Wednesday, July 30, 2008

in my hand basket...

Today's Culture Blog is up! 

facebook is my life...

Melissa, the Brians and I are hosting our first fabulous AIDS fundraiser! I care deeply about philanthropy. Basically, a bunch of bars in San Francisco are donating one night's profits to the Stop AIDS Project and anyone can host a bar. 
We've got Harvey's. Because we're THAT gay. 
So I created a Facebook event and invited all of my Facebook "friends."
First of all, I believe Facebook protocol states that if you don't plan on attending, you simply NEVER RSVP. I cannot believe how many of my blatant social climbing "Facebook Friends" couldn't hit "not attending" fast enough. I know who you bitches are. And I will not forget this appalling slight. 
Second of all, my co-host and wife just sent the following: "NOTE TO PEOPLE! Next time, do not invite a bunch of people who live outside the Bay Area and obviously are not going to attend. Our "no" list is embarassingly long."
This cracks me up. We fail miserably as socialites. The thing is, the people who immediately said they were coming are lovely friends who figured they might as well help fights AIDS and have some drinks with us. Them, we don't care about. But the bitches who race to their computers to reject us and hate people with AIDS? Oh yeah, we're pissed...

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

i am in love with josh lyman and i will be until the day i die...

I am home sick. 
I'm bored. I'm cranky. And I've discovered something. 
I will never get over The West Wing. Never. And you can watch it on You Tube, like, constantly. Years ago, Zoe and I would spend our afternoons sitting on the floor of her apartment and drooling over the verbiage of Aaron Sorkin. All we wanted was to be interns at the White House and banter. 

Even better, internet psychos make tribute videos. Um, these are my people. While I don't know that I'd ever invite one of these freaks over to my home for cocktails and charcuterie, I have a deep appreciation for their sick, sick art...
The highlight of my day yesterday was Jackson calling for a quote. Oh yay! I'm getting quoted on the interweb. I then ordered Chinese food, didn't eat it and went to bed. 
God, I hate being sick. 
I really just need Josh Lyman to come over with some Savignon Blanc and scented candles so we can snuggle and watch The Neverending Story on VHS. Is that too much to ask...

Saturday, July 26, 2008

my coach is now a pumpkin...

When I was a little girl (yeah, it's one of those posts), I used to drool over the Bergdorf Goodman Christmas catalog gowns. I imagined adulthood as a non-stop black tie affair and all I wanted was to be swathed in taffeta and diamonds for all of my days. 
I love getting dressed up. I have my entire life. Shit, I majored in fashion design. And to this day, the touch of taffeta and tule gets me giddy. 
My "uncle" Greg is a huge force behind the current Festival of Sail and last night was the Captain's Black Tie Dinner at the Argonaut Hotel. Executive Chef Jeff has been flown out to cook for 300, Mel and the Brians were coming and I needed a gown. 
I tried on a dress in New York. It was perfect, and for all intents and purposes, the dress Elizabeth Perkins wore to the Christmas Party in Big. But I didn't want to drag a big dress across the country and really, I never thought I'd rope my peeps into shelling out cash to black tie it up over some sail boats. 
Lo and behold, my peeps were in. Shit. I shoulda got that dress.
I took Wednesday afternoon off work and scoured Union Square. But, you know, me in a gown is like Dorothy Zbornak at a dance-a-thon. I look like Mother of the Bride. And here I was yesterday morning, with a ball to attend and not a thing to wear. Becky suggested David's Bridal. 
"Are you nuts? Des Moines is a long way to go for a dress."
Melissa laughed hysterically at the concept of me in a David's Bridal buying from the rack, but the seed was planted.
Worse, I woke up Saturday morning with some kind of weird pinched nerve in my back. I could barely move and didn't get on the road to Colma (the closest David's Bridal) until 1pm. Which of course is when Jeff calls. 
"I'm prepping in the kitchen. Come down and hang out with me."
"Jeff, I need to buy a gown."
"Really? Buy somethin' pretty."
Yeah, not all of us get to wear a white coat with our name embroidered on it. God, spending the afternoon with my fancy chef friend as he prepares fancy dinner for 300 is my own personal heaven and I couldn't go. Shit. I shoulda bought that dress. 
And thus, I found myself at a David's Bridal in Colma trying on gowns alone as excited brides to be swirled around me with their moms and best friends. It was mildly depressing until...oh god. Taffeta! Tule! And I'm a size smaller!
I came home, spending 4 hours getting ready. My tux-clad gay date was on his way to pick me up for a pre-party at Mel's. My hair was acceptable. My lips were red. My ears were heavy with fake diamonds. And I was in taffeta and tule. 
I called Mel. 
"Um, I got something. It's a little over the top but I'm never taking it off. Mist, I am beside myself with glee."
And then the zipper broke.
Ladies, if you're going to a black tie event and really like your ensemble, don't dance around your house in it. You might fuck it up. 
Well, shit. Like I said, I majored in fashion design. I sewed myself right back into my silver taffeta skirt. Hey, I might meet a captain who could rip it off me. 
Devine picked me up and we brought champagne to Mel's. Mr. Leubitz running late because he had a pro-tranny protest to attend. 
(Ewww, trannies. Don't ruin my prom, Leubitz.) Melissa, of course, didn't go to David's Bridal to get a dress. Melissa could take a shit in the middle of a sidewalk and still be gorgeous. Thus, Melissa wore a champagne colored beaded gown which just happened to be hanging in (one of) her closet(s) begging to be displayed. Ugh, if she wasn't so fabulous, we'd hate her. 
We headed down to the Argonaut where I ran into a million of my parents' friends and my new BFF, Aaron Peskin. 
Say what you want, bitches. I fucking love this guy. Seriously. I always imagined Peskin to be really unfriendly and intimidating. Nope. He's fuckin' lovely. And he can drunk dial my ass anytime. I kind of want to invite Mr. Supervisor over to watch You've Got Mail and drink Prosecco while we discuss public transit and do each other's hair. 
You know, it's not often I find myself covered in floor length taffeta shooting Grey Goose direct from an ice sculpture and chatting with Aaron Peskin literally AS Gavin said 'I Do'. 
I was tempted to pat myself on the back and call some people that were mean to me in high school. 
Which is when some absolutely dreadful woman in turquoise loudly told Brian, who'd, at my urging been wearing Mel's fedora, that it's impolite for a man to wear a hat indoors. She said it as if she was correcting a grandchild and quite frankly, I was beside myself. 
Oh. No. She. Didn't.
Number One, this bitch was talking to a 35 year old, incredibly civicly involved philanthropic attorney who'd gladly shelled out $200 because he's a great guy and my good friend. 
Number Two, the executive chef will let me spit on anyone's entree. Do not fuck with us. 
Number Three, I think it's way more rude to tell someone AT A BLACK TIE EVENT that Emily Post might question their ensemble than it is to wear a hat indoors. Miss Turquoise Manners needs a little class class herself. How dare she (not realize who she was talking to). 
That's the thing with this high falutin' shit. All of my glee at getting dressed up, my delight at gratis  Grey Goose shots and my joy in occasionally getting to feel personally connected to fancy shit always gets momentarily ruined by some dilettante who doesn't know their place. 
Well, fuck her and her bolero. We're at the kids table!
Each table gets a real, live ship Captain and our table, the kids table, had Nolan, or as Mel called him all nigh, Capt'n Crunch. 
Capt'n Crunch was the only Capt'n not in full white military regalia and apparently, asked to be seated with trouble. 
He was with us. 
I think Capt'n lost his charm at "I wanna hook up with some cougars, you guys!" but I can't be sure. I spent much of the dinner avoiding speeches and hanging out with Jeff in the kitchen. 
Anyway, the kids table was way in the back. I worked the room, meeting Mista Lazarus finally, laughing with Peskin, hugging Richard and Barbara, begging Ben for wine, etc. 
I think I exited the womb schmoozing. 
Anyway, it was tome to go. 
Which is how I found myself in a limo with Jeff and Capt'n Crunch. 
Which is when we got in a fight with the limo driver. 
Which is how I ended up at Vertigo. 
In a fucking ball gown. 
Ladies and gentlemen, to quote a hobo, I'm just asking for it. 
I don't need to go into what went down (vodka, douchebags, sleeping on my brother's couch, etc.) but basically, I woke up this morning with two thoughts. 
Number One: Um, am I on my dead grandma's couch? Alone?
Number Two: I wonder if anyone will notice me wearing heels with my brother's plaid pajama pants to brunch at Momo's...
Oh, and here's me losing an earring and then ditching my friends:

