I love how I get all dolled up and by the time I get to Harvey's in the Castro, my make-up is sliding down my face, my fabulous 'do is sticking to my neck and the lining of my skirt twisted itself into some kind of complex polyester oragami and yet Melissa works till late, hoofs and cabs it across town in heels, dashes into Harvey's and looks like a fucking magazine photo shoot.
I pulled my disgusting hair into a ponytail, shot the BFF a dirty look and figured, fuck it. It's a gay bar.
Which brings me to, THANK YOU!
Thank you gorgeous, fabulous and generous friends and friends of friends who came out last night to drink for AIDS! Okay, well, to drink to stop AIDS. Whatever. Semantics. Boring ol' us raised $2,000 for the Stop AIDS Project just by drinking. Awesome.
And in equally important news, David Duchovny is going to rehab.
For sex addiction.
Seriously.
Which reminds me! I never told you the story of when I went to a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting. Or have I told you that story? I can't remember. Either way, here it is.
A million years ago, when I was in college in Philadelphia, I spent my summers back home hanging out with my friends, one of whom was slightly older than me and obsessed with her therapist. We'll call her Kathy and she was fucking hilarious. She'd say things like, "Wanna go smoke weed and sit in a parked car outside my therapist's house?"
Yes. Yes, I do.
So this therapist told Kathy she was co-dependent, which may or may not be true. I'm still not sure of the definition of co-dependent and how it applied to Kathy. But Kathy was instructed to attend a CoDA meeting (Co-Dependents Anonymous) and the closest (literally and figuratively) thing she could find was SLAA (Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous.)
"Wanna go to a Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting with me?"
Hell yes. Yes I do.
The meeting was held in a Unitarian Church conference room and nervously, we were the last to enter. You should have seen the looks on our faces, delicately stepping inside the room like we were really looking for a toilet and just stumbled into this sex meeting. Everyone sits around the conference table and the leader or facilitator or whatever kicks it off with the usual 12 step stuff. What I mainly remember from this is that you weren't allowed to "cross-talk" which means interrupt or interject. That would not be a problem for me as I was only there as a spectator. And a frightened one at that. The group was maybe 12 or 15 people. At 20, I was by far the youngest and easilly, the least experienced. For some reason, and I'm sure it was optional but due to the small group it felt manditory, we all introduced ourselves.
Which went a little somethin' like this:
Hi, my name is Susan (Hi Susan) and I am a Love Addict. I fall in love with pretty much any man I meet and spiral into a deep depression if I'm not madly in love with someone. Anyone.
Hi, my name is Mark (Hi Mark) and I am a Sex Addict. My wife is pissed at me, I'm sleeping in my office and I meet people on Craigslist for sex every day.
Hi, my name is Stanley (Hi Stanley) and I am a Sex Addict. Today is a really good day for me. I haven't masturbated in 4 hours. (congratulatory and encouraging nods. Stan seemed to be a regular at SLAA.)
Hi, my name is Amy (Hi Amy) and I'm a Love Addict. My husband left me 4 years ago and I am still in love with him. I'm happy for you, Stanley, but today is a bad day for me, I guess. Today's my birthday. (Someone tried to mutter "Happy Birthday" until the "No cross-talk!" rule was shouted across the room.)
It was becoming clear that all the chicks were love addicts and all the guys were sex addicts. I leaned over to Kathy. "Typical."
But it was her turn.
"Hi, I'm Kathy (Hi Kathy) and I'm actually neither a sex nor a love addict. I'm co-dependent. My therapist made me come. (No one seemed to have a problem with this.)
Oh shit. It was my turn. And here's what I came up with.
"Hi, I'm Beth (Hi Beth) and I'm here in support of Kathy."
This too, seemed to be a non-issue. I guess gawker friends tag along all the time. Neat! Moving on...
"Hi, I'm Terrence (Hi Terrence) and I am a Sex Addict. I have had sex with 5, 348 people."
I particularly remember 'Terrence' because he 1) kept track and 2) used the word "people" as if at this point, gender had become indiscriminate. This is who I was sitting next to. Fuckin' 5K Terrence.
Anyway, the rest of the meeting must have gotten really boring because I was either staring at Stanley, wondering if he would excuse himself at any minute or alternately, make it to hour 5 and thinking to myself, "I could so get laid in like, 20 minutes based on eye contact alone."
We left, got in the car and made fun of everyone.
Which is the end of my "Did I ever tell you about the time I went to a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting?" story.
And why I now find myself here in support of David Duchovny...
I read a lot of men's magazines. I'd like to disclaim that I don't do this to gain insight into the mysterious and magical world of men. I already possess said insight and you're all a bunch of shitheads. However, after 30 years of Cosmo quizzes and tips on how to make my hair shiny, I discovered the glory of Esquire and Details and I'm never going back to that "3 exercises you can do at your desk" bullshit again.
Anyway, this month's Details has a fabulous piece entitled, "Are you That Guy?" with 56 examples of crimes committed by That Guy. Here are my favorites:
1: You initiate fist bumps.
7: You wave someone along even though they have the right of way.
9: You own a Manchester United jersey. (Vansmack's about to blow UP in the comments.)
13: You offer to buy a cigarette from people outside bars.
16. You say, "My bad."
18: You say, "We're pregnant."
21: You preface statements with "spoiler alert."
22: You don't wash last night's admission stamp off your hand.
32: You describe anything good as "sick."
39: You refer to money as "Benjamins," dead presidents," "ducats" or "coin."
40: You bitch about your contractor at parties.
45: You refer to any last stop bar as "the 19th hole."
48: You own a wine rabbit.
51: You use the phrase "flyover states."
54: You wear DJ headphones.
Also included were the obvious "You quote Borat, Office Space, etc." and "You have a downloaded ringtone." Not on the list, but equal to the fist bump is the high-five. That Guy also owns a watch with one of those huge, 4" wide leather straps and re-pushes elevator buttons.
Please feel free to add your own. Then let's e-mail this post to all of Those Guys...
*I'm adding Ironic T-Shirts. You can take the "That Guy" quiz RIGHT HERE and see the entire list. And hey, tell us your score...
Everyone run out to the sidewalk and grab an Examiner. After working on this for months, her weekly page will be in the paper every Thursday. You should all read it and send her really nice e-mails telling her how great she is. She's one hell of a writer, but she's an even better friend and I love her. Go Misty!
