Friday, May 30, 2008

i like to drink to world peace and say a prayer...

I love Bill Murray.
I've loved Bill Murray since 1983.
I probably loved Bill Murray from the womb.
And I will never stop loving Bill Murray.
Which is why, in light of his divorce and his wife's accusations, I'd like to offer Bill my companionship. I'm a great audience, I'm delighted to hang out at golf courses' (bars), I'll totally smoke weed, I already drink like it's going out of style and I have no problem being smacked around.
Call me...

Thursday, May 29, 2008

oh, this is RICH...

Top 10 Chris Jackson “quotes” as submitted by our awesome commenters!

"Yes We Can."- Chris Jackson
(submitted by Vansmack)

"I do not like them, Sam I Am"- Chris Jackson
(submitted by Lucas)

"ich bin ein berliner"- Chris Jackson
(submitted by anonymous)

"e=mc2"- Chris Jackson
(submitted by Alex)

"I did not have sexual relations with that woman." -Chris Jackson
(submitted by The Sweet Melissa)

"I'm Rick James, bitch."- Chris Jackson
(submitted by anonymous)

"I've got a fever, and the only cure is more cowbell."-Chris Jackson
(submitted by Jackson West)

"Have a goodnight sleep on us! Mattress Discounters!"- Chris Jackson
(submitted by Alex)

"Okay, Bran. Michael Jackson didn't come over to my house to use the bathroom. But his sister did."-Chris Jackson
(submitted by Alex, apparently on a roll)

"A gun rack... a gun rack. I don't even own a gun, let alone many guns that would necessitate an entire rack. What am I gonna do... with a gun rack?"-Chris Jackson
(Oh Alex, you’re too much)

God, these delight me...

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

i really need to let go of this, but...

I think it’s already been established that I’m a cruel, cold, heartless person who enjoys feeling superior even thought I’m well aware I’m the most obnoxious of dorks.
Now that that’s out of the way, get a load of this.
I wrote a sassy little post on SFGate about how I felt mildly dissed at events by political hopefuls Chris Jackson and Mark Sanchez. I haven’t heard a word from Sanchez, but he’s probably just French braiding his mane, and Jackson left a sad comment on my blog…with a link to his website.
You’re campaigning in my comments?
Lame.
So lame, it was hard to let go.
On the hot tip of an anonymous blogger, I went trolling around his Facebook account.
Apparently, Chris Jackson quotes himself in the “Favorite Quotes” section of his profile!
I repeat, he quotes himself!!!
So I cut and paste the quotes in an e-mail to some friends. You know, politicos, bloggers, people who might an enjoy someone actually quoting themselves.

"My best ideas come to me by listening to others"
- Chris Jackson

"Success is not a place nor is it a definition; rather, success is a direction"
- Chris Jackson

"History is not made by those that sit down and meet, History is made by those that stand up and act!"
- Chris Jackson

Then we move into other areas of his profile, bored at work, and looking for pathetic ways to feel better about ourselves. For example, his favorite movies: My favorite movie of all time is The Color Purple. This movie is about one woman's struggle to over-come an oppressive husband and the oppressive society of the South to reunite the her childhood bestfriend. I've watched this movie over 20 times. My second favorite movie is the Shawshank Redemption which is a movie about hope. Other movies that I like are: Roots, Last of the Mojicans, As Good as it Gets, and Wild Wild West.”

Wild Wild West aside, bitchy e-mail responses included “I love that ‘overcome’ is two words and ‘best friend’ is one word,” "Last of the Mojitos is a great movie!” and “Mamacita has the BEST Mojicans.”

Hee hee hee! Oh US.

We got into his favorite books: "I love all books that discuss progressive politics and political strategies. But my all time favorite book is Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Suess.”
The fact that he is running for College Board was lost on none of us.
I’d created monsters.
Nerdy monsters who looked into HIS quotes.
Um, yeah. Let's look at this one again:

"Success is not a place nor is it a definition; rather, success is a direction"
- Chris Jackson

Oh really, Chris?
Then, uh, what about this:

...Gavin Newsom said. "It's not a zero-sum game,'' he said. "You can't say that once we house those 3,000 people, there'll be no one else. There is no having made it on the homeless policy. Success is not a place or a definition, it's a direction. I want to keep moving forward, move in the right direction, that's how we can define success.''

He ripped off Gavin!!! It's so bad, it's almost fabulous...
*Due to the BRILLIANT humor in the comments section, I'm posting the Top 10 Chris Jackson Quotes" up here at 1pm. We can vote on a winner and I'll try to find some snazzy reward for them. Tell your friends! GO!*

security is being alerted as you read this...

Today's Culture Blog is up. Just GUESS what it's about...

payback is apparently a bitch...