into the wild? no. i'm not watching a movie about a loser...

After dinner with the fam last night, I came home to find Big Chris waiting for me at my front door. Awww, Chrissy. 
"Let's get some drinks, woman."
We headed down to The Homestead and over peanut shells at the bar, Chris announced, "I read your blurb. Damnit Beth, I told you not to put me on the goddamn YouTube."
"I know, but you're such a treasure."
"Did you read the comments? He asked, somehow shifting tone. "They want to know the nature of our relationship."
Me too.
"And they think I'm hot."
Oh god. 
"And someone said I was built."
Where is he going with this?
Chris looked up from his cocktail. "Are they dudes?"
After I assured him that perhaps, one or two of his fans were of the female persuasion, we headed home to watch movies, where once again, I promptly fell asleep on Chris. The next thing I know, it's 2am and Chris has rapidly stood up, dropping my drooling head on the couch with a thud. "Shit, Spotswood. You always fall asleep."
"I know. Hey listen, do you want me to take you off YouTube?"
Chris paused at the door. "Eh, whatever. I don't care."
Yeah, that's what I thought...

Friday, July 25, 2008

d triple c in the hizouse...

Part of the problem with having Mel and Devine as my closest friends is that I get dragged to boring ass political shit. I'm fine with this as usually, free alcohol is involved. Mel and Devine know that if there's a help yourself Two Buck Chuck bar and some mixed nuts, I'm on board. 
Alas, this wasn't the case at Wednesday night's DCCC meeting about stuff regular people don't care about. 

You'll note, I was bored before the meeting even officially began. I mean, Jesus. What the hell am I doing in my black jersey dress in some government building with lesbians in wheelchairs when I could be at Le Club getting into fights with douchebags?
Basically, this meeting was to elect a new President of the DCCC (I think. Again, see Melissa.) and it was between Hot Gay Weiner and Short Speedo Peskin. Zzzzzzzzzz....
Melissa was scribbling away, and you can read her brilliant recap of the meeting RIGHT HERE. All I wrote down was "Peskin didn't stand to shake Weiner's hand. Or did he?"
Oh, I also wrote down "Tranny! Tranny! Tranny!" much to the horror of my friends. I can't help it. When I see a tranny, I get a little freaked out. Like you don't. 
I leaned over to Melissa. "I'm outta here. Peace." and interviewed The Brians and Mark in the hallway. 

So we did.

We were joined a little later by Leubitz, Mel and Tara and eventually, I got my Le Club fight with a douchebag. So you know, alls well that ends well. I hope my version of events rounds out Melissa's, because she always 'forgets' to point out the lesbians in wheelchairs and really, that's the best part...

Thursday, July 24, 2008

i got bitch-slapped...