Hold on a sec. Lemme get this straight. Swiss Miss paid some dude 75K to be in his movie, playing a Mandarin speaking ballerina and when she revealed that she didn't speak Mandarin, he canned her ass and now she's suing him? Am I missing anything? Did I get this scoop wrong? Because this shit is pure gold. According to the article, Mrs. Husband Stealer took $3500 worth of ballet classes, yet didn't really sign up for any Mandarin classes. Cuz that might be gross? The creatively titled "Milk and Fashion" has been released in China, but doesn't look like it'll be hitting Democracy anytime soon. Too bad, because that sounds like one hell of a plot. I say the old ball and chain needs to give up this pipe dream and get back to work ladling out gruel to hobos dressed in St. John separates and pillbox hats...
My father, unlike his daughter, isn't impressed by much. I've seen him out-wig bigwigs. Shit, I've seen Gavin talk to Pops like he's a regular person. And Gavin never talks to anyone that way! I'm proud to report, Daddy fuckin' owns it.
Thus, I now know my father's "this is a big deal" tone, mainly because it's so rare.
And while he's having the time of his life, talking to mucky muck politicos ain't no big whoop to Papa Spots. He's called me a coupla times from Denver where he's reporting with Mr. Rubin for the IJ, but really just to check in, make sure I've paid my bills and ask me his weekly question.
"Hi Daddy."
"Who loves Bethy?!?!"
"Dad. Give it a fucking rest."
"Who loves Bethy!!!!!"
"Ugh. Daddy does."
We are then allowed to converse as adults.
So tonight, when he called from his cell phone, from which he cannot (due to his own inability) receive voicemail, I answered as if he'd interrupted me from Starsky and Hutch, which he had.
"Hey Daddy. What?"
"Bethy."
Oh my God. The tone! "Ben Affleck is 10 feet away from me."
"Daddy, wait! What!?!"
"Shut up. Listen to me." (Allow me to explain that my phone is now ringing every 15 minutes with calls from Pa, suddenly aware of how to use a Nokia.)
Um, my dad is with Ben Affleck, Kristin Dunst ("Kiersten Durst from Superman or whatever!") and Star Jones ("Who is Star Jones!?!?!" click.)
He is trying to hide his hysteria whilst remaining cool.
Daddy just called again.
"Hi Dad. I'm writing a blog about you!"
"Bethy! I just had a 30 minute conversation with Jimmy Hoffa Jr. God, that's a great guy. What a class act! click!"
After describing his evening as "Hollywood with a capital H", my father revealed that he and Mr. Rubin somehow wormed their way into the SAG party.
Yeah, the Screen Actors' Guild hosts a party at the Democratic Convention.
"You should see this buffet!"
Another call. "Forrest Whittaker! Bethy, you should be here. Oh, Bethy, you'd die a thousand deaths! click."
My mother just called and seeing her number, I answered, "I take it you've talked to Daddy."
Laughter, followed by, "Yes! He's very excited. He's at a SAG party."
I'm sitting here watching America's Funniest Home Videos and my dear old dad is in Denver, constantly calling us.
"We just got invited to Biden's party! And rumor is Barack is showing! click!"
Screw you, Dad.
Truth be told, I'm jealous of all my peeps in Denver: Leubitz, Hogarth, Zoe (who ran into Pops and took the above snapshot). But shit, my 61 year old dad is standing next to Ben Affleck RIGHT NOW and I'm sitting on a futon in the ghetto, now watching "Tyler Perry's House of Payne" and fielding calls.
'Who is Star Jones?' Obviously, my father has no right to even be there...
Do you people even CARE about all the wonderful, under-used gems over at Bill Wilson's site? For example, this magical moment captured on film. What the hell is our foxy Mayor trying to do up there? One thing's for sure. He's got "wacky voice" face. Even the kids are like, "Awww, come on. Wacky voices? Lame."
Where can I get one of these? I'm not kidding. Let's ask ourselves a couple of questions. Is this giant head pro-Gavin or against Gavin? Why is the holder of the giant head wearing a helmet? Is Gavin aware of the giant head directly behind him or completely oblivious? (both of which, incidentally, would delight me.) How come there's not a giant head of goatee guy?
I'll be honest. This photo embarasses even me. You know when you're watching television and something really awkward or uncomfortable happens and you need to briefly look away? Yeah. Right here. Check out the girl in the pink. She know what I'm talkin' about.
Admit it, Wilson. You create these masterpieces on purpose. I predict this to be Gavin's new Facebook profile pic.
I wonder what it's really an ad for? Here's hoping tampons.
The most glorious part of this photo, other than the fact that Gavin appears to be yelling at little old lady volunteers to do a better job of picking up litter, is the huge blow-up photo on the left. Let me just take a shot in the dark here and guess that this very same gum tragedy happened to Gavin out on his evening constitution with his favorite hobo, 'Patches' and right then and there, the Mayor thought to himself, "Never again."
So the next day, he stormed into City Hall, shoving his ruined Cole Haans in the face of every staffer and screaming, "Get me big posters of gum on men's dress shoes! I'm talking big! BIG! Then I want some old folks! Put them in reflective vests and hats! Meet me on a sidewalk in an hour! What are you all standing around for?!? NOW!!!"
Sorry for my lack of posting today, pals. It's been a weird day.
And now I'm attempting to crank out my Culture Blog which yeah, I write at 10pm on Tuesday. So I've got to get back to work. But I wanted to let you know, my new roommate John is moving in on Saturday!
John is 28, straight and a bartender. His celebrity equivalent is Toby Maguire/Matthew McConaughey/Vic Chestnutt.
I think it's safe to say, this blog'll have a new character. And I'll get some cheap drinks. So, you know, win-win. Sadly, poor John has to live with me, having no idea that he'll be subjected to my culinary experimentations, drunken tears/dancing and TBS programming on Sunday mornings over champagne and tea sandwiches...
I wisely chose to listen to 99.7FM on my way to work and was rewarded with "Gonna Make You Sweat" which is a goddamn awesome tune and takes me back to pool parties at Greg Dixon's house. You know that dance move where you hold one ankle behind you and shove it back and forth? Yeah, that's what I think of when I hear "Everybody Dance Now!"
For you old farts, C+C Music Factory was an early 90's one hit wonder. Oh wait. They may have had two hits with the timeless "Things That Make You Go Hmmmm."
