Wednesday, April 30, 2008

nice flops, tiffany...

I'm up early again! Which is great, except that I just gave a talk to a bunch of suits on blogging and told them to check out my blog, up at noon. They will now be convinced bloggers can't tell time. FYI, should anyone need me to chat to corporate types about this whole "internet" phenomenon, I'm in! It was really fun and it made me feel young. 
Which is rare these days...

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

my lord, this is new evidence!

I take a lot of ribbing because of my simple and pure desire to spend the majority of my time solving mysterious and violent murder cases from the comfort of my own laptop and basic cable. What of it?
You know what, people? This shit pays off.
Allow me to count the ways:
1. If given the case files, I could've proved that Scott Peterson shit without doubt. I really feel like that investigation was botched, due in large part to my lack of involvement.
2. I know how to dispose of a body (unlike Scott), and without a body (or evidence like such a large amount of blood that the person obviously died), you can't get convicted of murder. Ever. So, you know, don't piss me off.
3. I could never be forced to sign a false confession, as happened with the Guildford Four, featured in In the Name of the Father, which I watched (again) last night. Now, I'm not blaming Gerry Conlon or Paul Hill for giving in to hours of physical and mental abuse, ultimately culminating in them signing confessions to a crime the never committed. I'm just saying, I wouldn't have signed.
The scariest part of their interrogation, and it's admittedly scary, was the sticking of a gun in their mouths. Whenever I see this in movies, it totally freaks me the fuck out. But if I'm in some police interrogation room with a bunch of cocky douchebags who want to pin some bogus rap on me (that was fun to think much less type), then fine, shoot me. Explain that one to the judge. Like they're going to shoot me in the head.
Please.
"Oh, she was trying to escape. So we had to restrain her, stick a gun in her mouth and shoot."
Yeah, that'll fly. In this movie (and I guess in real life), Gerry's dad get's sucked into it too. Played by Mr. Kobayashi, Guisseppe Conlon gets thrown in the clink with his son where he then dies. And of course, he's like the sweetest, most loyal, powerless dad ever.
Now, since they'd never throw me and my dad in the same prison, I imagined what it'd be like if they threw the book at my mom too.
Um, I pity the fool that accuses Joanne of a crime she didn't commit. There'd be no passive wearing of uniforms, confusion at the process, wide-eyed protests of misunderstandings. Oh no. My mother, as I have learned repeatedly, does not fuck around. And she has never given in. Trust me. I've tested the boundaries extensively.
So now I kinda want my mom and me to get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, just so we can prove our innocence, get a movie made about us and shine a national spotlight on an imperfect and corrupt 1970's British Judicial system...

my lord, this is new evidence!

I take a lot of ribbing because of my simple and pure desire to spend the majority of my time solving mysterious and violent murder cases from the comfort of my own laptop and basic cable. What of it? You know what, people? This shit pays off.
Allow me to count the ways:
1. If given the case files, I could've proved that Scott Peterson shit without doubt. I really feel like that investigation was botched, due in large part to my lack of involvement.
2. I know how to dispose of a body (unlike Scott), and without a body (or evidence like such a large amount of blood that the person obviously died), you can't get convicted of murder. Ever. So, you know, don't piss me off.
3. I could never be forced to sign a false confession, as happened with the Guildford Four, featured in In the Name of the Father, which I watched (again) last night. Now, I'm not blaming Gerry Conlon or Paul Hill for giving in to hours of physical and mental abuse, ultimately culminating in them signing confessions to a crime the never committed. I'm just saying, I wouldn't have signed. The scariest part of their interrogation, and it's admittedly scary, was the sticking of a gun in their mouths. Whenever I see this in movies, it totally freaks me the fuck out. But if I'm in some police interrogation room with a bunch of cocky douchebags who want to pin some bogus rap on me (that was fun to think much less type), then fine, shoot me. Explain that one to the judge. Like they're going to shoot me in the head. Please.
"Oh, she was trying to escape. So we had to restrain her, stick a gun in her mouth and shoot."
Yeah, that'll fly.
In this movie (and I guess in real life), Gerry's dad get's sucked into it too. Played by Mr. Kobayashi, Guisseppe Conlon gets thrown in the clink with his son where he then dies. And of course, he's like the sweetest, most loyal, powerless dad ever.
Now, since they'd never throw me and my dad in the same prison, I imagined what it'd be like if they threw the book at my mom too.
Um, I pity the fool that accuses Joanne of a crime she didn't commit. There'd be no passive wearing of uniforms, confusion at the process, wide-eyed protests of misunderstandings. Oh no. My mother, as I have learned repeatedly, does not fuck around. And she has never given in. Trust me. I've tested the boundaries extensively.
So now I kinda want my mom and me to get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, just so we can prove our innocence, get a movie made about us and shine a national spotlight on an imperfect and corrupt 1970's British Judicial system...

my lord, this is new evidence!

I take a lot of ribbing because of my simple and pure desire to spend the majority of my time solving mysterious and violent murder cases from the comfort of my own laptop and basic cable. What of it? You know what, people? This shit pays off.
Allow me to count the ways:
1. If given the case files, I could've proved that Scott Peterson shit without doubt. I really feel like that investigation was botched, due in large part to my lack of involvement.
2. I know how to dispose of a body (unlike Scott), and without a body (or evidence like such a large amount of blood that the person obviously died), you can't get convicted of murder. Ever. So, you know, don't piss me off.
3. I could never be forced to sign a false confession, as happened with the Guildford Four, featured in In the Name of the Father, which I watched (again) last night. Now, I'm not blaming Gerry Conlon or Paul Hill for giving in to hours of physical and mental abuse, ultimately culminating in them signing confessions to a crime the never committed. I'm just saying, I wouldn't have signed. The scariest part of their interrogation, and it's admittedly scary, was the sticking of a gun in their mouths. Whenever I see this in movies, it totally freaks me the fuck out. But if I'm in some police interrogation room with a bunch of cocky douchebags who want to pin some bogus rap on me (that was fun to think much less type), then fine, shoot me. Explain that one to the judge. Like they're going to shoot me in the head. Please.
"Oh, she was trying to escape. So we had to restrain her, stick a gun in her mouth and shoot."
Yeah, that'll fly.
In this movie (and I guess in real life), Gerry's dad get's sucked into it too. Played by Mr. Kobayashi, Guisseppe Conlon gets thrown in the clink with his son where he then dies. And of course, he's like the sweetest, most loyal, powerless dad ever.
Now, since they'd never throw me and my dad in the same prison, I imagined what it'd be like if they threw the book at my mom too.
Um, I pity the fool that accuses Joanne of a crime she didn't commit. There'd be no passive wearing of uniforms, confusion at the process, wide-eyed protests of misunderstandings. Oh no. My mother, as I have learned repeatedly, does not fuck around. And she has never given in. Trust me. I've tested the boundaries extensively.
So now I kinda want my mom and me to get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, just so we can prove our innocence, get a movie made about us and shine a national spotlight on an imperfect and corrupt 1970's British Judicial system...