I have never seen Melissa Griffin leap so high.
Well into the evening, Mel, Hastings and I were at Le Club. Crazy drunk wandered in and sat next to me. Friends that they are, Mel and Hastings made themselves scarce, thinking I might be chatting with the future ex-Mr. Spotswood.
Nope. "James" was so drunk, he could barely speak. But I was so comfy in my chair, with my Gibson and my peanuts. I'll talk to a drunk. It's Wednesday. That sounds about right.
Finally, I got bored with his slurring. "Oh sweetheart." I said, with mild sincerity."You've had too much."
I looked across the bar at Melissa. "Mist, it's time to go."
As I said this, a hand smacked my face. James fuckin' hit me. I'm sure he had no idea what day it was, much less an awareness that he just hit a chick but that shit kinda hurt. And Melissa, who might as well sit at Le Club wearing a t-shirt saying "Bring it" FLEW off her chair and into action. Uh oh.
Why do we always get in fights?
And this, folks, because I know you couldn't care less, is Colin...

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

i give it a year...

Sorry I'm late. I was busy hacking into the city's website. Here's today's Culture Blog...

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

rip sophia pertrillo...

What the fuck is going on today?!?!?!?!?!
Estelle Getty has died.
You can read all about her HERE...

i bet those are some hot mugshots, tho...

What in Jack Kelly is going on!
Christian Bale was arrested for beating the shit out of his mom and sister! I was alerted to this news by Kate in an e-mail entitled "misprint." Kate has held a flame for this guy ever since she was 11 and wrote him a letter, offering that should he ever find himself in the San Francisco Bay Area, he was welcome to sleep on her trundle. Surprisingly, he never responded. 
Smacking the missus around, I totally get. But your mom and your sister? He's 34! And gorgeous! And British!
What could they have possibly been fighting about that involved fistacuffs? Did he not clean his room? Eat all his veggies? Watch TV before finishing his book report?
For Kate's sake, let's hope this is some kind of Batman publicity stunt to steal thunder away from that attention whore, Heath Ledger...

Monday, July 21, 2008

i'm thirty and i have no idea that whole left from the right thing...

I cannot believe I'm letting Tim see me like this, much less you fine folks. But fuck it. All shame was lost in like, '05. I've recently received some very sweet e-mails asking about my odd foray into the unnecessary world of fitness. I figured, why not show you how lame and gross I really look and am.
Here's a session with Tim the Trainer:

The shit I do for you bitches...

we're always forgetting about native americans...

This could quite possibly be my least politically correct post yet!
I love the website Stuff White People Like. Favorites include Outdoor Performance Clothes, Knowing What’s Best for Poor People, Unpaid Internships, Farmer’s Markets, Arts Degrees, Oscar Parties and Difficult Breakups.
I now love the website Stuff Black People Love. Favorites include Stuffed Animal Memorials, Talent Shows, Ring Tones, Finding out that a criminal is not Black, Plastic Bags, Children as Personal Assistants and Chinkiness. They've got a whole bunch of links to other blogs, including Stuff Educated Black People Like. Favorites include Pulling Strings, Passing the BAR, Displaying Photographs, Boycotting BET, Deck Shoes, Jazz and Fraternities/Sororities.
Then I discovered Stuff Asian People Like. Favorites include Bleached Hair, Goldfish, Not Taking the Last Piece of Food, Cutting in Line, False Humility, Hoarding and Plastic Furniture Covers.
Oh, wait. I just found Stuff Latin People Like. Favorites include Avoiding the Doctor, Bragging About Saving Money, Wal-Mart, Pretend Relatives and Negativity.
There appears to be a Top Ten List of Stuff Gay People Like, but it’s really obvious, like “Straight Girls” and “Other Gay Men”.
Someone came up with a “You’re probably Filipino if” list. Favorites include Pointing with your lips and cutting your meat with a fork and a spoon.
And just to even it all out, I’ll share Stuff the Griffwoods Like. The Complete List includes Old Rich Men, Being “Regulars,” Correcting People’s Spelling, Name Dropping, Growing Easilly Bored, Crying, Defending Each Other, Singing in the Car, Free Drinks, Planning Parties We Never Actually Throw, Practicing Reactions to Run-Ins with Exs, Aileen Wournos, Napa, Drunk Texting, Being on The List and Talking About Themselves…

Saturday, July 19, 2008

this is my new comfort zone...