Anyway, the lead "rapper" was this dude named Freedom Williams and I thought he was the bees knees. All I wanted was to bring this socially conscious, badass, ripped African American hip-hop star to my parents' house and be all, "This is Freedom. We're in love. Deal with it."
These days, my folks would scream, "Freedom! What a lovely name! Welcome! What can we get you? Cocktails? Is she driving you nuts? Us too. Please don't leave. I understand you're in the music business! Do you know Stevie Wonder? He's quite a talent. Wheat Thin?"
Anyway, listening to this blast from the past this morning, I decided to do a little "Where is he now" research on Freedom.
As is standard, I spend Sundays with Big Chris. I don't think I've ever had such a consistent relationship with a straight man in my life. Chris is fond of routine. Chris comes over. We get burritos, either at the regular place or at "authentico." We get drinks at Dirty Thieves. We go back to my house and fall asleep watching television. Occasionally, there are mild changes. Last night, Chris met Alex and me at San Tung, refusing to eat because it was "burrito night" and later, Becky needed some girl time so we cried in the kitchen while Chris screamed at the TV and brought me his leftovers. But otherwise, my Sunday is pretty standard. Chris. Mexican. Drinks. Mad Men. Sleep (on Chris.) Allow me to explain the difference between "the regular place" and "authentico." The regular place is el burrito place on 24th and Alabama. It's your standard Mission burrito joint and usually, Chris gets a burrito and he gets me a Diet Coke. I eat his chips. He eats his boring chicken burrito. Our stop is perfunctory and brief. Yet lately, we've been heading to "authentico," the scary, ghetto version of cheap Mexi-food across the street. Authentico has a taco section at the front door, should you wish to forgo the menu and simply have a $1.50 taco, selecting a meat (eye is an option) piled on two little corn tortillas and dumping onions and salsa atop it. But Chris doesn't get tacos. It's burrito night. Duh. "Yeah, I need one el pollo burrito, no extras, no rice. One cervesa. One Diet Coke." This is not your standard gringo burrito joint. Authentico is where my neighbors eat, craving an FDA un-approved taste of the old country. And while Chris refuses to acknowledge that we have "our song," he'll gladly announce, "Oh, our table is empty!" I spend my time at Authentico stealing Chris' complementary chips and sipping my Diet Coke. Oh, and admiring the murals. Folks, if you think you like art, you need to join me in an eye burrito at Authentico. The walls and ceiling are covered in poems and murals, the likes of which I guarantee you've never experienced. For example... "The Football. The San Francisco 49ers have the viligance of the deer. The cunning of the bear. The strength of the bison." And then, amisdt a poorly painted Golden Gate Bridge, 1850's gold-diggers, missionaries befriending Native Americans and TWO Transamerica buildings, are a deer, bear, bison and 49ers AND Giants catching footballs and swinging bats. And suddenly, there's Dwight Clark rocking "the catch." "Chrissy, look. It's the catch." "No it's not." He shoved more plain burrito in his mouth. "Um, yeah. It is." "Really? Then why is that a white Jerry Rice?" Oh my God. He's right. A blurry number 80 is catching the football. I was delighted. "Chris! They combined them. Holy shit, they've combined Dwight Clark and Jerry Rice. Wait, what number should it be?" "Dwight Clark was always 87. What are you, retarded?" Chris could not have been less impressed with the amazing artwork which surrounded us. He stormed out and marched us across the street to Dirty Thieves. "We don't have a song. So stop saying that shit." "Yes, we do, so stop being an asshole." "No, bitch. We don't." He then went up and shoved dollars into the jukebox. Prince! Wild Horses! The Pogues! "Oh my god, I love this song." Chris took a swig of his beer. "Yeah. I know. Shut up." "But..." "Shut up." "You're playing me songs. Ha! You SO love me. Say it." "Never." "You just played Diamonds and Pearls. Oh my god, you love so me so much!" "Actually, I hate you right now." Hmmm. Okay. Well, your musical selections bespeak otherwise. I love you too, Chrissy. Maybe I'll paint a mural as an homage to our friendship...
I am deathly afraid of heights. DEATHLY. Airplanes, I can handle. but that's about it.
I may have been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I have no idea. Because I didn't look.
You know in college when everyone goes to the roof to get high? Yeah, I sat in the stairwell with my lonely joint.
Escalators? I can merely look at the step in front of me and pray for survival.
So when the lightbulb in my kitchen goes out, I'm fucked. My kitchen, much to my delight, has a beautiful, glowing brushed glass orb hanging from the ceiling, far out of reach for most humans. And it's on a dimmer!
When that beautiful light goes out, it's an ordeal, especially for me, standing below my friend or fella balancing on a chair or table, unscrewing the glass thing, switching the bulbs and screwing that big glass thing back in. Without a roommate, I've been too proud to call up Big Chris and bribe him with beer and chicken just so he can change a lightbulb.
I'm 30. And uh, regardless of my debilitating phobia, I am a capable, independent person.
I can do this shit by myself.
Needless to sat, that light's been out for a week.
Even Tim the Trainer was like, "Why are you sitting in the dark?"
Oh, um. None of your goddamn business. How about that?
So this morning I went out and bought myself a fancy, cheap Earth-saving lightbulb that's average life is a staggering 10,000 hours. Fabulous. I'll never have to change this goddamn lightbulb again. And, added bonus? I'm single handedly saving the planet.
Trembling, and really, the word doesn't do my shakes justice, I climbed up on my kitchen island directly beneath the lamp. If I fall, and I probably will, no one will realize I'm dead until I fail to show for dinner at the Brians. It took me forever to unscrew three of the four screws holding the glass thing in, and then I had to place that wobbly monstrosity on the island next to me. Still shaking, I switched the lightbulbs from the dead regular one to the hopefully alive 'green' one. Oh god, I'm almost done.
I then picked up the big glass thing and attempted to slowly re-screw it back on. I realized, as I nervously climbed down, if this lightbulb doesn't work, I'm giving up. This was pretty much the most terrifying 10 minutes of my life and there was no way in hell I was doing it again.
I switched the light. It glowed with pride, almost acknowledging my efforts.
God, I'm brave.
But golly, it's seems a little neon-y. Maybe, I'll just dim it a little.
Fuck you, hippies! Do you know what I went though to change this lightbulb.
It doesn't dim, folks.
So screw the planet. I've now conquered my fear of climbing up on the kitchen island and changing that bulb. And I'm going back to regular, old, energy guzzling lightbulbs. Because ambiance trumps, well, pretty much anything else...
