints overseas, my grandfather, the late, great Bob Spotswood was still alive and would write him constantly.
Bob was my dad's dad, a San Francisco cop who will forever be the love of my life. I called him "DA." MOI called him Bob. And they were very close.
Anyway, MOI and I both have great affection for DA and in the interest of keeping DA's dream alive, MOI and I have agreed to communicate only by snail mail. It takes forever. But it's worth it.
Which brings me to my point. Enough with the e-mails!
Letter writing is a lost art. An art that my DA loved. Case in point: the man wrote me a letter a day the entire 4 years I was in college.
MOI, in civilian life, is a high-falutin' snob who's a wine-sniffing, designer-denim'd lawyer. But somehow, and maybe this is the sand talking, in letters he's articulate, honest and interesting and I feel compelled to respond thusly.
No one writes a real letter anymore. I sure as hell wouldn't, if I didn't have one of my dearest friends holding a gun in a desert right now. But I used to write letters all the time. My long, lost pal Erin, who moved to Los Angeles our senior year of high school and who I never saw again, well we wrote for a full year! Constantly, we'd write handwritten missives containing scandalous details we'd never tell a soul, like the time Stephen Dorf inappropriately hit on her and me telling my journalism professor the reason I was ditching class was because I had a huge crush on him. (I got an A)
I've had a penpal since I learned to write and suddenly, I stopped.
Fucking e-mail.
You know what? E-mail sucks. I live and breathe for it, but it sucks. Fights over e-mail, love over e-mail...Shit, I've broken up with people over e-mail. It is not, and as a blogger, I appreciate the irony, a healthy way to communicate.
There's something about the letter. The REAL letter. Something about thinking and time and patience and opening your mailbox to a real, live, handwritten page that's crossed seas and been handled and done all the work it takes to make it to your mailbox.
So your homework today is to think of someone you know that would love a letter and write them one. I'll even front you the 42 cents.
You might want to start with your Grandpa.

color me surprised...

I answer my cell at work for a select few, including Mr. X who insists on being anonymous today and just called me.
Beth: "Hey."
Mr. X: (screaming) "GUESS WHO I JUST SAW?"
"Guess who I just saw Christmas shopping!?!?"
"Matt Gonzalez!!!"

Why Mr. X was in Goodwill is beyond me, but I think it makes perfect sense that Matt Gonzalez was there...

*UPDATE: It was not technically Goodwill. It's worse. It's that shithole Community Junk Store on Valencia next door to Good Vibrations. He was in the "metaphysical books" section and "fine China", all according to Mr. X, whom I made return to the store and capture this photo:

I don't know about Matt Gonzalez's friends, but Mr. X better not be picking up MY gift at this junkyard...

i've always hated the phrase 'hump day'...

But I'm starting to LOVE Wednesdays!
HERE'S my Project Runway Recap.
And then as usual, today's Culture Blog, A Newsom Christmas!

Also, feel free to go and purchase an ACTUAL PAPER (!) tomorrow. I'm filling in for "11 Things" columnist Tim Sullivan in 96 Hours! It's my first time in dead trees...

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

dear spots and grey cloud...

Once again ripped from the pages of Dear Abby, GC and I solve the world's problems.

DEAR Spots and Grey Cloud,
I'm a 14-year-old boy with a twin sister. We have always shared a room. Because I'm her twin brother, my sister trusts me and isn't shy about undressing in front of me. She has a very attractive body, and I'm ashamed to say this, but I'm starting to have the wrong kind of feelings when I see her -- if you know what I mean. Under the circumstances, I don't think we should be sharing a room anymore. We have a 16-year-old stepsister who lives with us. She has her own room, but she and my sister don't get along. I think it would be more appropriate for them to share a room since we don't have an extra bedroom.
If I say this, it'll just look like I want my own room unless I tell everybody the reason, which I'm too ashamed to do.
I try to force myself to look the other way, but sometimes I can't resist looking even though I know it's wrong. What can I do?