I can honestly say that last night was one of the greatest nights I have ever had.
Grab yourself a cocktail and get comfy.
The Missus and I were invited on some boat cruise for chicks who blog, meeting at 8:30 where we'd board a fake cable car and head to the Bay. As is standard, we agreed to meet at 7 at the bar at Scala's, for drinks and snacks. I hopped a cab and headed to Union Sqaure. Halfway there, Mel started texting. "You close?"
"Kinda. You okay?"
"Being hassled." She responded. "But nothin' I can't handle."
In my mind, Melissa was being gang raped by frat boys. I shot out of the cab and stomped up Powell Street, raring to fuckin' throw down.
She was sitting at the bar, snacking on bruschetta.
"Where are they?!?!"
"The people hassling you?"
Turns out, the entire bar wanted the barstool Mel was saving for me and she had to keep lying and saying I was in the bathroom. For like, 20 minutes. Mel has no problem doing this, incidentally. It's a testament to her freakish loyalty. She's delighted to piss off a bunch of standing strangers because I might want to sit if I ever showed up.
"So what is this chick blogger thing? A bunch of moms and their internet cookie recipes?"
"Beats me. Free food and booze."
As you know, Melissa and I will attend anything with snacks and cocktails. Anything. But we were having fun at the bar of Scala's. Too much fun, I guess. Our tab was 90 bucks and we were late for the trolley.
Oh god, we're going to miss a dinner cruise with moms. We feigned a rush to the meeting point, but alas, didn't make it. They left without us.
"Well shit, what the hell are we going to do tonight?"
I don't want to be your therapist, mainly because I don't give a shit about your problems. But if you ever want to risk either having a crappy night or maybe, the greatest night of all time, grab your closest friend and say, "Let's do shit outside of our comfort zone."
Which is how we ended up holding dinner trays in line at Lefty O'Doul's. Basically, Lefty O'Doul's is a dreadful shithole packed with oblivious tourist and oddly, cops where you stand in line with plastic trays and silverware for carved food and ice cream scoops of stuffing. A huge sign proclaimed "Cashier has napkins."
Which is when we coined our new favorite phrase, "Cashier has napkins, so quit askin'."
Lefty's also features a huge, under-staffed bar, 436 televisions, walls covered in old sports pictures and a bunch of tables, overflowing with mid-westerners in "Alcatraz Psych Ward"collared sweatshirts.
Ordering at Lefty's is, well, much like prison. Don't ask questions. Talk fast. Move along.
Instantly put on the spot, I ordered a salad. Hairnet dumped some iceberg in a little bowl.
"Dressing!?! Ranch, Blue or Thousand!"
"Um, oh god. Thousand."
He handed me some mayonnaise with lettuce in it.
"Can I get a side of stuffing?"
I was handed a baseball of stuffing, covered in beige goo. Melissa ordered baked beans, cabbage and vegetables.
"Vegetables?" I said. "I bet it's green with flecks of orange in it."
And it was!
We moved along to the cashier, passing pies nestled in ice. Melissa looked over at me. "Pie on ice. 'Cuz nobody likes warm pie."
Oh! It's also important to note here I was wearing 2 big, red silk flowers pinned in my hair. This'll come up later.
Lefty's has 4 kinds of Sutter Home mini bottles available ($4.99), red, white, pink and red. We found this hilarious. I selected the white and Mel went for the red.
We paid, and unlike Scala's, the bill at Lefty's was $21. Dinner for 2 with drinks? Well, shit. You can't beat that.

After our fine meal, Mel and I figured we at least had to swing by the piano section of Lefty's, where an Irish gent named Frank O'Connor was belting out standards and pop songs for people from Tuscon. I grabbed the last piano stool and Mel got us more wine.
Frank and his brogue zoned in on us immediately.
"Oh, look. We've got new lovely ladies here with us tonight. What's your name, my dear?"
For some reason, I felt like he wouldn't be able to handle Beth. So I gave him my real name.
"Oh, Elizabeth! Do you have any Irish in you?"
"Do you want some more?"
And thus began the constant barrage of sexual innuendo that is Frank O'Connor.
"Now Elizabeth, what would you like to hear tonight?"
My entire adult life, I always request La Bamba. Meant as a joke, everyone seems to get that I'm kidding.
Not Frank.

We got comfortable. We weren't going anywhere.
Mel finally got herself the stool next to me and was soon verbally accosted by Frank.
"Oh, Melissa's horny everyone! Come and say hello to our Melissa."
2 drunk dudes actually approached her, including this gentleman, who asked her to dance.

We simply could not believe our luck. I mean, who walks into fucking Lefty O'Doul's? But this was slowly becoming the greatest night of our lives. Frank would ask everyone where they're from and work it into a song, as evidenced in my La Bamba. For example, there were three women here on business from Chico. Which prompted, "To dream believer and...people from Chico." It only got better and better. Like when the homeless lady walked in and Frank screams across the piano, "Oh hello! How's the leg? Gettin' better?"
If I die and get to pick my heaven, it's sitting at the piano of Frank O'Conner.

So at this point, we start to pay attention to the people around us, like Bob celebrating a birthday with his wife and sitting at the piano with us. Bob's head was so specifically wrinkly it looked like tilework and he sat there, unmoved by the singing crowd around him, including his buxom wife in the Hawaiian top. And the headbanded girl from Redding who wanted to dance with everyone. I was seated next to Terry, Frank's "producer" who had a laminated "Reserved" sign at his place at the piano. Terry was very excited to learn that we are writers and Terry should be. I'll be plugging this joint till the day I die.
That's when Tommy came up to the mike. Tommy is apparently a very decorated WWII veteran, as noted on his hat. It was Tommy's 523rd birthday, and he sang us a song.

After his big ending, Tommy was congratulated on his service, fighting in the Pacific. Much to my delight, Tommy responded, "They'll be speaking their Japanese in hell!"
I called New Chris and as we had plans to meet up later, insisted he immediately hop a cab to Lefty's. "This is the greatest night of my life!" I screamed. Friend that he is, he arrived in seconds.
It only got better and better, Frank delivering his constant brand of customer cultivation non-stop.

When he sand, "If You're Going to San Francisco, Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair", the entire bar sang to me. We stayed until 12:30. I almost cried when we left.
We dragged Chris to Le Club, where he met the propriatress and drank a Gibson. I love Le Club. Every single person that I know that works there is the nicest, coolest person you could hope to open your door or mix you a drink. But the douchebag contingent can be a little high. Like some dude in a scarf who told us all about his private poker night on Tuesday's and how we just MUST come check it out.
"Oh, cool." I said. "I want in."
"Well, I'll put you on the list, but I need to check with some people."
Who? The cool police?
He then introduced us to his friend, a "Prada model."
I've never met a Prada man-model before, but I'm willing to bet they don't go around introducing themselves thusly. Much to our delight, a gorgeous woman was playing piano in the game room. She was no Frank O'Connor, but shit, this bitch was good.
Mel, Chris and I sat down to listen, entranced with her casual mastery of fun classics. But Scarf and Prada kept chatting away. Finally, I said to Scarf, "How old are you?"
Oh. Okay. Get the fuck out of my face.
I don't really know why his age suddenly made him more annoying to me. I mean, Chris is 24. But Chris also insisted on walking us the block home. Scarf would never walk anyone home. He's have to consult the cool police first.
I found myself sitting on the front steps on Mel's apartment, smoking cigarettes and laughing with two people I love very much at 3 o'clock in the morning. It was lovely. And while we woke up with headaches, Mel and I lay in bed for an hour in hysterics.
Because sometimes, when you throw caution and coolness to the wind, you wind up singing "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" at the top of your lungs with a bunch of conventioneers from Jacksonville...
*Update: I forgot to mention that most weekend mornings, Mel and I wake up (together) and check our phones to see who we'd drunk texted the night before. It's ALWAYS someone or something regretful. The night before, we'd be egging each other. "Oh my god, send it! Send it! Dude, that's SO good!" Then we'd wait. "Did he text back? OMG, you're phone just glowed! OMG!" But of course, in the sober light of day, we'd promise never again. Without fail, we do this everytime we go out. This past Saturday morning we woke up and Mel was instantly checking her phone.
"Nothing." She said to me, shocked.
Oh shit, lemme check me.
"Wow, we musta had a really good time."