Every once in awhile, I get to impress my brother. It's rare, but that makes it all the more awesome. That big fella's going to owe me for awhile, because he's my press pass plus one to Outside Lands!
I'm not a big live music kinda gal. But Radiohead? Beck? Lyrics Born? Tom Petty? Regina Spektor? Steve Motherfucking Winwood? In Golden Gate Park?
For free?
Yeah, I'll go.
Oh, I have two passes?
Hold on. I'm about to rock my someone's world.
So, if you're going to be there (and apparently, all of Earth will be), text us and let's meet up in the wine tent. I'll be with the tall smiling guy hugging his big sister who only gets excited when they play the songs she knows...
Last night, I joined the girls (Mel, Tara, Cyn, Pooj and Vansmack, among others) for drinks at Yancy's and wore a dress shirt my brother abandoned over a black skirt. Uninteresting, I realize. But bear with me. I came home, removed the shirt and stuck it on the back of a kitchen chair. At 8 this morning, Tim the Trainer arrived to kick my ass and clamored in with his balance ball, chatting away about how I had obviously just rolled out of bed as he walked into the kitchen. Still chatting, he suddenly noticed the men's dress shirt on the back of the chair. I'm going to try and describe the look on his face, but really, it's indescribable. Eyes like a scared owl, he may have gasped. Clearly convinced some hook-up was snoring away on my bed, Tim seemed to be torn between "Oh god, I'm sorry! Is someone here?" and "What the fuck, Spots." There was 4-5 second moment of shocked disapproving yet congratulatory silence. After I stopped laughing, I pointed out that the shirt was mine and at no point in our work-out would a hungover man emerge from my boudoir. Which is when Tim did his impression of what that guy would be like. Apparently he says, "Sup dude" while scratching his belly and taking stock of his unfamiliar surroundings...
Brian Leubitz, editor of Calitics and one quarter of the Devibitzgriffwoods is running for Vice-Chair of the California Democratic Party! Sadly, you have to be a delegate to next year's convention or on the Democratic State Central Committee to vote and I'm pretty sure none of those people read this blog, but just in case one or two of them is cool, Vote for for Bitz!
Plus, I think this means we get to have parties for him. Bonus...
The queens have their 2(x)ists in a twist again. What else is new, right? But this time it's over tourists, showing up by the bus load in the Castro and giggling at the gays. My favorite quote from this article, other than, "God knows we love tourists," said Patrick Batt, who has owned the Auto Erotica vintage gay porn shop for 28 years. "But these people are a bunch of gawkers" is this statement from Rob Guite, a Castro resident. "You've got these throngs of people walking up and down Market and 18th, holding hands to make it clear that they are heterosexual." Um, Robby darling, aside from the fact that you're saying pretty much EXACTLY what straight people used to say about perfectly innocent gay PDA, I've noticed the same thing. I don't think it's necessarily because Randy and Tonya are trying to shove their straightness in your gay face. It's because they're tourists. They do it everywhere. This whole summer, everywhere I go it's a couple holding hands as if one of them will fall over should the bond be broken. Perhaps we're just an unaffectionate city, perhaps constant hand holding is for junior high and we're too cool or perhaps they're afraid of all of us San Franciscans in general. I'm just saying, get over yourself. It's not all about you. Speaking of Homotown, the Castro Theater is showing The Godfathers I and II as a double feature! Oh my god, these queers have got my number! This is of course, the week after The Little Mermaid Sing-a-Long. Anyway, I can't stay away from the moody Michael Corleone so I'll be there. And I'm not sitting through seven hours of heaven with just anyone. Because, needless to say, I'm taking this shit seriously and shifting in seats/sipping the dregs of the drink/too much talking isn't going to fly with me. Sure during the boring parts (any time Kay talks or Connie gets emotional) we can make fun of people and chug Chianti from water bottles. But I pity the fool who asks me where the bathroom is during gun behind the toilet scene. So, I'm accepting applications. Mafia affiliation welcome, as is knowledge and reverence of the Family...
Sometimes, just to get myself riled up, I'll listen to crazies talk about gay marraige. I kinda like it. Because I kinda like crazy people. And you find gems such as this:
And I just want to be like, "Gavin! If you're going to be Governor, you've got to pull a Jed Bartlet."
Oh, and I can't stop watching this shit. The last line of it alone...I had no idea!
Oh golly, you know how I love to relive the pain of youth. Today's Culture Blog is up...
It occurred to me I should assure you we no longer look like this. I don't think Alex has been cursed with my lifetime of constant humilliation, but he's certainly had his share of shitty childhood moments too. Although he never had to go to Sail Camp.
The above picture really captures the dramatic personality difference between my brother and me. 94% of his whole life, Alex has a really great attitude about everything. He doesn't want any trouble, he's just happy to be here and act friendly towards people. Forced activities? Sounds great! Weird food? A new experience! Moody sister? Awww, she doesn't mean it! So my mom posing us under an afgan on a boat was no prob for Lex. I, on the other hand, am passive aggressively attempting to ruin the photo by forcing a smile and hunching. Obviously, my Sun-In experiment was less than successful, my multiple scrunchies were being assaulted by the wind and the only thing I had going for me was that awesome sweatshirt, which I wore, and I couldn't be more serious, with immense pride. I lived in constant desperation for someone to bring up NKOTB. Because then they might have an 'in' and rescue me from my horrible family, on vacation in Maine here, and whisk me to Boston to drink Diet Sprite with Joe McIntyre. To my surprise, that's yet to happen.