Dear Future Resident of Alabama,
Well you’re 14 so this is probably your first year in high school. On the bright side, at this rate you’re pretty much guaranteed a prom date. But let’s hope that situation doesn’t come to fruition.
First of all, don’t worry about it too much. It’s one thing to think about it, it’s another to act on it. What you have to ask yourself is, “Am I attracted to my sister?” Or are you attracted to her body? Let’s hope for your sake it’s the latter. You’re at ‘that age’ where hormones are raging and you’re being assaulted by mother nature and her devilish antics in the form of puberty. The good thing is if you ever did make an advance on your sister she’d probably turn you down cuz your voice cracks and your face looks like a pepperoni pizza.
And let’s be honest, everyone has that second cousin, twice removed that they see once a year, if that, at some obscure family reunion, that’s pretty good looking. Who’s to say what would happen if you weren’t technically related to them.
You also gotta get your hands on some porn. I mean when I was growing up we didn’t really have a lot of Internet access and we resorted waiting for someone to steal one of his dad’s playboys. But this day in age man, you need to hop on the computer and find some quality Internet porn. It will open your eyes. Who knows, you might even find out you’re gay. If the search for porn turns out to be unsuccessful, let me know and I’ll send you my “Boner Jamz ‘07” mix tape I got from Paul Rudd.
Kudos for not telling your parents by the way. That’s a smart move on your part. I can see it now, “Next week on Maury, ‘I’m in love with my twin sister.’” Your parents also don’t seem all that sharp. Not a surprise, but rather than tell them you like your sister and that’s why you want your own room you should try telling them that you’re disgusted by her now that she bleeds all over the bed once a month for a week. They might be surprisingly sympathetic.
Your sisters should be living together. I think if you offer to take the smaller of the two rooms it shouldn’t be too much of an issue. Plus siblings always fight, not that I’d know being an only child, but so I’ve heard. And if older sis doesn’t like it well tough shit. You don’t always get your way growing up.
She’ll be outta there anyway in two years to go to CU Boulder where she’ll inevitably get knocked up her first semester after someone slipped a mickey in her jungle juice.
So let’s recap. Don’t worry about the feelings just be sure not to act on them. Because lord knows we don’t need the retarded love child of you and your sister running around. Get yourself some decent porn. It’s a lifetime obsession that needs to start sometime and if you ask me you’re little behind the curve. Porn is cheap and easy to get these days so you have no excuses! In my day I had to walk uphill, in the snow, both ways, to get a copy of the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Tell your parents you need your own room and under no circumstances tell them you have a crush on your sister.
So if you’re smart you’ll take my advice and this situation will dissolve sooner than later and hopefully in 15 years this will all be a distant memory of teenage adolescence and we hopefully wont see you on To Catch a Predator.
~Grey Cloud

Beep, beep, beep. Back this up.
Did Grey Cloud just give actual advice? I kinda figured he'd demand a picture of this sister before throwing out his usual brand of snobby cynicism. Maybe tell the kid it's totally okay if he bangs her from behind and pretends she's someone else.
But nope.
He's all "cool therapist" with this one. What gives?
I can vouch for his love of porn. His coffee table is usually a pile of car magazines and Hustler. But he's never been one for thoughtful advice. It's almost touching. Perhaps it's the holidays.
As for Ashamed in Denver, what kind of 14 year old uses the word "appropriate"?
I'll tell you what kind.
The gay kind.
You're using your sister as an obvious beard because we all know you can't fuck a relative this side of the Mason-Dixon line.
If you're going to take GC's advice and invest in some porn, dabble in the m4m a little. You might stop TRYING to be attracted to your sister and start being attracted to that second counsin, twice removed you see once a year...Tim.
Your pal,

Monday, December 17, 2007

but do they have starbucks...