Friday, July 18, 2008

luke donald, this is for you...

Grey Cloud and I had lunch at the Phoenix and watched the British Open (golf) because he, like my brother, Big Chris and the occasional straight in my life know how to get me to watch sports: just tell me interesting facts about the players, the rules and the history. 
"Do people ever go nuts and flip out?"
"Sure, but you get fined. Like this guy about to miss this shot right here. At the 1991 Masters..."
Oh, and did you know that the winner of the Masters gets to pick what's for dinner at the Masters Champion's Dinner. We got on this one because I asked about the dude with the annoyingly wacky name who make some crack about Tiger Woods and fried chicken. 
"Do people ever pick weird shit for dinner?"
"I don't know. I guess you could google it. Dude, it'd be awesome if someone picked In and Out."
"Yeah! Or shitty chinese food."
After lunch, we strolled across the street to Rhea's liquor store, where the gentleman behind the counter was basically Adrian Brody in a fedora, wife beater and wallet chain singing alone to "Ain't Gonna Hurt Nobody (to get on down)."
Shit, I love this song. 
Much to Grey Cloud's horror, I started singing along with fedora and we became fast friends. You know, Grey Cloud rolls his eyes and visibly attempts to barely tolerate me, but I think he'll admit, in this case it paid off. 
Because fedora gave me the greatest line of all time.
As he handed me my change, he smiled and said with perfect confidence, as if we were in a movie, "Stay beautiful, Sweetheart. It's an ugly world."
Which kinds of trump's GC's newest singles bar move, "Hi, my name's Chris. Am I wasting my time?"
Anyone could've said either to me at the St. Francis last night, where X ditched us and I recorded the following...

Thursday, July 17, 2008

sister mary christmas and sister mary poppins...

Last night, I met the Missus for dinner at The Usual and once again, jet lagged as the poor girl was, we caused a scene with our raucous laughter.
But get a load of our plan!
We want to be wedding crashers. I know, I know. Cliche City. But wait!
How can we be assured that no one will question our illegal presence?
Of course! Dress as nuns.
Our plan got more and more elaborate, involving old timey habits. The thought of the two of us wandering around fancy hotel ballrooms dressed like The Flying Nun, chugging champagne and shaking the presents had us in hysterics.
"We could go to Jewish weddings!"
"And make toasts!"
"All about Jesus!"
"We could be the people holding them up in that chair thing!"
"And asking for ham!"
"Oh my god, Mel!" I gasped. "We need a guitar!"
But in retrospect, the whole point of a wedding is to hook up with a hot, drunk guest. And unless we meet some guys with serious issues, with this plan we'll be heading back to the convent alone...

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

i've always been partial to the taurus...

Today's Culture Blog is UP! Read all about Eve and my night on the town, courtesy of the fine folks at Ford...

hacking is so 90's...

I am LOVING today's M&R! LOVING. 
We start with off with hackers!
Yep. Some nerd attempted to hijack the city's computer system, which would have made my year, quite frankly. I bet he would've come across some juicy gossip. Don't give up, hacker! They have computers in jail! How I missed this story is beyond me. Maybe it's because Gavin refused to show at Monday's press conference announcing the hacker's exciting capture. 
Why did Gavin refuse to show?
Because he's having a girlfight with everyone's favorite Escada-clad DA, Kamala! Apparently, it's no secret that these two drama queens don't stay up all night sharing their hopes and dreams. 
I wonder if Kamala's invited to the wedding?
Then some reporter from Vanity Fair (my monthly Bible) tried to sneak into the Grove! The Grove is the Bohemian Club's super secret retreat where apparently crazy shit goes down, like Henry Kissenger in drag. The fairer sex is verboten, of course, but my dad's going with a friend next week and I snuck a peak at this little pamphlet they give guests. Because I one day wish to dress like k.d. lang and be invited myself, I won't burn any Bohemian bridges, but uh, there was some weird shit in that pamphlet. Anyway, they had Vanity Fair arrested! And hired Sam! Who "shot off" a letter to Graydon Carter.
Oh sweet Mary mother of God, this is too fabulous. 
And finally, there was some big bitchfest in the presidio, which you can read all about HERE.
Anyway, this pretty much made my morning...

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

i'm never taking this skirt off...