check out those cuffs...

My family is odd.
To. Say. The. Least.
I learned this the first time I spent time alone with other families. Everyone's weird, don't get me wrong. But we are odd, us Spotswoods.
My brother Alex is home from Ireland, and my mother still in New York. Dad invited us over tonight so he could make some new pasta from one of his cooking magazines and Alex could regale us with his trip to the Emerald Isle.
Over dinner, the three of us got into a heated debate over the Lincoln Assassination conspirators. And when I say heated, I don't mean, "Are you sure about that fact, father?" I mean screaming, yelling, animated hand waving, "I bet you my car I'm right, dilettante!" kind of discussion. The windows in the dining room actually fogged over.
We weren't discussing Abraham Lincoln. We weren't discussing John Wilkes Booth. We were discussing the hotbed of 143 year old controversy surrounding the four conspirators hanged for plotting to kill the President, Vice President and Secretary of State in 1865.
Some families discuss Iraq. Some discuss their day. Some actively recount the weather.
At our house, I was ready to throw a chicken bone at my father for suggesting that Dr. Samuel Mudd was hanged for helping mend Booth's broken leg. We ALL know he was merely sent to prison 70 miles off Key West during the yellow fever epidemic. Come ON! Who ARE you?!?! Are we in bizarro world? Is everyone retarded?
You can imagine our delight (and when I say delight, I'm talking high-fives, hugs, tears) in discovering that 'my name is Mudd' (oh yeah, that's where it comes from) has a website!
Anyway, once on the internet, I pointed out to Alex that I found one of the conspirators kinda, well...hot.
He can't let this go, going so far as announcing to my mother on the phone, "Oh yeah, mom. Beth thinks one of them is cute. Jesus Christ..."
Blame it on my unique ability to apply present day sensibilities to history. Big deal. I'm keeping it real.
So I ask you fine people, is Lewis Paine, the only executed conspirator whose body was not claimed by family (awwww) attractive?
You tell me...

Monday, April 28, 2008

vibrating beds and mallrats...

My apologies for the lack of blog posts today. I've actually been cranking out the Jason/Rose post for the Culture Blog all night. We'll see how much of it gets in. It's four goddamn pages long. 
I spent much of tonight on the phone with Grey Cloud, currently in a motel room on the outskirts of Ft. Lauderdale with condoms for sale in the lobby. In fact, I maintain he should guest blog a review of his accommodations, he had me in such hysterics describing the joint. 
I had him in hysterics watching this. Go to "Watch Scoop Du Jour Clips" under the photo and click on April 26. It'll make more sense after Wednesday's Culture Blog, it's only 2:45 min. long and I'm at around 2:40. But during the Rose McGowan interview, you can see a highly disinterested Jason Lee talking in the background. 
Yeah, he's talking to me. 
I showed the video to Joe tonight who screamed, "Oh my god, Jason Lee hates you!"
"I told you this."
"Yes, Beth. I know. But we all assume you exaggerate."
I prefer to think of it as sprinkling fairy dust, but I'm aware of my rep for spinning a tale. Which is why I will occasionally pepper a story with, "I cannot exaggerate this enough..." I know, people. I get it. But every once in awhile when I cry wolf it really does mean that Jason Lee thinks I'm retarded...

Saturday, April 26, 2008

turns out, there's no "a" in sentence...

Folks, let's just prep for tonight's big date with Jason Lee.
What to wear!?!?!?! Should I wear my glasses? Yeah, I should. Cuz I'm so smart/alternative.
Okay, let's examine. He's a Scientologist. He has a kid named Pilot. He's single. He's snarky.
He's perfect!
Alright, he's not on my Top 5 (Peter Sarsgaard, Will Arnett, Ryan Gosling, Kenneth the Page and Roberto Benigni...obviously) but I'm willing to settle. Shit, these days, that hobo who rejected my leftover "mixed field greens" in the doorway of the Boys Club is looking cleaner. ANYway, I have the opportunity to make out with Jason Lee in a coat check room tonight and I won't fuck it up this time!
I've been told I am allowed to meet him in the "greeting line."
We all know what this means...I have once sentence to endear myself. And one sentence only. This very sentence could mean the difference between sucking face by the gratis crab cakes and being escorted out by female security guards.
I've been practicing in my car.
"So Lee? Is that Asian?"
"I'd be thinner if you'd pay for a trainer."
"I'm such a fan! A slutty one. If you get my drift. Because if you don't, it means I'll go to your hotel room, like, right now. And do stuff. And by stuff, I mean...oh shit, it depends. What do you have in mind? Oh, fuck it. If it's legal in Cambodia, it's legal with me!"
No?
Oh golly. These are not good sentences.
Help!
No really. Help*...
*Nevermind. He's a fucking nut. He's NUTS!!! And never heard of the Golden Girls. And doesn't have a sense of humor about it. I'm saving this tale for Culture Blog, but FYI, Jason Lee is insane and Rose McGowan is way cooler...*
*But I shouldn't really talk shit because I spent last night kicking Mel whenever she stole the covers, I had a Diet Coke for breakfast and I just cried at the end of October Sky on USA...