Tim the Trainer appeared on my doorstep this morning at 7:59. Ugh, a minute early? What the fuck, Tim. The first thing out of his mouth? "So how was the tiramisu?" SHIT. The great thing about Tim is that he's become my friend, a fabulous sounding board for the constant personal drama I invite into my life. And he has really good stories that begin with things like, "Did I ever tell you about the time a retarded woman sexually assaulted me?" The horrible thing about Tim is that he reads my blog and figures out I ate tiramisu on Sunday morning. Tim's the one who suggests you have a handful of nuts or a spinach shake for lunch. Me shoving tiramisu in my mouth after 8 servings of rack of lamb probably ain't kosher with Hermann Goering. "Tim, it's not like I ate the whole thing?" "No, no. I love tiramisu." Yeah right. Don't think I'm not wildly aware I'll be paying for that tiramisu in the form of blood, sweat and tears. During our three-day-a week workouts, I tend to do the halfway dance. The halfway dance is basically me making it halfway through a set of push-ups or burpies at which point I step side to side and tell Tim I hate him. He responds by either complimenting me ("Your legs look so different. It's amazing!") or by acting like I'm a big wimp ("Alright, 10 more. Come on. We're not chatting. We're working out.") both of which play upon my insecurities and thus, work. But I've discovered, if in the midst of the dreadful stair jump I ask, "Why are we doing this?" I'll get to break for a whole minute while Tim explains muscle things to me. Oh, push-ups? Why is this good? "Well, it works out your ... No more talking! 20 more." Tim also takes great pride in others noticing my progress. "Any new compliments?" "No. But a woman recognized me at a bar and sent over free drinks!" The only people who notice my slightly smaller ass are my co-workers and my mother, herself now a client of Tim the Trainer. As is Zoe, the goddamn marathon runner. "Zoe's really tough." Yeah, asshole. I know. She's also blonde and brilliant and charming. You both can suck it. I complain and whine obviously, but uh, turns out, I'm sitting at my desk in a dress I haven't worn since my 29th birthday party. And I just caught myself in the bathroom mirror. Oh. Okay. Yep. A little bit. Yay. Tim can still suck it, though. 7:59am. Sweet Jesus...
You know that cheezy phrase, when one door closes, another one opens?
Yeah, I hate that phrase too.
But the truth is, the exact moment I was heading towards the Golden Gate Bridge to take a big, flying leap, I met Melissa.
So, lemme tell you about this weekend.
MOI, now back from his service in the Middle East was having a party and invited my brother and me. I asked if I could bring Mel, and MOI, loyal blog reader since Day One couldn't wait to meet her. Mel, in turn, invited Tara. We've been hanging out with Tara a lot lately, but more about her later.
So Mel and I meet Tara at the Stonestown Chevy's, the establishment selected due to it's proximity to the party. After sufficient girl talk, my brother Alex showed. Girl talk, for those of you with a penis, consists of bitching about men, rubbing each other's back and avoiding creepy guys in burgundy polyester SHORTS who wants to buy us drinks then magically have a foursome in the bathroom.
Not today, sir. We're attending a BBQ!
At which point, Melissa decided to order a sundae.
Melissa is big on the whole, stopping a server and without notice, announcing, "Creme brulee! Five spoons."
Um, okay,
It's finally time to show at the BBQ and truth be told, I am unable to arrive anywhere empty-handed. It's one of my rare qualities. Alex in one car, Tara in her Mini, me and Mel screaming at each other, incredibly lost and looking for a liquor store.
After hearing me yell, "I am not a human compass!" Mel picked up a bottle of white, a bottle of red, and a bottle of Veuve (MOI's engaged!) our convoy made it's way to the party.
"So who are these people?"
I explained my three-tiered relationship with MOI. "Trust me. You'll like him. A lot. He's right up your alley. Seriously. And ... he loved Da."
Da, of course, was my grandfather who wrote MOI letters throughout his 12 years in the service. Well, until he died. Then I picked up where Da left off.
We had a lovely time, MOI coming over and telling my girls Da stories, including how my grandfather instructed MOI's grandmother to pay sticker for a Ford Ecort. But my girls were ready to go, so we hugged everyone goodbye, Joey whispering in my ear, "Spotswood, your friends are fucking hot!" and we headed to Le Club.
I spend an appalling amount of time with Melissa and thus, usually spend decades or dollars looking for a parking place in her Nob Hill neighborhood. But Saturday night, folks, man alive. I don't know if I can even get the words out.
Parking place. Mel's front door. No street restrictions. One block from Le Club.
"Um, is this really a parking place?"
"Lemme check."
"Oh my god."
"Yes. This is an actual parking place."
"I think I just had an orgasm."
Mel, Tara and I joined Gina for a glass of champagne and I realized, if I die and come back as someone, I really hope it's Gina Milano. You know how there was always that one girl in school who was ten times cooler than anyone else you'd ever seen in your life? That's Gina. Dude, even her voice is cool. I may have a lesbian crush on her. I can't be sure.
And then Gina informed us that X was on his way in! Fabulous. Wonderful. Of course.
So X arrived and we hug and chat until it becomes obvious he's got to go mingle with important people. By this time, Mel'd found a boy to flirt with so Tara and I dove into a deep, fun, brutally honest conversation over too many glasses of wine.
Tara's a gorgeous lawyer who's so freakishly intelligent, the way she words "I'm hittin' the ladies" makes it sound like she's reciting Voltaire. And I just think she's awesome.
So in the middle of this conversation, Mel's seductive giggles in the background, Tara all of a sudden said, "Wait. I just want to say, I really like you."
"OH MY GOD, I REALLY LIKE YOU!!!!"
I don't do subtlety.
It's such a fun, rare moment when you officially say, "Oh my, we're becoming good friends. Yay!" I was so pleased with my celibate Saturday, congratulating MOI, drinking champagne with Gina, discussing my love life with X and bonding with my new, terrific friend Tara.
Who came up with a fabulous idea, by the way. Keeping in mind that Mel and I excel at making grandiose plans we never actually complete (our website, calendar, South African time-share, etc.), this one we're doing.
Mel and I are getting married!
Mel's in a tux, I'm in a gown. Tara's the Best Man. Devine's the Maid of Honor. Gina and Leno officiate, X walks me down the aisle. And after we say our vows, Gina will say, "You may now text the bride." Reception at Le Club.
Anyway, we went home and crashed.
In the morning, Mel was uncharacteristically up early. "Um, what are you doing?"
"Let's go get breakfast. Then I've got to work."
Ugh, husbands. So I got up, got dressed and we headed across the park to the Fairmont. It's tourist season in San Francisco, folks. And Melissa doesn't wait in line. Baseball hat and flip flops, she marched right up to the maitre'd, whom she knew of course, and decided the 20 minute wait was unacceptable.
I've never had brunch at the Ritz, but word on the street, not that street people are allowed in, is that this shit is off the hook. Again, Mel knew the dude behind the bar and we realized we'd have to wait 45 minutes for the brunch buffet to begin. But Melissa is all confidence, and announced to our server that we'd be having Bloody Marys until brunch began as she pulled apart the New York Times and got comfortable.
Okay, so the brunch. Um, the brunch. Sweet Jesus up in heaven. The brunch.