I hate science. I was never good at it.
Like that whole "If you eat less and exercise more, you'll be fabulous" bullshit.
Yeah right.
None the less, I've got the wonderful Tim the Trainer kicking my ass three days a week. Each session gets harder and fucking harder and tends to end with me crying in the fetal position on the floor.
75 push-ups? You've got to be kidding me. 75 squats? Are you high? 75 crunches? Go fuck yourself.
But then I remember how hot Tim's wife Eve looks, visualize every man that's done me wrong and sweat.
I hate it.
I mean, Tim once told me to have a handful of nuts for lunch.
Get the hell out of here and bring me a pork bun.
And while my AA sponsor will be delighted to know I haven't cut back on the booze, I'm eating like a goddamn hippie. Even Melissa, who met me for dinner at Alfred's after one of my first sessions said, "If we need to do different shit..."
"You mean not drinking champagne all day?"
"Yeah. Anything you need. I'm in. We could, like, go to a museum or volunteer or something."
Awwww. Shut the shit up, size 0 and get me another Gibson.
I, living up to Europe's perception of our population, could eat a bagel and discover it on my ass 15 seconds later. And the concept of physical exertion burns my brain. I've been hating this foray into health and fitness but Tim and I made a deal that basically, my life would suck for a month.
One month.
I'm 2 and a half weeks in.
Plugging along.
Cursing science.
Swearing at Tim.
And then I put on my black pencil skirt.
Oh. Oh! Oh my god! Oh sweet Jesus smiling upon me and my grilled chicken over mixed field greens!
Well shit.
Up my ass to 100 squats, this science shit works...

Monday, July 14, 2008


Alameda County collectively shudders...

barack's nuts...

You know, I've really got to hand it to myself.
I woke up this morning with a touch of the hangover.
From a baby shower.
Someone needs to take this Flip Video thing away from me because I am no longer capable of having actual conversations with people. I just ask them obnoxious questions and tell them to look for it on YouTube.
In fact, the only time I put that gadget down was when I overheard the fabulous, "I'm really ticked off at Jesse Jackson."
I dove right in. "Like, personally?"
"No, Beth. I don't know Jesse Jackson."
Disappointment (Chardonnay) flooded me. "Oh. So you're ticked about that stupid nuts comment?"
"Yes. What a profoundly stupid, divisive comment."
It probably took me 45 minutes to get this out, but I have three points to make.
1. Is anyone else sick of the word 'divisive'? Can we come up with alternate words to throw around, because I'm fucking sick of divisive.
2. Why do men always go for the groin? It seems like over-compensation to me. Oh, you're going to cut his nuts off? Nope. You're not. You're going to kiss his ass forever. Why? Because...
3. Who the fuck cares about Jesse Jackson? He ran for president in 1923. Dude, it's Jesse Jackson. He referred to the Big Apple as Hymietown. (That's something bad about Jewish people, apparently.) Oh, and that was in 1984. While I can appreciate the glaring lack of colorful leadership (it took me seven minutes to come up with that) in this country, I think we've got bigger fish to fry than Jesse Jackson, who should relegated to clips from I Love the 80's...

Sunday, July 13, 2008

happy father's day...

Have I told you my theory on Dad humor? It's the kind of humor to which only those that have reared children are capable. I developed this theory over dinner at Jesse's folks' house. I was regaling her dad, Klaus with the tale of the lobster hands carnie family. I'd just watched a documentary on them and delighted in the fact that the lobster-clawed patriarch went on a killing spree. Klaus took a sip of his wine and with a huge smile on his face, announced, "He musta been crabby!"
That, folks, is a dad joke.
My dad is famous for answering the phone in ways he finds personally entertaining, such as "Pronto! Pronto!" which he heard at a hotel in Italy and adopted as his own.
I'm currently back up at my parents' house, helping the family get ready for tonight's baby shower. My cousin Matt is going to be a Daddy and as Kate pointed out, "Beth, we're going to be aunties!" As I covered the dining room, walkway, front door, flag pole and deck in pink, yellow and blue balloons, the phone rang, just as my father emerged from the garden covered in leaves and dirt and sweat. (Brock thought he was the gardener.)
Casually, he picked up the phone.
"Every child is a blessing."
Circumstantially, this is even more hilarious.
I thought my mother was going to have a heart attack, she was laughing so hard.
And then she kissed my dad.
Which made me remember another moment, when Mom, Alex and I were at dinner sans Dad.
"I hate going to dinner without Dad. I feel like a single parent family."
"Beth. You're being a snob. And you're being ridiculous."
Correct. And correct.
So we played a game. We picked one word or phrase to describe each of us.
When we got to my dad, Alex and I both said things like "larger than life" and "profoundly brilliant" and "Practically a deity."
My dad, as my mother will proclaim, "would fall on a sword rather than you two want for anything." When the childhood shit hit the childhood fan, my mom was the one that grounded us. My dad took us to the bench by the front door and said, "Who loves Bethy?"
I believe this to be typical.
So, on and on we went, trying to find a word to capture my father's profound magical essence. My mother rolled her eyes.
"Alright, horrible disciplinarian. What's your one word for Daddy?"
She thought about it. She REALLY thought. And then she said, "He's funny. He's really, really funny."
I was shocked. Flabergasted. And I realized something about my parents. My mother is the only person my father really regards as an intellectual equal. And my father is the only person who my mother really regards as truly entertaining. My childhood included Sunday mornings where, a whole floor below them, I'd be woken up by hysterical laughter. They'd pull a volume of the Encyclopedia and read each other "R" over coffee and under covers.
They'd let us crawl in bed with them and I never got their jokes.
My folks drive each other nuts. Insane. To the verge of violence.
But I guess this apple doesn't fall far from that tree. This afternoon, my dad made my mom laugh. And she couldn't help but kiss him. Even if it was dad humor.
I can only hope that my Matty and his sex-less, name-less baby find the same, rare, elusive, complicated happiness that makes up my weird, loud, complicated family.
And I hope Matt finds his Dad humor. Because maybe someday, this little embryo will roll it's eyes at a bad dad joke but secretly join me in reveling at the beautiful, funky, odd, silly, confusing, safety of having a Daddy...