Friday, April 25, 2008

goddamnit, i love canadians...

I had a night* last night and will have a night tomorrow. After canceling on Pooj, the prospect of driving an hour back to the city to watch television by myself was, to say the least, unattractive. Conveniently, my childhood home is 4 minutes from my office. It's packed with wine and cheese and movies and a father who walks in the door, screaming, "Bethy!?!? Are you here!?!? Are you staying for dinner?!?! I'll have to change my menu!!!! This is terrific!!!!!"
This is all before he passed the doormat.
Anyway, my dad has a life (he was out, I swear to Baby Jesus, serving food to hobos, all day) so I got here before he arrived. I grabbed some leftover Cowgirl and checked out the premium cable. I just watched Fracture. Again.
Folks, the whole point of this post is basically, um...well...I love (and by love, I mean more than my family) Ryan Gosling.
This is love. True love. Experienced by few. But I'm one of them. Sitting on my parents' kitchen island. Eating 3 week old cheese on a Wheat Thin.
Mark my words.
Even that lesbo blushed...

*Shout out to Misty, Cyn, Brians, X, Gina and my homeslice Derek...love you...

no other road, no other way, no day but today...

I have a new pet peeve. Okay, actually I have two. The first is that I hate the term "pet peeve." The second thing that drives me fucking nuts is when people have an automatic inspirational quote at the bottom of their e-mail.
Shut up!
No one cares!
Like I'm going to sit and ponder your Successory. Oh my god, my phone's ringing and my blog is late and I knocked over my coffee and I need to pay my bills, but wait a second. There's a Gandhi quote here! I should take a moment and gain perspective. All because some Oprah book club member decided to automatically add unnecessary words of wisdom to every goddamn e-mail they send, my life is forever changed.
And it's always like,

"Dear Beth,
Can you please send me the permit request form again? I need it by 3pm.
Thanks.
Steve
~there is no yesterday. only tomorrow~"

It just makes me want to respond with, "Well, Steve, I sent it to you yesterday. Which apparently doesn't exist." And for some reason, I feel like this human flaw bespeaks of an unfamiliarity with the internet, like they JUST discovered this exciting means of communication and want to utilize it in every way possible. Relax, ponytail. It's a fucking e-mail, not a commencement address...

~if you don't have something nice to say, come sit by me~
-Steel Magnolias

Thursday, April 24, 2008

the fifth season...

Before heading across the street to drink all of Clemens Absolut, Mel and I took dad for a drink at the Four Seasons Bar. I ordered a Gibson. Dad ordered a Manhattan. And Miss Business Suited Attorney ordered a "Mimosa Martini." Considering this is the swanky Four Seasons bar and all, dark-lit and packed with seemingly very important men, you can imagine our surprise when our served apparently went all the way over to TGIFriday's by the airport to pick up Mel's cocktail...

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

it's 8:50am and i'm already having 'a day'...

The Culture Blog is up! Enjoy and check back this afternoon for my Top Chef review. There's one line in there that even the highly lenient Eve might have to cut.
Golly, LA Times above the fold, Swiss Miss hating immigrants, good hair with new top AND my Culture Blogs! I don't want to jinx it, but I'm loving today.
Oh no. It can only go downhill! I have a really big meeting. I'm breaking in new heels. And Mel and I are bringing a date to Clemens party tonight! That's right. You guessed it.
My dad...

oh happy day...

I...I’m speechless. I’m beside myself. There are no words.
Oh please. YES THERE ARE!
Swiss Miss registered as a member of the American Independent Party!!!
(I literally took 10 minutes here to chuckle. Just sitting at the computer. Giggling.)
You can imagine my GLEE at opening SFGate and immediately seeing the headline, "Newsom’s fiancee joins wrong party."
Oh...Oh glory be. What party could that be, Phil and Andy?
The American Independent Party? You don’t say! Was this former Republican who’s not allowed to be a Republican because MY boyfriend married that gays trying to register as an Independent? Ah yes. I thought so. It’s rather complicated. The difference between "Decline to state" and "I hate the government" is a thin line indeed.
(I literally took 10 minutes her to dance. Just around the office. I did a jig.)
Um, the AIP doesn't believe in taxes. Or abortion. Or immigrants. Or gays. They do like a gun or eight. Highlights from their website include such gems as "If you are breathing and have a pulse (and meet the technical requirements) you are qualified to run for office!" and this treasure, "Through the constitutional process, the nation rejected the so-called Equal Rights Amendment. We do not believe that such an amendment should again be submitted for ratification." Oh, that so-called Equal Rights bullshit. Never again!
I also enjoy, "We are totally opposed to the children of illegal aliens receiving schooling at the taxpayers' expense." Oh Swiss Miss, you're such a hardass. Send those moochers back to Juarez!
Anyway, I get it. She got confused. Obviously, our future first lady doesn't really hate...most normal people. But technically, according to her "corrupt" government, she did for awhile.
I believe the video below fully represents my thoughts on this matter...

i love that cardigan...

Yay! I don't think my father will ever be prouder. I'm in the LA Times, bitches!
They didn't use any photos of me, but the guy in the red t-shirt (hey Thor!) was talking to me. So that kinda counts, right? Far better, I'm described as part of a "new generation of barflies." I'm adding that to my CatholicMatch.com ad.
Anyway, thanks to Greg for being the first to find it. I am officially a professional barstool!

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

long lost traditions...