At my day job, which I never write about but my boss has assured me I wouldn’t be fired, we put on plays to which we, obviously, sell tickets. Our theater holds 4000 people and I’m one of three people who work year round to make this shit go down as smoothly as possible.
I should’ve known this past Sunday was going to suck when I walked into the theater only to be stopped by a volunteer demanding to know where my ticket was.
“I don’t have a ticket.”
“You can’t come in without a ticket.”
“Wanna bet?”
So I make my way to the theater and set up, reserving seats for my biggest donors and sponsors. Yeah, I try not to deal with the regular folks. I can really only maintain a professional and charming demeanor with people who help me meet my development budget. Sadly, the fancy pants reserved section is right below the disabled section.
Yikes.
So when one of my Board Members came over and found me in deep conversation with someone who basically funds my entire salary, I was a little miffed to be interrupted.
“Someone in Disabled is angry that their ticket was so expensive.”
“Are you kidding me? Disabled tickets are cheaper than our already cheap regular tickets.”
“Yeah, I know. Will you please talk to her?”
“I hate confrontation.”
“Well, someone’s got to talk to her.”
I make my way up to disabled where a little old lady LEAPS from her seat.
“I understand there’s an issue with your ticket.”
“I know you. You’re Beth Spot-wood.”
Oh god. It was Mrs. McHumorless, my 1st Grade teacher.
Now, keep in mind there are 4000 people in this theater, approximately 1000 of which have some kind of issue they want to kvetch about and 2 people to kvetch to. And I’m stuck getting yelled at by this woman who seems to think time has stood still for the past 23 years. Apparently, I’m still 7.
No pleasantries, no asking about what I’m up to, no congratulations on pulling off this massive event…just rude, angry, confused and horrified bitching about $13.
THIRTEEN DOLLARS.
I just stood there and took it, trying to explain that there was a mix-up when she bought her ticket and obviously, we’d try and fix it.
On and on she went, unable to be remotely kind to the very person she taught to subtract.
“Well, let me run up the hill to concessions and try and get you some money.”
It was my passive aggressive way of hoping she’d realized $13 was not worth going down as a cheap ass bitch. Her response?
“Good.”
I was pissed!
So pissed, I didn’t get her the goddamn $13.
Instead, I regaled my office, my parents, my childhood friends with the story. I lay awake at night thinking of all the things I wanted to say to her. On the advice of my father, I actually considered getting $13 in nickels. Seriously, this 10 minute encounter really riled me up.
And I just sent her the following note, via the US Postal Service.
“Mrs. McHumorless, Enclosed, please find the $13 owed to you. I took it from PETTY cash. I thought it appropriate. Regards, Beth SpotSwood.”
Suddenly, I feel so much better…

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

pinching a loaf, etc...

You can imagine my delight at logging onto SFGate first thing this morning and reading about prison life. Talking about getting up on the right side of the bed.
I was particularly taken with this quote from an inmate named "Lexy" currently incarcerated a mere 15 minutes from my childhood home. "We segregate amongst ourselves because I'd rather hang out with white people, and blacks would rather hang out with people of their own race," said Good, 33, of Walnut Creek. "Look at suburbia. Look at Oakland. Look at Beverly Hills. People in society self-segregate."
I really like how, according to Lexy (!), all black people prefer to live in Oakland and all white people prefer to live in Beverly Hills. Finally, someone with answers. So Lexy goes on to talk about the unspoken rules of prison life and much like my wife, I chose to do some research.
Melissa spends days sitting at The Fairmont with her laptop investigating complicated legal issues like she's reading In Style. Hey bitch, I can do that too.
Sorta.
I simply googled "unspoken prison rules."
Which is when I fell in love.
Oh yes. You heard right. I met my first husband by googling "unspoken prison rules." The rest, my friends, will be history and one hell of an episode of Oprah.
"Jonathan" it seems, made the unfortunate decision to lie on his Federal Student Loan Application and ended up doing 6 months in the clink. But, resourceful little felon that he is, Jonathan has turned his experience into a lucrative business opportunity with his website and book, "Federal Prison: A Comprehensive Survival Guide."
Go Jonathan!
You guys...you've got to explore this website fully. It's Tuesday, it's not like you're really going to do any work today and I'm giving you one hell of a link. I mean, my god! Topics include:

Commissary
Counts
Clothing & Linen Issue
Feeding
Hygiene (nice)
Law Library
Personal Property
Reading Material
Recreation
Searches
Telephone Calls
Visitation
Inmate Bedding
Inmate Clothing Attires (my main concern)
Cell Lights
Cell Appearance (fabulous. duh)

I am actually considering investing $67 in this masterpiece since I'll get it back in alimony anyway. Plus, I'm not fiscally sophisticated enough to get charged with a white collar crime, but I can see myself getting a little out of control as a cult leader in which case, I might end up in jail and a comprehensive overview of "Inmate Bedding" would be incredibly helpful.
Actually, Jonathan has some really great teasers in the selling of his book, such as "What to do when offered a 'gift' by another inmate" and "How to navigate the black market."
I'd be all, "Hey Red, I need a rock hammer!" but maybe Jonathan has some better ideas. Like the tempting treasure, "How to watch TV as a new inmate without starting a confrontation."
Awesome. I mean, really. Awesome...

Sunday, May 25, 2008

i won't be handling this well...

According to M&R:
It's official - the invites are in the mail. (Shit.)
San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom and Jennifer Siebel plan to tie the knot at the bride's family ranch in Montana's Bitterroot River valley on July 26. (I now have plans the weekend of July 26th.)
"It's going to be a very natural, Big Sky-type of event," said Stanlee Gatti, a longtime Newsom friend and best man at the mayor's first wedding who is planning the nuptial event.
The 250 wedding guests are being encouraged to book the weekend early, as there are limited options for flights and accommodations in the valley southwest of Missoula. (Although, as the invite notes, the nearby Hamilton airport can handle private or charter flights.)
(This just makes me want to stand on the tarmac giving all of the arriving private jets the finger.)
As for why politician Newsom and actress Siebel would choose to get married so far away from the TV lights and cameras:
"It's always been her dream to be married at the ranch," Gatti said. "It has always been a very special place for her."
(Jesus Christ.)
Just to get things rolling, Sen. Dianne Feinstein and hubby Richard Blum hosted a wedding shower for the couple Saturday night at their Pacific Heights digs.
I just threw up all over the computer, the walls, myself.
I'll do something for the Culture Blog once I recover from the initial horror, but right now, it's 7 in the morning, I'm slightly hung over from Eve's party, I have to go to work and I just read this shit. This is a memorial weekend for my dead happiness...