I'm slightly obsessive. Obviously.
Currently, I'm highly into several ongoing news stories, including the "Girl of Qatif" case. This is all about the 19 year old Saudi girl who was gang-raped by 7 guys (twice) because she met a man who was not her husband. Oh, and then she got sentenced to 6 months in jail and 200 lashes. Well, today she was pardoned by the King.
Thanks a ton, Abdullah.
In reading about today's development, I realized that I really don't know that much about Saudi Arabia. And my go-to place for self-education is Wikipedia.
Did you know that Saudi Arabia didn't even become a country until 1932? And it's the only country in the world where women aren't allowed to drive!
Anyway, this morning I'm sitting here getting all riled about about this poor Girl of Qatif and then reading all about the history and culture of Saudi Arabia and I finally announce, "I'm going to Saudi Arabia!"
Yeah. Why not? I'm goin'. Where's my passport?
I found my dad in the kitchen.
"Hey, dad. Let's go to Saudi Arabia."
"We can't."
"Why not?"
"Uh, it'd be stupid. And we're not allowed."
"Seriously. We're not allowed."
"Perhaps you're unaware of King Abdullah Economic City, a city being built for tourists."
"Yeah, it's not built yet. If you want to go to Saudi Arabia so bad, google it and see what the rules are. I've got a friend that's lived in Riyahd for the past 15 years. You figure it out."
Awesome, Saudi Arabia, get ready for the Spotswoods.
So I googled "American travel in Saudi Arabia."
Most of the time if you google travel somewhere, it's all Sandals resorts and bus tour pop ups. They can't wait to get your wacky foreign money.
Yeah, not so much for the old SA.
The first Google result is a warning from the US Government. The very government which, according to basically everyone and CJ Cregg, kisses Saudi ass like Hybrids don't even exist. And this warning carries the very verbiage I need to stop my Saudi travel planning and look into a nice Radisson in Honolulu.
Check this shit out:

American citizens who choose to visit or remain in Saudi Arabia despite this Travel Warning are strongly urged to avoid staying in hotels or housing compounds that do not apply stringent security measures including, but not limited to, the presence of an armed guard force, inspection of all vehicles, and a hardened security perimeter to prevent unauthorized vehicles from approaching the facility. American citizens are further advised to exercise caution and maintain good situational awareness when visiting commercial establishments frequented by Westerners or in primarily Western environments. Keep a low profile, varying times and routes for all required travel, and ensure that travel documents and visas are valid. American citizens are also advised to exercise caution while driving, entering or exiting vehicles.

On a side note, I have a very good friend currently serving our fine country thereabouts, and I would normally e-mail him for his thoughts on these developments, but we've decided to be the only ones who maintain actually letter writing in times of war, and thus, all correspondence takes 2-4 weeks. All of his letters start with, "Thanks for the mail. How very WW2 of you."

Sunday, December 16, 2007

oh...oh god...

I spend much of the holidays at my parents' house and I've just come from my office holiday party 2 blocks away.
Wine. Too much wine.
I could either sleep in my brother's museum-like maintained childhood room 3 minutes away or I could drive an hour back to the ghetto.
I've had 19 bottles of wine. Brother's room it is.
My dad approaches.
"Bethy! This is the only toilet paper!"
These are not the words you want to hear from your father.
He displays his wares. I look down.
It's toilet paper with George Bush on it.
Yeah. My folks find this hilarious.
Not because Dubbs is on TP. But because they're finally forced to use a gag gift.
I'm here for 2 days.
2 days of George W. Bush toilet paper.
I'm anti-war and all, but...shit.

my parting gift was worth it, tho...

There's a reason I mock the East Bay.
It sucks.
Really, driving there sucks. I freak out. I'm convinced people drive on the other side of the road and the street signs are in Ebonics and I'm unfamiliar with their complex foreign ways.
But none the less, I wanted to see Becky's pied a terre and she was having a cookie decorating party.
Conveniently I had Magellan with me.
"Mikey, you know how to get there, right?"
"Yeah, bitch. Relax."
I can get myself on the Bay Bridge. After that, I'm pulling out my passport and a Frommer's because as far as I'm concerned, I'm in a third world country.
Mikey totally knows where he's going. He just assumes everyone else does too. Nor does he suffer paranoid snobs lightly.
"Turn there."
"Right there. Jesus."
I also have a very ghetto radio. Rhonda the Honda doesn't even have a tapedeck. I'm lucky we get FM, in certain parts of the world, at least. I know that K101 works only on the second half on Van Ness, Alice only comes in going East or West, KFOG is generally okay, unless there's a hill nearby, etc.
By the time we reached "Oakland" my radio was picking up Contact signals and that's about it. I was too stressed with driving to even care. Magellan? Yeah, he was all, "That's okay. Let's sing a song."
He was kidding, but I was ready to drop him off at Panther's headquarters.
"Oh my god, you just missed that turn!"
"Just kidding."
Finally, he learned the proper way to give me directions.
"Okay, stoop. The next light, make a right then the first left right after it. You've got to switch lanes really fast. You got it?"
I'm amazed I made there alive. I fucking hate the East Bay.
Conveniently, I didn't have to drive home. You think it's so easy, Magellan? Fine. You drive.
Cue swearing, middle fingers, screeching breaks.
Stuck in traffic, crossing the Bay Bridge into San Francisco, with my feet on the dash and the twinkling lights of holiday downtown San Francisco before us, I looked down at the gorgeous "Port of San Francisco" glowing ahead and sighed, "I am such a city person. I could never live in the country."
"You mean the East Bay?"