I was chatting with my Dad last night over his new favorite drink, the Bronx cocktail and he was regaling me with tales of the San Francisco Police Officer's Association Christmas Parties he attended as a child. "There's was none of this Holiday Party bullshit back then. It was a Christmas Party!"
"What year was this?"
"Oh, I don't know. 1957?"
"So you were ten."
"Yeah, and it was basically just for the kids. We'd all run around the Old Hall."
"The Hall of Justice?"
"Yeah, but this was the OLD one. It's now the Financial District Hilton."
"Wait, where Melissa and I go to the spa is the old Hall of Justice?"
"Yes, and get a load of this. As entertainment for the kids, they'd do a line-up for us."
"What do you mean?"
Um, he means that cops would actually pull prisoners out of their cells and make them do a line-up for the amusement of children.
Fabulous! How great is this? I MUST have this brilliant display for my next event. I bet some hippie nixed the line-up for laughs. You know, this political correct bullshit is how we lose marvelous traditions like the joy my father experienced as a boy, mocking hobos in the actual drunk tank. Ah, how I miss the good ole days...

Monday, April 21, 2008

i uj you, mang...

Somehow, this reminds me of Melissa, who in a great and dramatic display of friendship, took the ferry to Marin on a Friday night to take care of me in the midst of my miserable cold. Needless to say, we ended up at the 2am Club where I heard the worst pick-up line of all time (I can't bring myself to type it, tho Mel is getting it tattooed somewhere on her person, she loves it so much), prompting us to go home and watch Scarface. Anyway, I would go to a Filipino prison for her, provided I could choreograph.



I bet at the woman's prison, they're forced to dig ditches and make license plates. Someone please send me to Manila with a kilo of blow so I can get Brokedown Palace'd and take over this operation. Also, I wish there were little pop up bubbles telling us what certain prisoners are in for. Like "Rape!", "Murder!", "Putting dog in lumpia!"
Joe just arrived home (at 8:30am, wearing MY Marc Jackass t-shirt because he's "one of those roomates") and was like, "Did you just discover this?"
No. I just needed something to put me in a good Monday mood and figured Filipino prisoners being forced to dance to hits of the 80's might do the trick.
I was right...

Friday, April 18, 2008

ripped from the pages of dear abby...

DEAR Brett and Spots:
I recently moved in with my 41-year-old fiancé, "Sean." He's a great guy, never married, no children, and I love him dearly. I have discovered something disturbing about Sean. He has this "security fur" he can't part with. He told me he has used it since he was very young and says that the feel of it calms him down. However, I believe the "fur" has other uses besides being his security blanket. When I became upset about it, Sean hid it from me. He only came clean (somewhat) after I told him I don't like finding those pieces of fur. I have found them in his bed, in his robe pocket, in between the sofa cushions, etc. How can I break him of this "habit"? It makes me uncomfortable, and I guess the truth is I'm somewhat jealous of the darn thing. Besides, it reminds me of a dead animal. How can I get the fur out of both of our lives without destroying our relationship and jeopardizing our upcoming marriage?
-FUR-IOUS IN PENNSYLVANIA

Dear Clueless Moron:
It certainly sounds to this voice of experience as if Sean has been making some pretty frequent withdrawals from his personal ATM. He told you he’s used this piece of fur since he’s very young? Yea, I’m guessing he’s been helping to put Mr. Kleenex’s kids through college with it since he was about 12. Let’s examine the locations in which you have found Sean’s woodland friends, shall we? In his bed? He was making stomach pancakes. In his robe pocket? He was acting out the grapes of wrath. In the couch cushions? A, gross. B, he was releasing the hostages. Let me be clear – it’s ok that he enjoys downloading from his own website. All men do. I have two main concerns here. The first is the fur. Who puts the seminal luge team through their paces by utilizing thumper’s skin graft? My second concern is hygiene. Look, I enjoy shaking my fist at the ex-girlfriend as much as anyone, but I don’t leave the DNA stewing around the house when I’m done. I practically boil myself after I conduct my own stem cell research.
So, my advice? Your fiancĂ© obviously is a chronic whacker, with a fur fetish. The way I see it, you have two basic options. Either exponentially increase your blowjob output, or stop trimming and grow the 70’s porn bush. Your choice, Furby.
Sincerely,
Brett
PS: You would be well advised to steer clear of Synagogues and PETA rallies.

Dear Really Bad Self-Esteem,
I have to admit. I was confused by your whole “other purposes” comment. I needed Brett to explain it to me in no uncertain terms. And um, weird. That being said, we don’t judge here at I’ll Flip You. (Who’m I kidding? That’s the whole point!) First things first, are your…uh…needs…being, you know…met? Because if this apparent Mr. Wonderful has some private solo fur fetish in which he prefers to dabble on occasion, well, God bless him. He could be raping Cambodian orphans on his “business trips.” So what, you’ve got bits of fur to extract from couch cushions. Big deal. Pretend it’s an invisible pet or get a maid. I don’t care. I’m not seeing what the big hoo-ha is. You’re jealous of a fur blankie? That’s like being jealous of last September’s Hustler or Natalie Portman, both of which he’s thinking about while making sweet, sweet love to you. I think the person that should be freaked out right now is poor “Sean” who can’t fuck a fur without you banging on the bathroom door wanting to know what the hell is going on.
Lighten up. You never know when you might get a mink for Christmas. And then have a three-way with it.
Love, Beth

my name is beth and i'm addicted to wall-quil...