Friday, May 23, 2008

8 hours to go...

My friend Dale has really fun gay parties. And tonight is his annual 80's shindig. And his birthday!
And every year, I obsess over what to wear.
What to wear!
Dale's like the BEST host. He makes everyone feel so welcome, which in turn means I invite all of my friends. "Oh, you wanna come to a really fun gay party? No, no. He won't care. I swear!"
The only thing is, I feel like if I show up with people, I've really got to rock the 80's vibe. I hate it when people use my house as their own personal bar or restaurant, as opposed to being active guests. So I've, you know, got to be an active guest.
Which means I need to dress like Denise Huxtable. And mingle. With gays.
Shit, this is like my dream Friday night...

Thursday, May 22, 2008

i got your hand signal right here, pal...

Up pre-dawn this morning, I decided to be productive and go swim some laps. The pool opens at 6:30 which is fine by me. I figure that the only people who will show up to a community pool at 6:30am are little old ladies and assholes who take fitness really seriously. So I threw boxers and a sweatshirt over my new Speedo and flip flopped myself down there.
Conveniently our lifeguard was not the standard 17 year old boy, who tends to look exactly like the sort that frightened me with great frequency in high school. It was my friend Katy who is very in charge and officious and upon seeing me rub my chlorinated eyes at the end of every lap, threw me some mercy goggles.
I was off, powering through the water and I could see under there! I watched my hands dive in front of me, pushing the water out of my way with this pretty little trail of bubbles.
I’ve written about my early morning swims before, detailing the complex rules regarding lane sharing. I guess I never fully understood it, but if there’re two people in a lane, you each stick to your half of the lane. If a third joins you, everyone kind of goes in a circle, which means y’all need to swim at relatively the same speed. The thing is, if I’m in a lane with one other person, sticking to my side like there’s no tomorrow, I’m in the zone. I’m not looking around to see if I’m supposed to suddenly change the whole scheme of my lap swim.
So finally, at the far end of the pool (by the waterslide!), I look up to see my lane mate giving me this bizarre hand jive. What the fuck? It was like baseball signals, and I think it’s safe to assume I don’t know any of those, only this was related to recreational swimming. So I’m standing in 5 feet of water, hair stuck to my face, squinting down the lane at this air traffic controller and his angry signals.
It’s not that far, so I dared to speak. “What are you trying to express to me? I don’t know what your hand signals mean.”
Katy came over to explain it to me, when I noticed someone else in our lane.
Oh shit, we’re a three! We need to be circling! And I’m betting, now that I’ve made myself completely look like an idiot, that circling has some sort of hand jive.
Jesus!
Why is this so fucking difficult? Do any of you have a pool? Seriously. Do any of you have a pool? I’ll gladly net leaves out of it and lounge around telling little anecdotes. Ideally, I’d prefer it if you weren’t there, but at this point, as long as I don’t have do the hokey pokey every goddamn time I need to share a lane, I’d be forever grateful…

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

kinda lesbo in retrospect...

I spend a great deal of time worrying that everything I'm doing is really weird.
For example, I spent the past hour sitting in a competition swim suit and men's boxer shorts, downloading lesbian folk music at my father's desk in my parents' empty house.
Weird, right?
Yeah, I knew it!
Goddamnit.
I think I'm coming to terms with my immense and embarrassing strangeness, lest displaying my oddities on the internet not count, and guess what? I also interviewed myself in the mirror today. Yeah! Deal with that! I was on Ellen and we're really good imaginary friends. What's up? You got something to say?
That's what I thought.
Anyway, as I sat here in my bathing suit and man underwear and Indigo Girls (and cucumber sandwiches, if you must know), I got an e-mail from some freak who basically pointed out that my being a total freak on the internet made them feel less like the total freak they obviously are.
Awwww. Psycho fan mail. Yay!
So I figure fuck it.
We're all weird.
You!
Yes, YOU.
You do weird shit. I know it. You eat from the garbage can, regretting that half-eaten burrito you should have never thrown away. You pee in the shower and you pick your nose, just to see what's goin' on in there. You talk to yourself, you imagine you're in a movie montage and you plan your best dreams before you go to sleep. You pretend salsa is gazpacho and you make up stories to strangers because you're bored and you'd rather not tell them the truth. You think being homeless might be a really good diet and you enjoy it whenever Color Me Badd comes on the radio. You throw plastic bottles in the regular trash on occasion. You google people you used to know and still don't really care about. You're beyond singing in the shower and dancing in the car.
You're weird!
It's okay! You know what?
It's normal! NORMAL!
At least to me.
Who's a total freak. In which case, shit.
You're fucked...

maybe i'll rent a boat and row under the bridge solo...

Because my job is so nuts right now, requiring me to work (gasp) 5 (five!) weekends in a row, I have one weekday a week off. And today I'm free!
Toot toot!
Here's today's big plan:
Day of Beauty!
The folks are out of town, so that means I get the big house all to myself. Should this fucking fog burn of, I'll be tanning. I've already completed coat one of my pedicure and I have two blogs to write. I might even take myself to lunch at like, The Buckeye, just because I can. I'll sit there with a Vogue and an attitude and send something back.
Wait! Stop! Hold on a second!
I just realized...I'm in the suburbs!
You know what they have in the suburbs?
TARGET!!!!!
It's still half an hour away, but my mom's little red convertible is sitting right here, begging for a trip to Novato (okay, no one's ever begged for a trip to Novato) AND it has a CD player! A CD player in a car! OMG!
If only I had some CDs.
Anyway, I have today off and I'm beside myself with the possibilities. A hike on this beautiful mountain is noticeably absent from my options, oddly...