Friday, December 14, 2007

the lady is a tramp...

So you know that I despise Carole Migden with a never-ending passion best described in the City Slickers quote, "If hate were people, I'd be China."
She yelled at my dad, she called me a liar, she's rude to my boyfriend and I don't like her hair.
She's lucky she's still upright, quite frankly. (I debated for 6 minutes if that last sentence was an arrestable offence.)
Anyway, this is why you get my version of Carole singing a song at Martuni's, which if you're not gay and don't know, is the happiest place on Earth.

Carole enters with sad, vacant-eyed staff who immediately hit the bar.
"Everybody stay calm! I'm finally here and you can all relax! Honey, get up! I want that chair!"
Everyone in Martuni's is shocked into silence. Carole again? Shit. Can I get another vodka rocks? Or actually, just bring me the bottle.
"So, what the hell is this place? Homosexuals getting drunk singing Judy Garland songs? Christ, what's the world coming to? You better hope this place is up to code because first thing Monday..."
One of Carole's staffers quickly hands her a glass of White Zinfandel in the hopes of shutting her up and wordlessly apologizes to a displaced drag queen.
Wait, staffer apologize? Oh, this one wasn't Eric. It was the imaginary nice one they hired.
Moving on to Carole...
“What the hell is this? A piano? God, you really sing songs? I’ll sing you a goddamn song! I bet you’d like to see Leno sing some of that redneck Harry Connick Jr. And I KNOW Veronese wouldn’t set foot in this joint. Well, forget it. You hags want to hear a song. I got your song right here.”
Oh no. Oh dear god in heaven, no.
“You got any Etheridge?”
The accompanist pauses. “Excuse me?”
“I guess someone hates people with breast cancer! Real nice, pal. Alright, what songs do you know? Because Chopsticks doesn’t come with lyrics, hon.”
The accompanist hands her a songbook.
“What the hell is this crap?”
“I know every song in this book. Pick a song, bitch, and sing it.”
Oh snap. The bar is suddenly on team Accompanist.
And what song would Carole select, everyone wonders?
“Shut up. I’m performing. Okay, go.” (cue intro) “She gets too hungry for dinner at 8…”

i am woman, hear me roar...

Get a load of my new best friend, the First Lady of Kenya.
Lucy Kibaki was greeting people at a party and an official mistakenly introduced her as Wambui, her husband's mistress.
So she slapped him.
I hope she back-handed him so he got a little wedding ring action.
Rumors in Kenya abound that Wambui is actually the President's secret 2nd wife of 30 years, but in America, we just call that a long-term mistress. Or Mormon.
Fabulously, the elections are in 2 weeks and it's the closest race in Kenya's history. So you gotta love that Lucy.
Hmmm. I was just reminded by some jackass that my husband's been screwing around for 30 years. Do I shut up and politely correct him, so I don't, oh...cause an international scandal right before the election? Or do I slap this bitch?
Team Lucy...


I think I've got a little thing for Lenny Kravitz. I just keep listening to this over and over again thinking to myself, "Well, thank god he cut that hair."

Everyone needs to watch the Sean Penn/Jon Krakauer Iconclasts on Sundance. I'm dying to discuss, but I'm pretty sure no one on earth has seen it. I'm a little obsessed with Into the Wild as it is, so I was all over this. But there are also little jems like when some drunken Alaskan bachelorette party insists on a picture and Sean says maybe because, "I've just got to wrap my head around it." You can watch Iconoclasts whenever you want gratis with Comcast on Demand, so you have no excuse.