My mother is in New York for the Spring, my brother is gallivanting around Ireland, my father is having a boozy lunch with his cronies followed by a weekend of parties, The Brians are in Dallas, Joe is sunning himself in San Diego and where am I?
I am sick.
Yesterday, unable to face the commute back home to my empty flat in the city, I headed up to my folks. Working so close to my parents' home, as I've mentioned before, is more often a blessing than a curse. Sure, any trip to the Mill Valley Market means I'll run into someone I'm forced to chat with or the occasional tanning on the deck gets interrupted by a handyman, but generally speaking, there's fancy cheese, wine, views, premium cable and relative solitude.
Oh, and packed medicine cabinets.
Yesterday, I left work after lunch and immediately crashed on my brother's bed, dropping my bags and cell at the front door and falling into a deep, snotty sleep. At around 4, I hear, "Bethy! Are you here?!?!"
It took me a minute to rouse myself from my weird dream about Zoe. "Hi Daddy. I'm here and I'm sick."
"Oh no!" he hollered from downstairs. "Do you need anything."
"NO!" I screamed back at him and went back to sleep.
An hour later, I arose and wandered into his office. (For those wondering why I don't sleep in MY room when at the Spotswood Estate and Grounds, my room is now dad's office, as opposed to Alex's, which maintains a pristine, museum-like vigil.)
I flopped on his big leather club chair and whined, "Daddy, I'm so sick and it's your fault and you have to take care of me."
"You look horrible!" He declared. And then he told me he was leaving for a cocktail party before moderating another Carole/Mark/Joe debate. Even The Brians were attending, all the way up here in Mill Valley and I couldn't go. I was quarantined to the TV room with frozen soup and the dregs of 3 day old Chianti.
I watched a documentary about John Wilkes Booth (total asshole, FYI) and then a fabulous re-viewing of Quinceanera. I love this movie, desperately wishing I'd come from Echo Park and gotten knocked up by the really hot 'Herman' when I was 14. I saw it once on an airplane and as I sobbed hysterically towards the end, my brother looked over at me and mouthed, "Jesus Christ" before knocking back the rest of his Bloody Mary.
I will point out that I received a text from my brother yesterday afternoon, en route to Dublin alone and in coach. "The couple next to me keeps on having tickle fights. I need you here so I have someone to hate them with."
By 9pm, I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, even thought I knew dad would soon return with tales of Judge Judy on crack being nuts.*
At 1am, another text woke me up. "It's a cold and wet morning in Dublin!"
My brother, the one who would normally be forced to drive to my location and bring me tea sandwiches on my deathbed is currently living it up with the Lads in Dublin, probably recreating Once and already drunk.
I on the other hand, just cranked out a morning at work, attempting to finish up my week while my co-workers hid on the other side of the room, politely saying, "Bless you!" everytime I erupted into a sneezing fit. I am now back at the folks', having picked up vegetarian sushi and tea sandwiches, which I will dine on solo tonight, as Daddy is at a BBQ in Woodside. My nose feels like it's been raped and I just spilled orange juice down the front of my favorite white tank top.
I am not a good patient...

*PS: She was indeed nuts. Each candidate got to ask the other two candidates a question. Mark and Joe discussed, you know, issues. Carole wanted to know why they were running against her if they claimed to support women. Um, what? Carole's one questions was basically, "Why are you fucking with me?" Apparently, anyone who's not a rich, white male should run unopposed. I love my sisters and all, but that doesn't mean I want to be forced to vote for Sally Kern. At least Carole is finally being nice to my dad...

Thursday, April 17, 2008

um, we're seated under bombs...

Sorry about my lack of posting lately. I lack discipline. But what a week, people!
Get a load of this shit: Tuesday evening, I was interviewed by the LA Times. Why, you're asking yourself, was Beth interviewed by the Street Sheet much less the LAT. Because I'm a Gavin expert? Nope. Because I'm a nerdy blogger? Nope. Because I hang out at old man bars? You guessed it! It'll be in this weekend's LAT, and they took photos last night, most likely of me looking like shit. Which is better than no photo at all, if you ask me.
Then yesterday, Mel and I awoke at the break of dawn to spend the day on the USS Hornet. My trip (in pearls and heels) to the ladies latrine alone is worth about 5 blog posts, but I'm saving that shit (oh, bad word usage) for the Culture Blog. I will merely reveal here that the Governator is bright orange in real life, Willie Brown holds a handshake for a really long, flirty time and Mel and I were asked to be quiet. Asking us to shut up is like telling a kid to sit still in church. We only got louder. Perhaps they shouldn't serve wine with lunch.
FYI, folks, the USS Hornet doesn't go anywhere. Who knew?

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

maybe the extra 't' is for tea...

This is where I'm getting my coiffure touched up from now on:Thank you Matt for this fabulous find...

Monday, April 14, 2008

quote of the day...

"I would love to date someone that Gavin banged."
-Grey Cloud, bored and calling me at work.

After I stopped laughing hysterically, I had him explain. Apparently, the Gavin stamp of approval makes a woman "legit." I pointed out that when Gavin 'was' a raging boozehound, there might have been some rough trade in there.
"So you're saying I might have a chance with the shitty ones?"
No. I'm just saying that perhaps there's a couple of regretful notches on Gavin's bedpost. I'm sure this is fine with GC. After all, this is the guy that made a spreadsheet of all of the women he's bedded, rated in such categories as breast size, sexual ability, coolness, etc.
Keeping in mind that this was a long, long time ago, I made the mistake of asking where I ended up on said spreadsheet.
The only category I'm willing to reveal here is that I was "cool." When I asked what that meant, he responded, "I'm willing to hang out with you sans sex."
Touching.
Much like Big Chris, however, Grey Cloud does a very good job of keeping it real. Cruel and brutal honesty from someone I adore gives me insight into what men really think. And turns out, they actually think things like "I would love to date someone Gavin banged."
Who knew...

Saturday, April 12, 2008

top chef can kiss my ass...

With my mom in New York till the Summer, my Dad's been encouraging my brother and I to come over and "hang out."
Hanging out wth my dad generally means cooking, eating and drinking. So, in the midst of a new love affair with Michael Ruhlman, I said to my dad, "Hey, I wanna learn how to make pate. Maybe I'll come over for a weekend and we can experiment."
My father's face lit up. "We can have people over!"
I type this sitting at my father's desk, with guests to arrive in 3 hours. It's 1000 degrees inside and out, we've got dessert baking in the oven only making it hotter, my dad is out on the deck, repairing his "water element" and I am convinced my pate isn't setting.
None the less, here is our menu:

For drinks:
Smooth 80's style chicken liver Pate with Judy's Crackers.
Cowgirl Creamery Red Hawk Stinky Cheese
Cornichons
Baguette
Whatever Vegan appetizer Alex is bringing for Zoe, our vegan guest.