*Okay, here's my haul from Target: 1 box of Pinot Grigio (Hi fellas, wanna come over?), 1 3-pack of gym socks, 6-pack of Propel water (lemon), various low-fat Archer Farms products and a scented (linen) candle. And from Marshalls, 1 Speedo swimming suit (for all of my races), 1 pair work-out pants, 1 sports bra, 1 gigantic t-shirt to wear over aforementioned items, 1 pair men's nautical themed boxers and 1 jar Sweet Onion Relish. I really am impressive...

Monday, May 19, 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...

Friday, May 16, 2008

it's raining guys...

In retrospect, I spent a great deal of my life afraid of straight men. You can hardly blame me. They're fucking scary creatures. As opposed to your gay. A good gay is like a Glinda the Good Witch with a dick and an attitude. 
So basically, perfect and well dressed. 
But in the past few years, I've become very close with some magnificent straight guys. 
You know when someone is described as "a good guy"? 
As in, "No, really. He's not like that. He's a good guy."
Yeah, I've got some of those. Really good guys. Good, funny, cute, smart straight guys are my friends! OMG. Who knew? 
Note I omitted the word 'single'. Many of them are taken, and rightly so. 
One even got engaged this very night! 
After all, they're good guys. 
I love my good guys. I really do love them.
I'm amazed at how not scary they are, how they show up when they say they're going to show up, how they call when they say they're going to call, how they mock me to no end but will help me move furniture and buy me party ice and roll their eyes when a 'not good guy' has done me wrong, saying, "He was a douche, Spots. I always thought so. Fuck him."
I love my good guys. I really do love them. 
Mainly because they'll watch Forensic Files with me and, in the instance of Big Chris, get me nail polish remover. I really could've gotten up myself, it was just in the bathroom, but Big Chris always makes a big display of treating me like a boy. I wanted to see if he'd do it. And after like, 35 minutes he did. 
Now this will not happen again. I mean, I argued with a cop for 35 minutes, which ended with him walking 20 feet away, and then returning with nail polish remover. I'm amazed he still speaks to me. 
But he does. He shows up early. He calls me back. He takes out my recycling. He's a good guy. 
Well folks, I announce with great excitement, that one of those good guys who's been away for a very long time is coming home!
I just sent the following e-mail to my dear friend who has been protecting your right to be an asshole:
"The marvelous thing about actual mail is that I've been checking my mailbox with baited breath every fucking day and then suddenly, red and blue foreign envelope! From the military! That can only mean one thing!
And then the news that you're on your way home!
I don't care if I'm the last one to know. I got to find out the best way.
Hazaa! Thank god! And alive, even!
I could not be more excited to sit in the corner of Lil's with you and hear everything.
Back!!!!!! Fabulous...."

Yay! Another good guy to bring party ice...

*I trying to find you a good MOI blog to link to, I found this jem and had a moment...

this is the worst shit I've seen in my life...

I know, I know. It's Blockhead blasphemy.
But what the fuck is this! This is worst goddamn performance I've ever seen in my life. Who choreographed this shit? It's embarassing to watch! I mean, when they take off their jackets, Jon who's apparently now like, 64 years old, kinda folds it and delicately places his blazer in the stage. He looks like my dad at the Father/Daughter Dance. This shit is pathetic! Scantilly clad back up dancers? Vests! What the hell is going on!?!?!

I give up. I cannot believe I devoted the entirety of my tween years to this middle aged display of desperation. Donnie Wahlberg was in movies! Joe was on Broadway! Jon sold real estate! Why are they doing this? I'll have you know, the youngest on this stage will turn 35 on New Years, FYI. God, I feel like I've just been on a cheap cruise...

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

did i ever tell you about david...