I'm not seeing what the big deal is about steroids. Duh.

I'm still dating Mark Leno. Don't think we broke up. I love Mark because he walked into Martuni's, took one look at my empty glass and was all, "Chardonnay?" If Carole walked into Martuni's, she'd start in with "Everybody shut the hell up! Stop ya stupid caberet show or whatever the hell this is! Someone get me seltzer!" (I don't know why I think Carole'd drink seltzer. But that's how she probably says club soda.) "Lemon! What the hell? I don't recall asking for a goddamn lemon! Get me my compact!" I could do this all day...

Thursday, December 13, 2007

jingle bells, batman smells...

On Friday night, I was delighted to have Executive Chef Jeff cook for 12 of us at 916B. Jeff is all Top Chef style fancy pants and I was terrified he'd walk in my kitchen and declare it ghetto. He kept the ghetto to himself and rocked our worlds. It's nice to have your godsister dating a real-life chef. Who needs to get in with the fam. And thus, cooks for me and the friends. Executive Chef Jeff (ECJ) came prepared. I think he made some immigrant prep his mise en place. I mean, my god. He grated fresh horseradish (it's really a radish) over our seared NY strip and braised short ribs on a bed of cheesed-up polenta.
This (the above) is pretty much how dinner went. AKA: awesome and drunk.
But seriously... We had Republican meat. And made bras out of napkins....For three girls, three straights and six gays...
I am now in love with ECJ. He probably hates it that I call him ECJ, but none the less, sat with me in a corner, downed some Scotch and gossiped.
"Was it good, Beth? Did everyone have fun?"
Yeah EJC. Everyone had fun...

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

pro-run, bitches!

Better late than never, right? Here's my recap of last week's Project Runway. You know, I think it might be worth the wait. This one tickled me...
And while we're here, check out today's Culture Blog! You know you want to read Gavin's personal ad...

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

hank plante, eat your heart out...

Dan, what are you doing to us?
My god. It's like an Aramis ad.
First of all, because we're so BFF, I can tell you that Dan isn't this serious and uptight in real life. Nor is he this smoldering. Or if he is, he turns it off around me. And who can blame him, because I think Brock and I want to fight over who gets to play with the salt and pepper.
Seriously. This is fabulous. The unbuttoned collar, the loosened tie, the resigned look of journalistic integrity.
Ding Dong Dan!
Will this be on the side of Muni, a la Carrie Bradshaw? Can I get this printed on some type of CafePress item like a coffee mug or mousepad.
Oh, better. Dan, can I get an autographed copy?
Framed, maybe? With a built-in eternal flame?
I think it's safe to say, in the interest of healthy competition, Gavin's coming out with a new headshot any day now...

the brians, the pugs and beth...

Sorry I'm such a blogging slacker today. But this is my favorite holiday e-card of the season...

Wait. I lied. THIS is glorious!!!

Monday, December 10, 2007

gavin, i'm serious...

I know I give him so much shit, he should never forgive me.
But every once in awhile, I have rare moments of intense appreciation.
Gavin, I appreciate how hot you are. I appreciate how every movement from your magnificent body is like God's ballet. I appreciate how you look like a total frat-boy, workaholic, uptight wanker that only talks about litter, hobos and AIDS, because I know it isn't really you.
I know you.
I know you want to snuggle on a couch while you play with my hair as we down really stiff vodka tonics. I know you want to talk about the Top Chef Holiday Special and throw plastic bottles at poor people. I know you want to try that thing I saw on youporn.
Anyway, I'm just saying. People ask me all the time if I'm kidding about you.
Are you shitting me?
No, bitch. I'm not kidding. This is love...

i've got an oscar, bitch. sit down...

This is awesome! Even more awesome is Brock's assessment of the sitch. I love that Brock. I know he occasionally gets a little shit for being my birthday/boozy/bitchy co-hort, but I just think he's tops and that's that.