For dinner:
Stuffed onions, mushrooms and zucchini; a family tradition brought to us from the old world via Ellis Island, literally
Saffron risotto
Butterflied leg of lamb with mint jelly
(gnocchi with wilted baby arugula and herbs from the garden for Zoe)

For dessert:
Strawberry Spoonbread with Strawberry-Rhubarb Compote and Creme Fraiche
Soy Ice Cream and Violet Crumble (again, fo the vegan in da house ... ewww. why did I just type that?)
Coffee, tea, foreign liquor my dad smuggled from somewhere

My mother called from New York, inquiring as to the preparations. "Well, mom. I just set the table and I didn't iron the napkins. I felt bad about it, and then I figured my mother would turn over in her fancy Greenwich Village pied-a-terre as opposed to her grave and thought to myself, fuck it."
She agreed.
Just pray my pate is setting, people. I feel like Colicchio is going to show up to this Quickfire and can my ass...

Friday, April 11, 2008

is no fair...

Last night as I was getting ready to go meet Mel, X and friends for dinner at Bambuddha Lounge, I got a text from Big Chris.
"Wanna get drinks?"
Hmmmm, Chris at the Bambuddha Lounge with the suits. "Sure! I'm on my way to meet some friends." I texted back. I gave him the cross streets and told him it might be "grown-ups."
My phone glowed with his response. "Whatever."
As we sat down to dinner, I wondered how my "burrito buddy" would blend. I mean, after all, this is the guy who built a pyramid of his empty Tecate cans at my parents' dinner party. As the other half of the dinner table dove into a discussion on like, domestic policy, Chris leans over at me and out of the corner of his mouth goes, "Who the hell are these people?"
An hour later, he had the game room of Le Club in hysterics as he dealt cards and tossed out chips around the poker table.
That'll learn me for worrying about my burrito buddy, who was sitting in a crocodile chair in his Air Jordans, telling me to fold while stealing my champagne and wrestling with Melissa...

Thursday, April 10, 2008

baby, you can sign my arm...

Why the hell is he signing a water bottle? Was some little princess to good to let Gavin...
... Tattoo her! He's writing on childrens' skin! What the fuck is going on here?!?!
So then this genius, with a toddler who has no idea what's going on decides to have Gavin autograph the skin of her oblivious child. How would you like it if your nanny comes home with your snotty, drolling offspring and was like, "Hey, I got some politician to write on Madison's arm!" That being said, Gavin can write on me whenever he wants.
You're at a public toilet in Chinatown with a man in a straw cowboy hat.
Thumbs down.
And then this guy couldn't help himself. He probably pushed little kids out of the way and stole their orange slices and carob chips. Note his hair next to Gavin's. I am sitting at my desk gazing at these two frighteningly similar yet reassuringly different coiffures and I can't help but giggle.
Once again, thank you Bill Wilson...

murder he wrote...

This could not be more up my alley.
A couple of years ago, I had the great pleasure of introducing Marin County Coroner, Ken Holmes at an event in Mill Valley. Ken, it turns out, is the coolest man on the planet. At least to a total sicko like me. He gets most of the bridge jumpers and curious dead bodies turning up, AKA: my dream job. Ken also happens to be really laid back and have the most badass headshot of all time. My brother and I cornered him on the steps out front for half an hour, excitedly asking "So what happens to your insides when you jump off the Golden Gate Bridge?" And he just stood there and told us, all matter of factly and unrushed.
Anytime Alex or I see him mentioned somewhere, we immediately call the other with the pertinent information and glowing memories of our time with Ken.
So when Alex IM'ed me the link of a Mill Valley woman, Gertrude Jones going missing in 1964 and JUST turning up murdered in a shallow grave, I was all over it.
Needless to say, the husband did it. Neighbors grew suspicious back in '64 when all of a sudden, the not so bereaved windower showed up with a new Tahitian wife.
No one found the woman's bones until February 7th. Like, THIS February 7th.
Ken's on the case!
So they find out about this missing woman and hear all the gossip on the Tahitian bride and track down the poor murdered woman's neice in Florida who offered a DNA smaple.
It's a match!
Not only that, she was definitely murdered! This was no curious disappearance. Gertrude had a broken neck, a neck that according to Ken, could not be broken by a fall or an accident or "pulling in the dirt around you."
What justice can't solve, as old Mr. Jones kicked it in '87, science can. Rock on Marin County Coroner, Ken Holmes. I think I see a celebrity interview in our future...

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

shelby, drink the juice...

Today's Culture Blog is up! Congratulations Jackie!
And check back at 3pm for the Top Chef recap...

roz's revenge...

I musta got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. But as the picture of mental health, I always know how to take care of myself and get in a good mood. Just watch this:

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

oddly, she hates canadians...

This shit cracks me up. In this morning's always wonderful Leah Garchik column, in addition to a delicious tidbit about Gavin being a neat freak, I read the following:

And Michael Murphy asked about desserts at the new Waterbar, and was told by a very helpful wait person that they are modern versions of the Mexican wedding cookies made for Denise Hale's grandmother. Hale is Serbian- born. "I knew I had one Czech grandmother," she said, "but now I can explain my special affection for Mexicans."

Now all I can picture is Denise Hale spending the previous hundred years or however old she is wondering how come she loves Mexicans so much. It probably kept her awake at night. "Goddamn it, why, oh why do I have such special affection for Mexicans? Is it those delightful little tacos I once had at Charlotte's 'Fabulous Fiesta'? Could it be their fearless use of gold? Perhaps it's that charming Lodovico that washes my cars and dogs? Jesus, I fucking love those Mexicans like nobody's business! I love them! I love them! I love them! Why God? Whyyyy????"
Now we know. Mystery solved. Thank you, Waterbar. Denise can finally sleep a night...

PS: You know they learned it phonetically...

Oh, and vote for Jackie today. Really. Do it. Right now. Today is an election day. Who knew...

Monday, April 07, 2008

boo...