Vansmack (not his real name, conveniently) is a new friend of mine, he and his wife -the charming doctor who'll look at your rash for free- being two of the fabulous Mrs. Griffwood has brought into my life. (cue doves, sunsets, flamingos.)
Over too much wine one night, Vansmack and I discovered a shared love of...shit...something.
I forget.
Anyway, we got on the author Bill Buford. I am a huge fan of his recent book, Heat. And Vansmack is a fan of his first book, Among the Thugs. As you can read a coupla posts down, Van sent Thugs to my office.
After spending last night collapsed on Mel's bed at 3am wearing a "Proud Daughter of Vietnam Vet" t-shirt to sleep, I'm spending tonight alone at my folks, both absent.
Even at 30, I'm still a latch key kid.
I guess I'm old. I want to stay in, remain silent, take a lukewarm bath and go to bed at a reasonable hour.
And I've got this book, some vegetarian sushi and a bottle of Chenin Blanc.
Holla!
For the past hour, I've been out on the deck trying to find some wind by my dad's "water element" while reading Thugs.
I am in heaven.
And more importantly, it reminds me of my old friend David. So much so, I had to get up and write a blog post about it (while listening to my dad's newly installed "iTunes" to go with his brand new "iPod").
Here goes:
The first official job I had after college was Beach Blanket and the first person I noticed there was David, the breathtaking 23-year old British Marine who decided to backpack around America one day and never returned to the Empire.
Fabulously, he met a woman on a cable car, offered her a jelly bean and married her.
I loved him instantly.
I was Member 548 of his fan club.
He was (is, I imagine) from Durham, England right on the Scottish border. Basically David was Billy Elliot, grown up and stunning, singing Police songs backstage and punching the walls whenever something went wrong. In my wide eyes, he was amazing. He was perfect. He knew all the words to the A-Team theme. He held my hand for 17 minutes. He gave me the occasional knowing look. He was nice to my parents and he'd make fun of my laugh. He was from some magical, charming, British man-planet.
Ask Zoe. He was AWESOME.
In the afternoon, he'd come down to the costume shop and say things like, "I was bored this week and meant to call you."
And then I'd want to collapse into the sea of sequined gowns at my feet.
He was the person I first really, truly adored.
And he adored football.
He loved it so much, he invited me to join him at 6am on our day off to watch soccer in a bar. I was probably up ay 4am, piling on red (as instructed) and begging my then 17 year old brother to come with me.
It was shitty. His team lost and he refused to hide his horrible mood.
I only loved him more.
One night at Martuni's, he kissed me. And another night, at Mad Dog and the Fog we had a long talk. One of those talks that everyone gets to have but it was my very first. I told him the shit that was the most personal, embarassing, horrifying crap I have to offer and he told me about the absolute horrors of being in a war and the time he was engaged in a sex act in his parents' living room and suddenly discovered them walking up the driveway.
David said things like, "I once had a cat named Smokey. Ironically she died in a fire" and "Ty, it's a good thing you last name isn't Pryter. Otherwise, your name would be Ty Pryter."
The level of my swooning was Guiness-worthy.
And every page of this book (I've now spent an hour hovered over) reminds me of David.
Who interestingly, left his wife, joined the American Marines and last I heard was in Bagdhad. In fact, the very last time I saw him was when a group of us all met up at the Midnight Sun and as I walked in, I heard a dry, British voice announce, "Speaking of gorgeous women..."
As a result, anytime I see a soccer ball, SWOON.
Can you blame me...

dim lightbulb...

Melissa and I went to dinner last night and pretty much pissed off our surrounding tables. Why? Because we came up with an idea we found so hilarious, we were unable to contain our delight. As Melissa threw her head back, she squealed, "Oh shit, I hope this is as funny tomorrow!"
Let's see, shall we?
We want Dan to photograph a 2009 Calendar called "A Year of The Griffwoods." This glossy and useful calendar will feature monthly themed photos of us and helpful holidays, such as "Today is my ex's birthday. Go take a piss."

Here's the breakdown:
Cover: Black and White serious beatnik photo of us smoking cigarettes at a cafe.
January: Beth's Birthday (TBD)
February: Melissa's Birthday (TBD)
March: Us with a leprechaun (diminutive volunteer needed)
April: Pillow fight
May: Us sitting on a couch with our matching laptops
June: Our lesbian wedding (we'd be in tuxedos and the Brians would be our bridesmaids)
July: Sitting on the laps of servicemen waving American flags
August: As Mustard Day falls within August, we will wrestle in a baby pool filled with high end mustard
September: Our memorial to the tragic events of September 11
October: We will dress as each other for Halloween. I'll not eat for a year, wear a business suit and heels, constantly text people, drink Scotch and ignore gentleman callers. Melissa will wear a party dress, flats and a short wig, sip a martini, be caught mid-sentence and have a cell phone from 1956
November: I'm a Pilgrim giving booze and poker chips to Squaw Melissa
December: Us in bed under the mistletoe with Santa, a role we will auction off to support our favorite charity, The Fly Eyes African School for Girls.

In our defense, we plan to print 3 of these and sell them for $0.60. And it took us like, 2 hours of hysterical, scene-causing laughter to come up with this concept.
Hmmm. In the sober light of day, it still tickles me, but I find us wildly obnoxious and rude. I can see why we spend so much time together. No one else would be able to stand us...

i love getting mail...

Dear Vansmack,
This morning, your package arrived on my desk. (Ewwww, you know what I mean.) I really feel that our friendship has reached a whole new level.
Yancy's, Le Club, Napa, the Dump ... our time together is always fabulous of course. But when I looked at the cover of this book and saw it described as "grotesque, horrifying, repellent and gorgeous" I felt truly understood for the first time in my life.
As for your attached instructions, you didn't specify a due date. Monday is too vague. I look forward to discussing this AT LENGTH with you over pints and chips.
Yours in literature,
Spots

shalom baby, part two...

Your Wednesday Culture Blog is up, kids. Happy Hump Day...

five minutes ago...

"I'm sorry. I don't speak DOUCHEBAG!"
~Melissa, convinced I was being disrespected at Le Club, in response to said Douchebag stating, "We're not understanding each other."

(Even the waitress was like, "Sorry, but that was good...")

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

ah, that's better...

I have had the same nightmare since I was a little kid. It always starts with a weird car coming up my parents' driveway in the middle of the night and I'm home alone. Seriously, even just typing that is freaking me out. So of course, an hour ago I shot out of bed, knowing that if I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep, scary people would get out of that weird car. It doesn't sound as terrifying as it feels, trust me. 
And what am I doing to calm my paranoia down in these pre-dawn hours?
Oh, I'm watching Monster
I actually don't regard Aileen Wournos as a serial killer, even though technically, she meets the requirements, so I can't say she's my favorite. But I've always really liked Aileen and felt, as she might say, that she got a bad rap. Lore has it that the last song Aileen listened to before the great state of Florida killed her, was Carnival. And now, of course, I can't hear Carnival on KFOG without staring out the window being overly dramatic and thinking about Aileen. 
I think I kind of miss her.
You know who I blame? Tyria. (God, these white trash names delight me.)
"Ty" was played by Christina Ricci in the movie and was renamed Selby for some reason. Anyway, Ty basically sold Aileen out, which under fear of incarceration and pressure from the feds is mildly understandable. But to hear Ty interviewed today, which thanks to YouTube is remarkably easy, you'd think they barely knew each other.
Um, recorded phone calls speak otherwise Ty.
But Aileen, who was never exactly playing with a full deck of cards, confessed to everything so her not-so-loyal lover Ty wouldn't be burdened with a criminal charge, or according to the interview I just saw, dental care. 
Doesn't this break some kind of lesbian law? 
Anyway, I'm slightly concerned about my mental state when I wake up from a bad dream and calm myself by watching Monster at 5am...