Saturday, July 12, 2008


I'm starting to realize that I can't get any gayer. 
I'm as gay as they come. 
I'm gayer than butterflies and Anderson Cooper. 
Last night, Eve invited me to join her, Tim, Brock, Greg, Chris W. and people I didn't know at the 500 Club. If you've never been to the 500 Club, it looks much like a bar in which Erin Brockovitch would interview a resident of Hinkley. I was supposed to head to Kelsey's house warming party up in San Rafael but, as much as I love Kels, wasn't up for a drive back to the burbs and 24 year old boys doing shots. 
Tim went to grab burritos for everyone and instead of having my trainer judge my dinner, I roped Brock into driving 45 minutes to Kel's party. 
"I really should go but I don't want to go alone. And we can sleep at my folks'."
It doesn't take long to talk Brock into anything. I could've said "Let's go beat up a tourist" and Brock'd be all "In."
Brock is always in. He's the best. 
So off we went, across the GGB, all the way to Terra Linda where Kels just moved into her lovely and hard to find new apartment. We brought her a bottle of "Cleavage Cellers" and a sympathy card, on which we wrote "Don't talk to the neighbors" and "Don't burn the place down."
The whole time, we played with my new Flip Video which I am now obsessed with. If you don't want to end up on YouTube, don't come over. I'm taping everything. 
Eventually, it was time to go. I had planned to take Brock to Noonan's, but horror of horrors, that's where Grey Cloud was headed to meet Strippername, who once tried to girl-fight me in the Marina and apparently used to make out with the former boy. (I can't call anyone an 'ex' because I think it's needy)
There was no fucking way in hell I was going to Noonan's at the point. Tim's been teaching me how to box and I hold a grudge like nobody's business. I'd uppercut that bitch before she had time to reapply her drug store lipgloss for the 574th time. 
"Brock, I really don't want to go to Noonan's." I stated nervously.
"Oh my god, fuck that place. I didn't want to go there anyway. I don't care where we go. We can go to your folks' and watch movies. We can go to another bar. Who cares?"
Again, we love Brock. 
Well, shit. I have the Editor of SFist in Marin. We're going to The Deuce
Which is where Brockstar fell in love:

Appropriately, at 2am Brock and I headed up to my folks. We watched Hairspray before falling asleep on a pull-out couch in the TV room. Brock had Coke from a bottle. We made 43 videos. One was 21 minutes long. In the morning, Brock charmed my parents over coffee and Wheat Thins. In the middle of the night, I woke up and took stock of my bearings. 
Oh, I'm in bed with a homo in my childhood home. Yep. Sounds about right...

Friday, July 11, 2008

tiger, tiger woods, y'all...

I'm loving this little flip video. Last night, after Big Chris announced he was coming over to "go grab some beers" I decided he would be my first video subject and enthusiastically filmed this intro:

Then Chris arrived, told me not to video him and announced he had to pee:

He talked me into leaving my video camera at home because "We'll probably get mugged" and then proceeded to pontificate genius from a barstool, which I was unable to capture on camera, goddamnit. Finally, we returned to my house where Chris punished me for daring to capture his essence in the first place:

Apparently, by this time I was speaking with a Southern accent. I have no explanation, but I made it through 15 minutes of Rambo 4 and promptly fell asleep on Chris.
Everyone go buy Flips and then we can communicate solely through video clipped statements!
Anyway, I'll write something for you later today but I am loving my relatively shitty grasp on this new technology...

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

well, i wouldn't have any complaints either, but...

I don't know why I read these bullshit celebrity news stories up on Yahoo, but when I check my e-mail and see things like "Clooney's Ex talks about her favorite memories" I simply can't help myself. 
First of all, this links to something called
You'll lose a few brain cells just clicking on it. 
And of course, it's a total bummer. There's nothing really juicy. She'll miss his wonderful dancing the most, they speak every few weeks, they remain friends, snooze. Why she even agreed to talk about this is beyond me. It's like she met a celebrity in an airport and is telling us how down to earth he is in real life. If someone from asks me about an ex-boyfriend and I feel like talking, I'm gonna give them some good dirt. "Oh yeah, him? He pees in hot tubs."
Anyway, the only good part of this bullshit, lame ass "chat" is when the internationally dumped Sarah Larson announces that she has..."no complaints."
No complaints? This isn't an oil change. You haven't just stayed at a Ramanda. This was a relationship! With God!
So now it just sounds like she was dating him to jump start her auto show modeling career, which she probably was, and I have to tell you, I'm a little bit heartbroken. 
Do not fuck (with) my George. 
But we've learned a greater lesson. Anything called and/or Sarah Larson is fucking retarded...

Sunday, July 06, 2008

live blogging with big chris...

Big Chris is over today to "watch TV and shit" and I've decided I need to immortalize a few of his gems.
Beth: "I smell smoke. Do you smell smoke?"
Chris: "Are you thinking?"

"There's no way I'm having sex with you after dinner at San Tung. But if we go to Friday's, I'll screw you in the bathroom."
-Big Chris, 6:14pm

Stay tuned...

Saturday, July 05, 2008

four score and what...

Melissa's in Africa and the Brians' are where? Canada? Anyway, those three make up my daily human contact, so on the 4th, I sent out some flares and invited anyone who felt like it to come over, eat some charcuterie, drink some vodka and see some cholo fireworks. 
Alex, Kelsey, Ben, Grey Cloud, Brock, Will, Mike, Tony, Sam and Fred made the trek and shit, bitches. I've got a touch of the hangover. 
And some serious leftovers. 
Which has me thinking Sunday dinner, anyone?
Also, my friends graciously watched me on Art's show ("Dude, I'll watch. It's warm in here.") The first time around, I watched with Tim the Trainer. (I hid behind a pillow and cried.) This time, I relaxed in the fact that the boys (Lex, Ben, GC) were in hysterics, both shocked I was actually on television and getting my shitty, obscure jokes. 
I. love. my. boys. 
Although I maintain that the camera adds 450lbs., I promise to post it when it goes online. 
Anyway, it was a lovely 4th. I collapsed onto my bed at 1am and actually made it into an old t-shirt* and boxers. While I had no idea where I was when I woke up (in my bed in my house), at least I wasn't in last nights' ensemble. 
And Mike left some spare sparklers! 
Which has me thinking photoshoot, anyone? 
I hope you folks had a fine Fourth. And I'm glad I got the Trainer hooked on Predator. Because aside from my wonderful pals and my cured meats and my chilled vodka, the fucking Predator marathon made my day...