I really do believe in ghosts.
But little brother claims he "had an experience" last night and I'm slightly to mildly dubious.
After a dinner in the Marina by Executive Chef Jeff, in town on holiday from his newest venture, where he made fish for everyone but flawless chicken and pea shoots just for me, Alex went home and crawled into bed.
At 4:30am, Alex woke up to pee.
And then he saw a misty, hazy person ("I get the feeling it's a woman") in a robe without a face walk into his room, take three steps, look at him, and disappear.
Alex. Is. Beside. Himself.
Convinced that he has finally made contact with the "other side", Alex is currently planning his seance party and researching his building. In the hopes that there was some city record of where people died in San Francisco, I called Mel.
"Hey."
"Hey! What's up?"
"Is there a city office for keeping track of where people died?"
"What?"
"Alex saw a ghost last night."
"Shut up! Oh my god, I'm such a believer!"
"Okay, well he wants to find out if anyone died in or near his building. Is that possible."
"Um, let's think. I'll call you back."
While Melissa looks into this municipal information issue, Alex is busy planning a party surrounding this event, 9 of us gathering to contact his new friend, as the group must apparently be divisable by three. I'm in charge of the signature cocktail...

Saturday, April 05, 2008

the better they play, the more cabbage soup they get...

Mel and I are now at the point where we're calling each other asking, "Are we booked on Wednesday?" It's like we're married. We should register for handbags and lipgloss.
Thursday was a party at Richard and Barbara's home in Woodside, where we'd be entertained by a 14 piece Czech jazz band.
In convincing Mel to join me, I promised her free booze and fancy, friendly hosts.
"I'm just going so I can tell people I heard Czech jazz."
After said jazz, we headed back to the city for dinner at PSC, where X met us and we roped him into joining us at, where else?
Hey, he's the one that introduced it to us.
Mel and I spend so much time at Le Club, we should probably start Le Support Group. Derek and Allen treked down to join us and declared their immediate distaste for Le Club. Wait. How can you hate Le Club? It's filled with douchebags who think they get to be douchebags because they think they have a lot of money and it's our job to remind them that's they're douchebags, regardless of their stock portfolio. What's not to like?
I guess beer-drinking straight boys aren't into that. Derek announced, "I put on a collar for this?"
Yep.
It being a school night and all, I crashed at Mel's. The problem with Le Club and Mel's is their proximity to each other. It takes exactly 56 steps, door to door. I counted. This convenient watering hole with it's own gratis Town Car provides the ideal excuse for what X calls "a nightcap."
I headed to work the next day in the same black blazer and jeans from the night before.
Schedules coordinated, Mel and I knew we had cheese class with Cynthia and Dan, our hosts from Napa. I ducked out of work and dashed to my folks' for a quick shower, throwing on the jeans and blazer combo and booking it to The Cheese School.
Yep, we double date at the goddamn Cheese School.
In New York, Dad had wanted to take a class at the famed Murray's, and as it was sold out, I checked out the cheese education scene in San Francisco, hoping I could sign him up for something fun and stinky. Turns out, the Cheese School Schedule is completely sold out. Except for drop-in night. Not so much a class, but a wine and cheese tasting, we dropped $30 on all the wine/cheese you can handle from 6-9pm. It's a great deal and word is clearly spreading. The place was packed. Conveniently, I happened to be with THE wine and food photographer, who will hopefully e-mail the photos I made him take of the Cheese School, and I'll throw 'em up here later.
This is a hot tip, kids. If you at all like cheese and/or wine, it's a hoot with exposed brick, hipsters and yuppies and from now on, me.
You can really drop in anytime from 6 until 9, but getting there early is wise. By 8, we had to rely on Cynthia, or as she's now known, the Little Italian, to throw elbows and fill our cocktail plates full of cheese for us. And as I learned last night, don't fuck with Cynthia. She regaled us with a hilarious story of how she chased down a purse snatcher. I almost knocked over a frame on the wall, I was laughing so hard. We left and had a chatty little walk up to North Beach where we ran into Jackson and had dinner at Capp's.
Oh god, Capp's? I spent 4 years of my life and my liver there when I worked next door. I wasn't able to sneak us into BBB, my clout apparently diminished in the 4 years since I've been there, so we roped Dan and Cynthia into joining us at, where else?
2 nights and 1 outfit in a row, I waltzed into Le Club.
Le Douche wasn't around. But his equally obnoxious twin certainly was.
As I approached the bar, I began chatting with "White blazer."
WB slurred his words and dropped names. Upon hearing, "I know Gavin Newsom," I got the giggles. As Dan and I later discussed, one knows the level of douchebaggery by how soon into a conversation one asks, "What do you do?"
WB asked immediately.
I could've answered with a myriad of responses. In reality, what pays my bills these days is my day job. But I've got a little trump card in my back pocket which I use to either impress or frighten.
"I write for the Chronicle."
Do I mention that I merely write a blog post for the Chronicle's website 1-2 times a week? No. Of course not. That would negate the whole "I write for the Chronicle" trump card.
So WB responds, "Oh god. The Chronicle sucks. It's incredibly boring."
On and on, he went, equating the Chronicle to hobo toilet paper.
"Who's your editor?" He asked, his tone suggesting I didn't actually have one.
"Eve Batey."
"Oh!" he snarked. "Eve Batey. Of course."
"She's amazing! Do you know Eve?" I politely asked. Because I'm one text away from 'my editor' eating WB alive.
"I know of her."
Ooooohhhhh. Whatever, WB.
I then ask what he does. He won't tell me.
I ask his name. He won't tell me.
Finally, he reveals, "All you need to know is, I'm a Turner."
What?
"I'm a Turner."
It's like he was throwing out Astor or Vanderbilt. I felt compelled to question further. "Forgive me, I have no idea what that means."
He rolled his eyes as he rubbed my back. "Ask around."
He then went on to detail his boredom with the Chronicle.
Alright Drunky Douche. I'd had enough. "Well, I certainly hope I haven't bored you this evening. I'm going to excuse myself and go back to my friends."
"I'll find you in a few." He slurred.
Ewww.
As I returned to the table, Mel leaned over, excited. "Oh my god, Bethy! Do we like him?!?!"
No, Melissa. We do not like him.
Dan was drinking 7000 year old something and by midnight, Cynthia the new designated driver was texting their kids not to lock them out. They left us and although we'd met the very nice Alex, it was time to go. But not before Mel stepped outside briefly, leaving me with a German tourist who could not have been less impressed or attracted to me. The second our friends stepped outside, he looked at me and said, "I go now."
Um, okay. I'll...um...pretend to text people on my cell phone from 1973.
Mel soon returned.
"GUESS WHAT!!!!"
What.
White Blazer was outside as well, enjoying a cigarette on the sidewalk. When he saw Mel, he walked up and said, "Whensss your mom getting married?"
Wisely, she ignored him. So he approached several men walking past. The next thing Mel knows, WB is getting his ass kicked. Like pounded on the ground, ass-kicking.
God bless her, Mel promptly walks inside and announces to Colin, "White Blazer over there cannot come back in. He's drunk and he was rude to Bethy."
Wow. It worked.
We split soon after, booking those 56 steps. This morning I woke up, putting on the same black blazer and jeans.
I brushed my hair. I put on make-up. I had a pashmina, for Christsakes. I was remotely presentable.
Since it was so gorgeous outside, I decided to walk the 30 or so blocks back to my car. As I strolled around Nob Hill a few blocks away from Mel's, a man emerged from an apartment building, took one look at me and said, "Walk of shame, huh?"
I wonder what gave it away...