Monday, May 12, 2008

alexander peterson anthony spots...

My baby brother finally turned 25 this weekend.
My little Biscy.
My head scratcher.
My pooker pants.
My brother, my best friend, the only person I'd take a bullet for had a birthday.
And last night, the immediate family (sans my mom, who's still having lunch with celebrities in the Village) had drinks at Lazlo and dinner at Maverick.
My brother is a magical creature, much like a unicorn or forrest nymph. He's nice to everyone, he opens doors, he texts brilliant jokes out of the blue. He knows my deepest, darkest secrets, he's drives accross town in the middle of the night when I'm broken hearted, he rubs my back during turbulence and eats the seafood off my airplane salad before I have the chance to gag. My brother makes one hell of a crouton and gives 10 minutes hugs for no reason. My brother is the most peaceful little 6'5" kitten you could ever hope to meet, but the closest I've seen him fight was when a douchebad "disrespected" me in a bar. My brother and I have an odd bond, a bond built from being the only two children in a very weird family. We don't need to speak, we don't need a look, we don't need any formal declaration of sibling committment. My brother is the best guy I know and more important to me than anything I could possibly imagine. My whole death penalty opinion is based on my theory that "The death penalty is wrong, unless someone fucks with Alex."
So, you know, Happy Birthday Biscuit!
Kate and I, over split entrees and our second bottle of Pinot planned our trip to New York and Washington DC together. Kate's moving to DC for her fancy new job and her fancy old boyfried. Jeff heads up a new restaurant and we can eat and sleep fa free in DC. And my mother's still in Ducky's apartment, So we're taking the train up and down the East Coast together, holding hands and playing MadLibs.
I'm very excited and look forward to dipping my toes in that Atlantic cesspool. I was so nice to dive into our shared steak and pasta and plan our adventure, calling Jeff and insisting upon hotel suites and assuring Kate that she won't be lonely so far away.
Anyway, Happy Birthday Lex and I'm right behind ya, Kate.
I had a really good weekend...

worst case scenario...

My beloved roommate is moving to San Diego to open the new Jimmy Choo boutique. Yeah, that's why my feet look so hot lately, I'm rollin' in JC's. Anyway, Joe's having a going away party on Friday night and this morning, over our daily joint viewing of DListed, he grabbed my laptop.
"I need to check my e-mail. Go switch that skirt."
See? This is why I need to live with a gay. All of a sudden, I hear a scream, "How have you not even viewed my Evite!?!?!?!"
Um, what Evite? Oh Em Gee. I missed an Evite.
Joe immediately logged on to my e-mail account and found it in my junk mail.
Junk mail? I would rather your beloved comments end up in my junk mail than AN INVITATION!
We were hysterical and instantly penned a letter to the slackers at Evite.
At work, I logged on to my Evite account to officially RSVP to Joe's invitation and then clicked on that "See all invitations" link.
NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
There were 6. SIX! I almost fell off my chair. Me miss a party? Impossible.
WTF, Evite?
So, hot tip from me to you. Check your junk...

Friday, May 09, 2008

what is that? an extra from boogie nights...

Oh Film Festival parties, I love you.
Last night was Closing Night of the San Francisco International Film Festival and I thought I was getting there fashionably late at 10pm.
Mais non.
I hung out in that cesspool for a while, chatting up a gal who remembered me from my Evolution: The Musical article and promised to find me and introduce me to the dude whose name I fucked up.
Oh great. That's what I want to do. Eat crow to some part-time waiter.
(Phil, I'm kidding. I love you. Really. Seriously.)
My phone blared with X calling, demanding to know why I wasn't at Le Club. Um, some of us have other things to do, X.
Oh, who'm I kidding. I told him I'd be there later.
During my call, Major the Music Video Guy came up and all Hollywood-like, gave me a hug and a kiss while I was on the phone acting like being on the phone is a club is totally acceptable. He was wearing sunglasses in a darkly lit party and was bored by the VIPs.
Love it. Love life. Love Major.
Goddamnit, where the hell is Jackson.
Oh. Nevermind. There he is.
Jackson appeared and we mocked...well, anyone we found offensive.
We headed upstairs in search of Major when Jackson ran into Chris and I ran into Gia and Rick.
Gia and Rick! I LOVE Gia and Rick! They're those people who I see every 6 months and every time I see them, they're bringing up old stories and inside jokes and making me feel important and cool. Then we saw Publicist Liz and her boyfriend and then the dude whose name I fucked up came over (Steve, you're the best!) and we all hung out and it was lovely.
Yay! Fun cool people at fun party with free drinks. I love you, May 8th!
So 5 minutes after that, I was done.
I know, I know. I have social ADD.
I split, heading out to the front door and having some charming gentleman with a Secret Service earpiece hail me a cab.
"Beth!"
Jackson was on the sidewalk smoking.
"We're going to Le Club." I yelled. "Get in."
Much to my amazement, he agreed.
So we arrived to a packed Le Club, but were delighted to find X had saved THE table and settled in for drinks, running into Art Bruzzone who is always surprisingly charming. Both times I've hung out with Art, I'm always like, "Oh shit, this guy's gonna ask me mean questions!" and I always end thinking, "Oh Art, you're such a class act!"
Anyway, X left and Jackson and I ended up chatting with an old gay. I was sipping my drink, rolling my eyes, wondering why the fuck Jackson was so enamored with Grandpa McQueen. Turns out, it was (dude I've never heard of)!
OMG!
Alright. It was time to go home, with Colin the black British bouncer (Mel loves him, FYI) insisting that I take the Le Club Town Car back to my ghetto, and I have to admit, it was a fun, folks.
Super fun.
Crazy fun.
Yay Thursday!
Oh SFIFF. Don't end. Have more parties. You can even invite Jason Lee!
Oh wait. Who'm I kidding? No you can't...