*The t-shirt I wore to bed was my brother's Marin Catholic Class of 2001 T, upon which Lex, Ben, GC, Kels and Will, etc. were all immortalized on the back. My back. As I slept. Sick!

Friday, July 04, 2008

well beth, it's an election. here's how it works. people vote. and then they count it. -X...

My brilliant friend Kate keeps a little notebook in her purse, jotting down hilarious quotes whenever someone busts out with something classic. It's a hoot to flip through her quotes and I've been ripping her off in memorializing quotes for the past few months. 
Here are some jems:

"What am I? Ronald Reagan? I'm not dying my hair."
-Big Chris, on my plucking his grey hairs

"Oh shit, I hope this is as funny tomorrow!"
-Melissa, on our Sept. 11th Halloween costume concept

"So I know this is good, but what is it?" -Vansmack
"Everclear and vodka." -Cynthia
-2:15am in Napa

"If you drink that, your breasts will fall off." -Dan
-same night

"Wow. Beth likes a poor guy. I never thought I'd see the day."
-my brother

"Dude, he has a mad widow's peak."
-Kelsey, re: Mel Gibson in The Patriot

Beth: "What if you went over and..."
Melissa: "Flirted? That guy hasn't has an erection since the Nixon Administration."
-4 hour dinner at Palio

"When did we know Dan was crazy?"
-my Dad, pondering my question about Dan White and looking off into the distance

"I can see you hitting your kid."
-my brother to me

"I wanna date a chef." -Beth
"Me too but they're all on meth." -Brock

"Easy on the orange juice."
-Melissa to Brian, making her a mimosa

Driving home from Cyn and Dan's in Napa, Man in the Mirror came on. I asked Mel to go through my bag, locate my notebook and write something down so I could find it later and regale you with our joy in singing along with Michael Jackson. 
Here's what she wrote:
"The good thing about having no CD player in the car is you start listening to shit like Man in the Mirror. And also, I love you."

Awwwww. Happy Fourth, everyone!

the best is when they cry...

God Bless America! There's a To Catch a Predator marathon on!!!
God, I love this show and I never get to see it. 
A few friends are coming over tonight to check out my neighbors and their cholo fireworks, so I should really be like, cleaning my house and making sangria, but this shit is too good. 
Why is it always the morbidly obese, 40 year old with his t-shirt tucked into his elastic waist jeans who wants to blow a 13 year old boy? 
And I love how Chris Hanson refers to them by their online "handle." He's all, "Now it's time to tell 'AtlantaStud12000' why we're really here."
I love that. 
I want to start my own internet predator sting, just so I can read the transcripts without all the good shit blurred out. 
Check it out, Americans! MSNBC right now...

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

shout out to redwood city...

Today's Culture Blog is up! It's a long one so grab a drink or something...

*I just realized that this was my 100th post on SFGate! Yay! Someone bring me a mojito!

someone spray water in my mouth...

My friend and now trainer, Tim has been coming over and kicking my ass in an attempt to in his mind, get me into shape and in my mind, make me gorgeous. Tim's version of exercise isn't an eliptical for 45 minutes. Tim's version of exercise is like bootcamp. 
"You shouldn't be able to talk. And you shouldn't be able to read."
Sheesh. I used to save my Vanity Fairs for the gym. But no more. 
Now I'm doing push ups and squats and crunches and the dreaded plank. 
Oh, and I box. 
Like this morning. Tim came over, big yellow balance ball, weights and...gloves!
I feel like I'm getting good at the gloves. He's calling out punches and I nail them like, 50% of the time. (This is excellent for me) The first time we tried this, Tim goes, "I had a feeling Spots'd like hitting shit."
I'm still working on my terminology, you know, hooks vs. jabs, etc. But this morning, I learned an upper cut. With sweat pouring down my face, I discovered how to break your jaw. So uh, watch ya'selves. 
I am now setting the groundwork for a black tie party in the backyard where I box some hobo we pay 50 cents and have Scotch and cigars...

Tuesday, July 01, 2008

there's no business like obscure local television...

Hey kids, 
Sorry for my shitty lack of posting today. I had to crank out my Culture Blog, up tomorrow and a doozy. A long one. I hope you like it. 
And now, I'm off to be on Art's show! I'm sure I'll appear as the idiot I am, but none the less, keep you posted on air dates. In my panic, I consulted my friends who've been previous SF Unscripted guests; Mel, Jim, Bob and Gina.
Mel told me what to wear: Black Calvin Klein suit.
Jim told me what to say: Be concise, make points, funny is good and smile. 
Bob told me what to expect: Wayne's World.
Gina told me it goes really fast and to come by Le Club after to celebrate. 
I have never been on TV before, even public access or whatever the hell this is, so I'm sweating like a hog and practicing in the mirror. Oh, wait. According to Joe, not that I've seen it, you can see us in the current episode of Kathy Griffin: My Life on the Dlist. So, I guess I've been on TV before. But this time I have to talk. 
And in my enthusiasm, my hair has way too much product in it and is very flat. 
Wish me luck. I could fall off the chair.