Sean Penn is the CUTEST! Apparently, Spicoli's totally fine with some freak and his scrawled sign blocking his little 4 minute speech but I'd have been all "Security?!?" While Brock found this whole episode incredibly homoerotic, I'd like to offer the following:
1. Dennis Kucinich? That nut? Wasn't he the guy that made Cleveland go bankrupt? I'd peg Sam as more of an Obama bitch, but what the hell do I know?
2. If you're going to step to Dead Man Walking, you might want to...oh, I don't know...use a font. It looks like he scratched those signs on the floor of the hallway outside. What is that? A Safeway bag?
3. I was wondering when someone was going to come and rescue Conrad Van Orton. Thank you citizen in the fitted T!

Confidential to Sandra in South Dakota: *I would also like to take a moment to give a shoutout to the BFF, who is venturing into the big time and is about to rock all of our world. If I may rip-off the dreadful quote on my mother's computer... sometimes you have to jump and build your wings on the way down.
I know. Lame.
But no matter what you do or decide, you amaze me every day and I love you...

Friday, December 07, 2007

i never do this...

But this is hitting incredibly close to home. On our way to lunch Wednesday, the ladies and I noticed a missing poster in the windows of every shop in town.
Missing in Mill Valley? What?
Veronica Ruiz has been missing since December 3rd. The last anyone heard, she was going hiking on Mt. Tam. She's 25 years old and gorgeous and loves to hike on the mountain I grew up on. The official search has been called off, but her family and friends are organizing their own.
How do I know this?
Her mother just came into my office, hoping to use it as a base of operations for the volunteers. I am obviously mostly a heartless, irreverent, evil person, but this woman held my hand while my boss frantically tried to set something up. She held my hand and she cried and with the kindest eyes ever, said it's the nights that she worries. It's been raining and dear God, if I was missing, Joanne would be a hysterical psychopath.
I'm in tearful shock, but I just wanted to let anyone around know that there'll be a search tomorrow, led by an independent search and rescue team who are donating their services. If anyone needs details of where and when, please e-mail me and I'll pass all of the information on.
Ugh, this is so sad...

Thursday, December 06, 2007

happy holla-days...

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm going to hell. But here's Gavin and Black Santa! Awesome. We've got the guy who's left the scene of a fire to do a very serious puppet show. Two kids with their gender-specific gifts. Another fire fighter who left the scene of a fire because he's so hot he probably started it. Some old dude yelling. And Gavin sitting there grinning, probably thinking, "Black Santa? Wait'll Swiss Miss gets a load of this!"

I bet Black Santa gave that basketball to him. The guys on either side of him are like, "Give it up, Necktie and help me unload these goddamn Barbies..."

it puts the lotion in the basket...

Everytime I'm driving in my car and "American Girl" by Tom Petty comes on, I feel like Catherine in Silence of the Lambs and am convinced someone is following me to kidnap me, stash me in a hole in the ground and kill me so they can make a Beth suit out of my skin.
Is that weird?

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

it's all about the six piece nuggets...