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

what's thalidomide...

The evening crowd at GhettoGym is entirely different from the early morning people and the mid-morning weekend people. I know this, you see, because I follow absolutely no routine and only show up in that armpit when I have absolutely nothing else on earth to do. 
Like tonight. 
One of life's great tragedies, other than the fact that if I plan to live an elastic-waist-denim-free life, I need to try really fucking hard, is that there are too few treadmills. No matter where I've gone (other than my brother's fancy and subsidized club) there's always a line for the goddamn treadmills. Lord help the poor soul that doesn't notice said line and leaps at the suddenly free 'mill. It's like Gym Faux Pas Number 423 and I won't be a party to that humiliation. 
I'll settle for an eliptical. It's less lame than a stationary bike, I can tell you that much. 
So tonight, I'm jamming away to my "Cardio Mix 2" when I saw an enthusiastic gay marching my way. Cheerily, he hopped on the eliptical right next to me, offering an anticipatory look that implied his desire to chat. 
As my brother once asked on a pan-Pacific flight in which Jason the flight attendant and I bonded, exactly what the fuck is it about me that's like a flashing neon sign proclaiming "Fag Hag, Open 24 Hours."
Hey Homo, I don't want to chat about leggings and Cher and South Pacific when I'm plugging away at minute 23 on this torture device. 
He began listening to what I can only imagine to be techno, marching away with a big smile on his face and an occasional glance my way. Allow me to admit, "Cardio Mix 2" is the greatest Cardio Mix of all time. Why? Because I will listen to shit you haven't thought of since 5th Grade and once you remember it, you'll be all, "Up my incline, trainer!"
"We Didn't Start the Fire" anyone? Maybe a little "Hip to Be Square"? Then we segue to "Electric Avenue"? Yeah, what's up. It is awesome. And the only reason I ever make it to the dreaded minute 23. I'm always like, "Well, let me see what's next." An then it'll be "Walking on Broken Glass" and I'll breeze on through to minute 37. 
Also, when I work out, I'm either looking at my arms and legs hoping to watch them get instantly thinner or staring at myself in the mirror, pretending I'm in my own female-empowered video montage, where I'm going through a really difficult divorce with a high powered asshole who's just left me for someone younger, prettier and dumb. 
Hey, whatever works, right?
Anyway, so caught up in "We Didn't Start the Fire" was I, I inadvertently made eye contact with Happy Gay in the mirror. Oh no! 
"Hi!"
Oh my god, why are you talking to me???
I gave him an exhausted, exasperated look. "Hi."
"Were you in yoga yesterday?"
I now had to remove my earphones. 
"Um, no. I haven't been here since Saturday."
"Oh my god, really! If I don't come every day, I like, die."
I hate you, Tiffany. 
But because I'm plagued by Catholic guilt, I chose this opportunity to compliment him. "Are you nuts? Look how hot you are. Go home and have a BonBon."
From that moment on, me and my divorce were history. 
Bitch even walked me out. 
Oh god, I don't want a gym buddy. I don't need another excuse to blow off all that is necessary. And yet, I think I may have just inadvertently added a new gay to my queer, nelly mix.
And trust me, there's no what this queer knows any hot, employed straights...

top gay...

My TOP CHEF recap is up! Alas, my bitches, you'll have to wait until tomorrow for a Culture Blog, as I hit some big film festival parties last night and was too inebraited to instantly write about them...

shalom, baby...

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

what? too soon?

Kelsey, Alex and I made a big dinner last night, sitting around and playing with our food while watching The Patriot.
The Patriot is one of those movies that comes on basic cable at 10am on a Sunday morning and I get really excited. Actually, ideally there's be The Patriot on like, TBS and something equally cheesy on USA, like Father of the Bride, so I could flip back and forth during the commercials.
Christ, Melissa and I hung out in our hotel room all morning watching American Pie 57 and were in hysterics. But that's just between us. I mean, really. How embarassing.
Anyway, I've loved The Patriot for years. I own it on VHS! But something about it is different for me now.
Yep. You guessed it. Heath Ledger.
The whole drooling after Gabriel and his wide-eyed passion for freedom is kinda ruined now that he's, you know, dead. It's a little like watching Superman. I can't really get into it because I keep thinking, "Look at him walking around. Wow. Weird."
Anyway, I hope nothing happens to Daniel Day Lewis because Last of the Mohicans is my life.
Which brings me to the Joke of the Day, courtesy of my super classy brother:
What's the difference between Heath Ledger and Heath Ledger jokes?
Heath Ledger jokes get old...

Sunday, May 04, 2008

screw the city...

Girrrrl, I'm back from Napa.
And I gots some stories...(mainly that I made pasta and mayonnaise from scratch with Cyn and Dan....so basically that means some guy that needs a crane to leave his house just fell in love.) I'm moving to Napa ASAP. I mean it.
Anyway, I had a lovely time this weekend.
En interim, I'll be there every weekend...