First of all, it cost Sugar Mama $300 for us to basically have breakfast so before I assure you that you have to go, know what you're getting yourself in for and/or have a sugar mama. Mine is awesome and knowing the state of my piggy bank, assured me right away, she was covering our 4 hour meal.
Phew. That joint is steep.
Every time I'm in a Ritz, because you know, it's so annoyingly often, I want to sing "Puttin' on the Ritz." I really can't help myself. Which is what I did as I sipped my drink and read the society pages. "Come let's mix where Rockerfeller's walk with sticks or um-ba-rellers in their mits .... Puttin' on the Ritz." I'm sure I solicited stares. Or maybe people just thought Mel was famous, sitting in the dining room of the Ritz Carlton for Sunday Brunch in a baseball hat and sunglasses.
The food was, well ... FUCKING AMAZING. There was a rack of lamb station. The only thing in my mind that could rival a goddamn rack of lamb station was my parking place. I'm a whore for perfectly cooked lamb. Bowls of caviar, chilled soup shots, crab claws shoved in ice, amongst oysters and, oh yeah, lobster. Melissa doesn't eat meat, so much of the splendor was lost on her, but I was pretty much running from station to station. "Melissa, they have little pulled pork sandwiches! OMG, did you see the charcuterie? Cornichons and pate, bitch! Um, this is the greatest crostini on Earth. Try it! Mary, Mother of God, this mixed grill of sausages from around the world! Why, I ... I've never seen such a buffet in all of my travels! More champagne, Luis!!!"
Oh, and there was a jazz trio and a preposterous ice sculpture.
I was standing by the caviar station, thinking of where I was and who I was with and sadly, chose to say aloud "Ha! Ha! My ex-boyfriends can suck it."
A tourist in appliqued capri pants next to me innocently asked, "Pardon me?"
Oh shit.
"Um, sorry. I was just thinking that I'm here with my best friend and I'd rather be here with her than anyone else and I'm having so much fun."
"Yes." She nervously smiled. "It's a very high quality buffet."
I returned to the table, when Melissa announced she was hitting the dessert veranda. "You coming?"
"I've got a plan. I'm working my way over there. There's like, 53 other things I haven't tried yet. I must sample everything."
But when Mel returned with eclairs and strawberry shortcake and puddin' shots, well shit. I had to forgo the egg/waffle/benedict station and head to the dessert table.
Whenever I do something nice at work, which is rare, my boss Sara will say, "You'll get a place in heaven next to the dessert table for that."
I suddenly found myself next to the dessert table and peeps, it's on Earth!
Tim the Trainer's going to kill me, I thought to myself. But they have red velvet cupcakes!
Then I neared a huge casserole dish of tiramisu, untouched with perfect biscotti and chocolate shavings placed delicately in the center. It was so beautiful, so perfect, someone had obviously labored over this dessert and I truly wanted to congratulate them. Until I saw that big, shiny, Ritz sterling spoon and figured, fuck it.
I returned to the table with the classy, "If you're wondering who ruined the tiramisu, look no further." We called Tara and Hastings and invited them to join us at the movies.
Hastings was unavailable, but god bless her, Tara's up for anything.
Before the silver screen tho, Mel needed to stop by Sephora. As she shopped, I though it'd be hilarious to cover myself in make-up, piling on eye shadow and blush and bright red lipstick. I put Tammy Faye to shame, chuckling at my hideous mug in the mirror. I congratulated myself with my mantra, "God, I'm hilarious."
I went and found Mel. "Excuse me, ma'am. I just got a makeover! Whaddayawhink?"
Melissa looked at me, confused. "Oh. Oh no. You look like a cheap whore. Bethy, wipe that shit off your face right now."
Yeah, I'm not good at farcical comedy. But of course, I was stuck in that face paint for the rest of Sunday.
Oh and also, Sugar Mama continued her foray into philanthropy at Sephora. I now have make-up so complicated, it comes with an instructional DVD.
We met Tara at the fancy Kabuki Sundance theater for a 2:30 screening of Bottle Shock, enjoying some drinks in the "Balcony Bar" before settling into our reserved seats. Kabuki makes you select your actual seat in advance, putting me, Mel and Tara in G3,G4 and G5. Therefore, Melissa had a lot of questions for our relatively cute, tattooed movie ticket guy.
"Who's in H4? Do you take information about the people sitting around us? Are they nice? We're kinda chatty. Where's the bar? Do you have Goobers?"
The movie was wonderful. The three of us even started the applause at the end. My only gripe with this film was the man in what I believe to be the back row. Every 10 minutes, he'd let out this groan.
"Uoaghhhh..."
Like literally, every 10 minutes. I leaned over and 'whispered' at my girls, "Is he getting a blow job or dying? I can't tell."
This film, which you really must see, just makes one want some wine. Back to the Balcony Bar it was.
I hugged my girls, patted myself on the back and drove myself home for a quiet Sunday in alone. I wasn't even going to call Big Chris for our standard Sunday night burrito date. I simply bought myself the greatest deli sandwich on Earth (Safeway turkey with cranberry and onions) and plopped on my couch.
Golly, I thought.
I really convinced myself that my world was over this past February. I mean, friends, I woke up on a winter weekday morning on my kitchen floor with an empty bottle of Smirnoff and the same Radioheadsong playing on repeat.
Don't judge. I invented wallowing. What of it?
And here we are in August and, um, I have a whole amazing, overwhelming, dramatically different new world.
Which is better, by the way.
Completely content and smiling to myself last night, I then noticed Last Holiday was on in 15 minutes.
And I threw myself and my sandwich on my 1999 Pottery Barn rug and died of sheer joy...
Really, any excuse to shove deli sandwiches in my mouth and mumble, "Oh Chef Didier, you crazy!"
The above video is so odd, I had no choice to include it. But this is a sweet movie and you guys, it's free on Comcast on Demand right now. Dude, I'll even come over, bring booze, some short ribs and snuggle under a blanket, I want you to watch this so bad.