Rainy days always make me miss being in 5th Grade and loving that we got to stay inside at recess and lunch. Abandoned and unsupervised, the teachers left the 28 of us to the lone television in the corner and our own devices. This being like, 1989, the teachers all hung out in the lounge chugging Diet Coke, chain-smoking and bitching about us.
And we ran rampant, like Lord of the Flies in plaid uniforms glued to The Price is Right and sticking Post-it’s on each other’s backs. I, for some reason, was always desperate to choreograph a new dance routine to a New Kids on the Block song, convinced that if Jordan or Danny saw my sick moves, they’d hire me and take me on tour.
We had these big desks that were like buckets, and you’d open the top wooden part to a space to stick all of your books and Trapper Keepers and personalized pencils. One of the highlights of my year was Clean Out Your Desk Day, which literally was allotted ALL DAY. This included a redesign the roof of the inside of one’s desk, which completely defined one’s entire personality and philosophy on life.
It’s not like anyone spent a particularly huge amount of time examining the decorated desk roofs of everyone else, but my god if I didn’t cultivate that collage as if my social status depended on it. It was very NKOTB heavy, but also included personal photos and mementos, like the mysterious love note Vita found under my desk, an apparent declaration of Spotswood love from Marc, whom it seemed at first chose to sign his name and then hastily erased it.
It turned out Vita wrote that damn note just to fuck with me, but I kept it anyway in some delusion that Marc would’ve written it if he had the balls.
Anyway, the best kind of rainy lunch was a Thursday rainy lunch. Because that meant hot lunch day. Oh my god, hot lunch day was the highlight of my week. Every month, the school would send this form to your folks and my father and I would sit down and select my order. The menu rotated, but McDonald’s and Taco Bell were included, along with cheap ass pizza and hot dogs that if you squeezed, bubbled. Jill and I started a detective agency to serve our school and our boredom and once attempted (unsuccessfully) to solve the mystery of the soapy hot dogs.
Rainy hot lunch day meant that we all got to put on our raincoats and walk across the yard to the kitchen adjoining the gym. Well, those of us that got hot lunch. There were always a couple rogue children who never got hot lunch and brought their own. These were also the same kids that still wore their uniform on free dress days because they “didn’t know.” How do you not know? Impossible. The unspoken assumption about these strange stand-outs was that they must be poor. I never really confirmed this suspicion, because the rogue kids hung out with each other and their parents never showed up to anything, but in retrospect, they could have been millionaire heirs raised by absentee nannies.
Rainy days also meant winter, which meant lots of pageantry and playing of Bingo over the loudspeaker. And in 8th grade, you didn’t get to play Bingo, which was fine with me. All you won was a stryrofoam cup filled with Halloween leftovers. In 8th grade, you got paired up and got to stand in front of a class, like the 2nd graders or whatever, and write the Bingo numbers on the blackboard. Each year, I worshiped those 8th graders, desperate to one day be the sophisticated elder with the grave responsibility that Bingo entails. Perhaps even, if I played my cards right, I’d get paired up with Marc.
Well, Marc and me standing in front of Mrs. Dowd’s 4th Grade making eyes across B12 was not in the cards for me.
Oh, just because I surpassed that piddly dream and achieved the pinnacle of 8th Grade success.
Yep. I was the one that called the Bingo numbers over the loud speaker.
Seriously, this is a major highlight of my life…

Monday, December 03, 2007

travelling alone with your parents...

In that red bag was booze and cigarettes!
Just kidding.
(I'm not kidding. I'm totally serious.)
Anyway, this is me and my Dad in front of a Buddhist temple in Penang, Malaysia...last week!
My mom just sent these photos and I wanted to find a place to include this one because my Dad is the greatest guy on earth and loves me like no one loves me and is the best, smartest, most magnificent man I know.
And he claims to have no pictures of us together.
Apparently on his trip, his new friends wanted to see pictures of his kids.
Alex? Oh, of course. Alex has a permanent place in the wallets of most Americans, much less my parents. I imagine our patriarch pulled out Alex's baby book, detailing his fall through puberty and rise into adulthood. Me? Yeah, I'm like a Native American who refuses to allow herself to captured on film.
So here ya go, Scrappy.
Anyway folks, relax. We took off our shoes before entering the temple.
Really, tho. My Dad's so great there are no words...

Saturday, December 01, 2007

why do they call it jet lag...

Dear God, it's 5:12am.
I'm still up. Not on some coke binge or taking a break from screwing Clooney. Nope, I'm sipping water and watching the Home Shopping Network. I actually got home pretty late, and still in my heels, flopped down on my couch to see if Friday Night Lights got TiVo'd.
Nothing like a little tipsy FNL at 1am, right?
4 hours later and I'm still up.
I watched Proof of Life. A little Goodfellas. Some "Paid Programming." I think I've just about convinced myself I need a Bullet.
The worst thing is, my being up right now pretty much ensures tomorrow (oh, I mean TODAY) sucking. I could be doing something productive, like folding my laundry or emptying the dishwasher or meditative yoga.
Yeah, I watched 2 hours of infomercials on how to make really, horribly, disgusting food quickly and easily. Anyone know what time Target opens? I've got room for three if there are any takers...

*update at 5:48am: Target opens at 8. You know, if I had some champagne, I could probably sleep. Or at least have more fun.

*updat at 6:01am: I can't believe I'm still up! I'm actually looking at Safeway's weekly specials. ONLINE. Pomegranates are two for one, FYI.