Friday, April 04, 2008

step one, we could have lots of fun...

It's true! It's true! Glory be! Praise Boston! The greatest "band" of all time has reunited and will be releasing new music and touring!!!
For me to say that I was into New Kids on the Block would be like Gavin saying he was into hair gel. They were MY LIFE. 100% of my energy from 1988-1991 was entirely devoted to NKOTB. It was my defining quality. "Oh Beth? She's obsessed with New Kids."
Every wall in my bedroom was covered in posters of a different New Kid, with Joe, much like the Sistine Chapel, taking over the ceiling so I could gaze into his eyes. It would actually startle my parents' guests who would venture into my shrine to drop off coats and purses at cocktail parties. In 8th grade, I sprained my ankle and decided to cover my ace bandage with a gigantic NKOTB bedroom slipper, made to look like a puffy, neon-colored, high-top. How I thought that hobbling around on crutches with this slipper on my foot, LONG after my ankle had healed would be embraced by 8th grade boys was beyond me. I kept two diaries, one detailing my day to day life (including what I wore every day) and another puffy-painted binder devoted entirely to my daily thoughts to Joe, Jordan, Jon, Donnie and last and least, Danny. I still have it. There was this old Bette Midler song called "Night and Day" which I felt entirely captured Joe and my feelings for each other. I would listen to it and gaze out the window of the limo my parents rented to take me and my friend (singular) to and from the concert. The emotion swirling within my descent into puberty was solely focused on New Kids on the Block.
But of course, high school would not allow my passion to continue. I hid my obsession until it eventually faded away. Then, one day (Sept. 9, 2001) Andy and I were both working at Beach Blanket and decided to run down to the Chinatown Wallgreens to get cigarettes and Evian. As we're about to get in line, Andy grabs my purse with such fervor, I thought I was being robbed.
"Andy! What the fuck?"
"Girl, that's Joey McIntrye."
It took me approximately 4 seconds to process this information.
But then I composed myself enough to approach him after he'd purchased his Alpine Spring Water and introduce myself. Wise woman I was at this time, I kept a disposable camera in my bag and asked for a photo. Which is how I ended up on a sidewalk in Chinatown with the very man who I'd planned, all those years earlier, to spend the rest of my life with as soon as I turned 18.
When we got back to work, Zoe thought I'd been in some type of accident. I had to sit on the ground and breathe into a paper bag. Then I called my mother, who responded by laughing for 10 minutes. Anyway, I just couldn't be more clear that no one on earth love(s)(d) NKOTB more than me. No one.
And now they're back together. They're back together! I heard some idiot say it was the 20th Anniversary of NKOTB, but any Blockhead knows that the New Kids were formed on Father's Day, 1985 when Joe was the last to sign on. Maybe they're celebrating the 20th Anniversary of Hangin' Tough, in which case, okay. But to kick off your weekend and because, really, it's worth a re-visit, check out the following video. Could Jon be less into it? No. The best part is when they did the "Step One!" It never occured to me at the time how fucking gay their dance moves/outfits/hair-do's were. Oh, and by the way, I could do that whole number on the stairs.
Really. I'm dead serious.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

quit dancin' and sell my papes...

Extry, extry, read all abut it! I'm in the real newspaper today! You should all go buy one, but just in case you need to save your quarters for laundry or parking meters, HERE IT IS...

Oh, and since you must be dying for the conclusion, here's PART TWO of my CDC saga...

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

nerds and lesbians and hippies, oh my...

HERE IS PART ONE of my comprehensive California Democratic Convention recap. And please, oh please check back at 3pm for my Top Chef recap...

what about the windows...

I love the SFPD. Ask anyone. I was getting in fights about it at the Convention. Melissa kept trying to change the subject. Sure I mock Heath(er) Fong and as much as I want to bed any firefighter within 1000 miles, I have great affection for anyone in the SFPD.
Why?
Two of the greatest men I've ever known rock the nightstick. My beloved, late grandfather, Bob "DA" Spotswood and Big Chris, about to graduate from the Academy. Don't fajita-gate me, hippies. I love cops.
Which is why the SFPD needs to bring me in on THIS case.
A 36 year old was found stabbed to death in his apartment. The apartment was locked, security cameras show him as the only one going in or out, there was no bloody knife laying around and there was no booze or drugs in his system.
But he was stabbed. Repeatedly. To death!
Cue Hitchcock.
Detectives, I can help. I've spent the past 10 years watching every single episode of American Justice, Cold Case Files and Forensic Files. Plus, I'm really fun to hang out with and I'll bring high end coffee and classy pastries from Tartine while we hang out in the middle of the night, staring at our big dry erase board of clues and loosening our holsters.
I'll give you all the credit once I solve this thing, I just wanna be in on the investigation.
Really, really bad...