...because today is the birthday of the man I love and I can't really find the words to fully demonstrate my complete committment to worshipping him. I thought of a poem. He rhymes with a lot! But it doesn't seem like his style. I thought of calling him. But that might be tough. I thought of showing up on his doorstep in that great black wrap-dress I now fit back into. Problem: I don't know where he is. So like everyone else, which he's SO not, my baby's getting a blog. I love you. I love you like I love sunsets (not really) and pure-bred horses (sick) and female Asian newborns (drown those drains.) I lied. Okay, here's how I really love you. I love you like uniformed servants and that curtain between first class and steerage (when I've upgraded, obviously) and open bars and finding the sale dress I want in my size and New Kids on the Block and onions (God, I really love onions) and pie (in general) and leg of lamb with too much mint jelly and pointed-toe flats and handles of vodka and Vinny, my kindergarten boyfriend who I kissed under a blanket and In the Line of Fire on a Sunday morning and Indian food and cheap Champagne and my blog and PayLessShoeSource and pre-recorded music and driving with my head out the window and cheese plates with a dried fruit component and cuddling and seeing other people's baby pictures and crying for little reason and mocking cripples and standing applause (it feels good after all that time, regardless of the performance) and drinking in the Lodge while everyone else skis. So basically, I love you more than life itself. Happy Birthday, Thomas Patrick. My GOD, Happy Birthday...
I can't believe I'm typing this, but I am freaking out because the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation's website is down, including their "How to Locate and Contact an Inmate" section. And believe it or not, I need to locate an inmate! I knew my Prison Pen Pal was being moved (oh yes, I have a prison pen pal) and he was apparently transfered right before my latest letter got to him. Every day, I'd run to the mailbox convinced anther gem would arrive any day. Imagine my horror to get my letter back with the dramatic "NIC: Not in Custody" scrawled on it. This actually may be a blessing, as Hastings came to hang out at my office when I was working late on Monday and law student that he is, noticed my returned letter immediately. "What the fuck is that?" "My letter to my prison pen pal was returned." I couldn't believe I hadn't told Hastings about this. If you've been within a block of me the past 2 weeks, it's all I can talk about. Ask Vansmack. "Can I read it?" He asked. Eh, why not? It needs a new envelope anyway, once, of course, I locate my inmate. The second I said "Sure," he tore that thing open like it contained the cure for cancer. Slowly Hastings read, finally getting to the second page. "Um, you can't say this?" "Why not?" I rolled my eyes and took a sip of my wine. (Oh yes, I have wine at work.) "This is sending the wrong message." Upon re-reading my hand-written missive on purple binder paper, I had to concede Hastings had a point. I should probably omit the personal family and dating details, as well as girly cursive on purple paper. Melissa pointed out I was one step away from spritzing it with Love's Baby Soft and a lipstick kiss mark at the end. I think my friends are being slightly alarmist, but I'm heeding their advice and adjusting my casual tone. Now I'm just got to find the current prison of my pal and I can't because our crappy government can't fix their CDCR website. I could not be more disappointed...
*On topic, Kate pointed out in the comments that Scott Peterson may have HIV. I am currently researching this sad development and while initial information seems to be rumor based, I will obviously keep you updated. I mean, I know a thing or two about Death Row and shower sex is kinda frowned upon. Free Scott!
Tim the Trainer's great. He listens to my personal drama. He sends me encourageing e-mails. He looks like Harold from Top Chef. And I am no longer speaking to him. Why? Have you ever done a burpie? Oh, okay. Wait. Try this shit. Stand up. Now squat down, stick your hands on the floor and JUMP your legs into the push-up position. Kay, now jump 'em back. Oh, and thep leap up into the air reaching for the sky. Great. Now do it 49 more times. Yeah, Tim the Trainer and I are no longer on speaking terms.
Some wierdo sent me an e-mail asking me if I read other people's blogs. Oh, you mean like Melissa and Brock? No. Never. Duh. Of course I read other people's blogs. What the fuck is wrong with you? So here's my Top 10 list of daily blogs I visit, omitting my peeps. And yeah, I know. It's a lot of food porn.
The Daily Feed (Gutenberg, I love you.) Food Gawker (porn.) DListed (Heaven on Earth.) Taste Spotting (porn.) Anna's Cool Finds (slightly nerdy and sweet {barf}, but useful and constant, kinda like a good boyfriend.) The Pioneer Woman (Barf in general, but I can't help myself. I kinda want to smack Ree and I kinda want to watch You've Got Mail with her. Also, Joe and I have made loads of hershit and it never turns our right? I blame Ree. Yet I can't look away. Also, there are a TON of anti-PW blogs out there. She lives with her husband and four kids on a farm in Oklahoma and takes pictures and cooks food and home-schools. I'm obsessed.) The Food in my Beard (My future spouse.) Smitten Kitchen (Yeah. I'm into this shit. You SO want to come over to my house so I can make you THIS.) Thursday Night Smackdown (Awesome food and even more awesome, she just went nuts.) Holy Taco (Not really a blog I guess. But it keeps me in touch with what straight boys are thinking. By the way, straight boys are thinking about boobs and shit jokes.)
So there you go. Other people's blogs. And uh, there went your day. I haven't even dipped into my serial killer sites yet. Steel your nerves, folks. I have much to share.
Finally, just so we can all wait in breathless anticipation, Grey Cloud texted me yesterday. Months ago, I'd requested one "Beth and Chris night" in which we'd whoop it up like the good ole' days. And by good ole' days, I mean screaming at each other on the sidewalk in front of the Bubble Lounge. I've been alotted this Friday night and in my delight, I texted back, "Oh, a Friday even! What to wear!?! I'll make reservations." My phone glowed with his grateful response. "I'm not doing dinner." Oh. Silly me. I'm no Rielle Hunter, but I was willing to forgo by cable bill to buy the douche dinner at Bix. I never get to see him. He likes sorbet. I like stiff drinks. This was my perfect excuse to re-hit Bix! Mais non. I don't want to fight via text. So I called his over-dressed ass. Grey Cloud answers his phone as if you've just interrupted him in the middle of a huge business deal, and he's doing you a huge favor by taking your call. Nope. he's watching golf. "Yeah!?!" "Hey, Sugarplum. So Friday..." "Yeah?" "You don't want to go to dinner?" "I'm not doing dinner." "Okay. what do you want to do?" "You're supposed to know the cool bars, right?" "Okay, but I thought maybe we could..." Click. Oh, I'm bringing my flip video for this shit. Because I'm saving my voice and notifying Bubble Lounge security...