Friday, May 02, 2008

it's probably me...

GhettoGym never, ever fails to disappoint. 
Just for the record, I didn't move from the eliptical because I was working out next to a guy with Downs Syndrome, I moved because a treadmill suddenly became available. And because God is always watching and judging, as soon as the treadmill next to me became available, I was forced to work out next a cast member from The Hills. It was if she leapt from the pages of some type of fashion forward fitness/safe tanning/natural beauty magazine to make me feel like a low end drag queen/female rugby player. At least the retarded guy made me feel smart. 
As I have learned in my years of sporadic gym attendance, girls like this don't go to the gym alone. They always have some guy with a bicep barbed wire tattoo making sure no one talks to their property. I immediately started looking around for the likely suspect. I didn't have to wait long, mainly because he came up and took her bottled water as she ran UPHILL on that treadmill like she was running for her life. 
When I tell you that this chick was perfect, I'm not kidding. Shit, I'd fuck her. And yet her boyfriend was on the other side of town from hot. He was wearing those super shiny, too big basketball shorts and a sleeveless black t-shirt, in addition to the requisite indoor baseball hat. Worse, he was stretching in front of the mirror (why does this require Evian?) and as he stretched, leaning back and forth with his legs spread, admiring his douchebaggery, he framed his package with his hands. 
Like right out there, without a care in the world. 
Talk about retarded. 
If a guy like that can snag my treadmill neighbor, I'm going to need to start adopting cats. But then I thought about it. Shit, I've pulled guys a hell of lot hotter and hipper than this goober, and I can't mosey at that incline, much less do it in a flimsy tank top with a built-in bra. I was perplexed, really because I didn't want to do that obvious, "Oh, hot blonde chick must be dumb." Hey, I'm all for sisterhood. 
I'm sure she's a rocket scientist. 
Who dates a guy who frames his manhood with his hands in front of a public mirror.
Who'm I kidding? Some stereotypes are apparently true. So I ask you, who's the real retard...

rutherford pd, this is your warning...

The Missus and I are heading up to Cynthia and Dan's this weekend, where Cyn will teach us how to make pasta and Dan will put us to work moving wine or twisting bottles or...something with booze. Anyway, Cyn and Dan are pretty much the warmest, friendliest, funniest people you could hope to be friends with, mainly because they'll invite you to their pad in Napa, feed you, make fun of you, refill your booze after every sip and proclaim you a literary genius.
I love them.
Anyway, Derek and Dr. Leslie are joining us in the evening to eat and drink the fruits of our labors. Then we'll all head across the street and share a hotel suite.
How I love being a power-couple.
And I always look forward to hanging out with Derek.
Why?
Allow me to quote from a night at Le Club, which incidentally, Derek hates:
"Dude, I was an awesome single guy. You shoulda known me when I was single. I mean, I'm a great married guy, but Beth, when I was single, I rocked. You missed out..."

highlights abound...

I went to a lesbian bar last night. 
Wait. Hold on. I'll back up. 
Be_Devine and I planned to meet up for Happy Hour somewhere in the Castro, as Brian Part Deux had to work nearby. In the absence of straight bars, we considered Mecca. BD can't go anywhere without first visiting the establishment's website and upon checking out Mecca, discovered that Thursday night is "Ladies Night."
OMG! Lesbos!
So we decided to meet at Lucky 13, which technically a straight bar, has a kinda scary clientele. After one drink, where I interviewed Brian (check back later for the "Stalker"), it suddenly seemed like a good idea to check out some lesbians across the street at Mecca.
I should also point out, Brian is the most protective date a gal can have. Walking towards Dyketown, some creepy old man mumbled something at me. 
What'd he say!?!?!?!" Brian screamed, while wrapping his arm around my shoulders. 
"He said, 'Nice necklace' Brian. Jesus."
Anyway, as we walk into Mecca, I suddenly grew concerned. "How's my hair? Do I look cute? OMG, lesbians!"
I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't at Mecca. There were a bunch of well-dressed business lesbians standing around. And uh, that's about it. There was only one seat at the bar, which of course Brian let me have, and we chatted away until we saw two people leaving, providing an opportunity for both of us to sit together. The woman who was sitting next to them moved over a seat, now leaving an empty seat on either side of her. 
"Um..." We were already standing right there with our drinks looking like freaks. "Are you...?" I didn't know what to say. As we all know, I'm kinda afraid of lesbians. 
"I'm sitting here." She stared us down. 
Okay. We were back to our one seat and finished our drink. "This is boring." I sighed. "Let's go meet Brian and Mel for dinner."
So I stand up and place my handbag on the TEMPORARILY empty chair next to me, while Brian pays. 
"Excuse me!" Oh god. Here we go again. "That chair is taken!!!!"
The stunned looks on our faces were mistaken for confusion. She felt the need to further explain. "My girlfriend is coming right back. She's just talking to someone RIGHT OVER THERE!!!!!" Then, for dramatic effect, she points across the bar to one of the many, middle aged women with short, choppy highlights. 
Yeah, Ellen. We got it. So I respond, "Relax. We're leaving." And promptly grabbed Brian, booking it to meet our spouses at Home.*
So we've leaned two more facts about these mysterious lesbians. 1: They all have highlights. And 2: They're really fucking touchy about barstools...

*In planning a summer house rental, Brian and I worked out our guest list. "So there's us."
"And by us, you mean?"
"The Devinbitzs and the Griffwoods."
"Oh my god, we're gay."