Dori and Greg introduced my parents on a blind date in 1973. Dori was my mom's college roommate and Greg was my dad's BFF since kindergarten at St. Vincent de Paul where they met in 1953. D and G are basically my aunt and uncle and I love them very much. I don't want to get all kinds of sappy, but every once in a while, some random friend will introduce you to someone and all of a sudden, your world flips. I remember Zoe's first day at work, where I begged and begged for them to hire a girl and when they finally did, took one look at Zo and was all, "Oh, Prom Queen'll last 4 minutes." I remember Brigham introducing me to Leubitz at that gay breakfast, and Bitz, rightly so, wanted nothing to do with me. But weeks later, he introduced me to Devine. Devine! My sun fucking rises and sets with Brian Devine. And then one day, I got an e-mail from this chick who 's friend told her to get in touch with me. Oh, terrific. Another blogger who wants to talk about litter. So because I'm an attention whore and hate an empty room, I invited said chick to my birthday. It was pouring rain. The bar was across town and packed with strangers. I was so drunk, I may have peed on a pool table. And in walked Melissa. Melissa Griffin, as you might know, is now my closest friend. In fact, we now regard ourselves as wed. I have never had a friend like this friend, who then introduced me to Cyn and Vansmack and X and Jen and Pooj and Art and Tara and Andre and loads of people I now love. I could not be more grateful for Mel. So, back to my point. Clemens is the one who told Mel to e-mail me. Because he's a very sweet and smart guy who occasionaly glances at my blog, invites me to cocktails, is nice to my dad and when I asked him for resume advice, actually revamped the whole thing and acted like it was no big deal. Uh, J'adore Clemenza. No really. I mean it. Plus, you know, he introduced me to my wife...
Waking up to the news that Bernie Mac died, I texted the Inner Circle the dramatic, "Bernie Mac = dead. OMG." Mel sent a barrage of responses, bordering on conspiracy theories. Dan expressed tactful remorse and reverency. And then my phone glowed with Grey Cloud's response. "So much for Ocean's 14..."
Because Melissa and I are basically married (bitch hates my mattress) we occasionally double date. Lo many months ago, "my new friend Melissa" and I met for Sunday afternoon cocktails, with plans to meet up later for dinner at The Brians. As we finished our drinks, Mel invited me to join her playing Rock Band at some dude's house. I declined, and apparently wrote on my blog that I didn't want to "hang out with strangers."
I've never heard the end of it.
Because that stranger is Vansmack, frequent I'll Flip You commenter and obviously, no longer a stranger.
I really like Vansmack for five reasons. 1: He responds to any e-mail within 5 minutes. 2: He's married to a gorgeous, funny doctor who will talk to me about Tom Colicchio while Van and Mel discuss snoozer public transportation policy. 3: His brutal yet hilarious honesty shocks and amuses me, which is hard to do at this point. 4: Turns out, he makes one hell of a risotto. 5: He takes Rock Band incredibly seriously.
I know this because I finally played it last night.
I couldn't stop laughing. Here we were; 4 adults facing a flat screen, entranced in concentration, holding plastic musical instruments and avoiding unnecessary conversation so we didn't lose any points during Weezer's "Buddy Holly."
Then finally, 39 bottles of Zinfandel coursing through my veins, I lost myself in the vocals of "Hard to Handle" and got the point of Rock Band. Vansmack yells encouragement throughout each song, and at the end of Yeah, Yeah, Yeah's "Maps", I finally received the recognition from my coach I never knew I was so desperate for.
"See, Spotswood. Look at the fucking score. You rocked. You rocked because you finally took it seriously. And something's up with you and that song. But whatever. Awesome."
So yeah, I got home at 2am. Because I was doing this...
You're running for President, your wife has cancer and everyone thinks you're a moral pillar of light with a great haircut. What are you gonna do next?!?!
Relax, everyone. Relax. It's not like he's the father of her illegitimate child. That's another staffer. Duh.
How this trainwreck gets so much play is beyond me.
It's often been asked why powerful, brilliant, interesting people screw everything up, by well, screwing? There's a million answers which I won't go into other than they probably think they're entitled and above the same standards as the rest of us.
Eh, what else is new?
You know what I want to know? Why is it always an unimpressive conquest? If you're going to fall from grace John, you can probably do better Erin Brockovich in mom jeans. Jesus, is that a peace sign heart on her trimmed sweater top? Monica Lewinsky's probably patting herself on the back (or beret) right now. And for that matter, Client Number 9's taste level just went up in my book. Although, I'm guessing mom jeans Brockovich didn't ask John to leave a few grand on the nightstand.
What ever happened to the good ole' days of Marilyn Monroe being snuck through the kitchen?
This one makes Paula Jones look like, well...probably a good friend...
This evening, The Spotswoods are celebrating a belated Father's Day, so my brother swung by my office and picked me up with the hopes that we could find some acceptable gifts for padre at the new Tyler Forence store in Mill Valley. Tyler Florence, for those of you that don't watch the Food Network obsessively, is a TV/celebrity chef whose recently moved to my hometown and opened his first Williams-Sonoma-esque store in the former Banana Republic in the center of town. We've tried some of his "Ultimate" recipes and he's big on the sweet and savory. They're kinda complicated, but generally hits, as evidenced here.
I'd been itching to check out the new store, especially after dad and I met Tyler at the Memorial Parade. And basically, it's like a slightly more unique and quirky Williams-Sonoma with deer heads mounted on the walls. That is, until much to my delight, you head to the back where they have not only, clean-looking public restrooms but a gorgeous nook filled with funky leather couches and every cookbook on Earth.
Well, every cookbook on Earth except of course, for the very book I needed. What gives, Florence? And on that note, how does anyone who works in a store where thousands of food books are for sale not know who Michael Ruhlman is?
That being said, I could sit in TyTy's book nook for days and days planning themed dinner parties and considering making cheese and sausage from scratch.
Anyway, "Tyler Forence Mill Valley" was growing on me, even though when we met him, Tyler couldn't have cared less that he was talking to two humans much less, well...US! I always assume that once celebrities of any stature on the alphabet ladder meet me and my friends/family, they'll suddenly discover that we're way better than normal, dorky people and want to be our friend. Never happens. Probably because we're normal, dorky people.
So we find dad some presents and pay the charming ladies at the counter, one of whom still doesn't know who Michael Ruhlman is and they kindly offer to wrap our gifts. Oh, marvelous! Yes, please! How nice of you!
Now, tell me if I'm being nitpicky, because I so love it when you call me on my shit in the comments, but isn't this wrap job a tad much? Wait, at WHO'S store did you get this? Oh yeah...
Hey kids, remember my pal Jacob? He's selling out and I couldn't be happier!
Actually, my brother and I went to an open mike night years ago and saw Jacob tear the house down. He had us in such hysterics, I actively sought him out. Turns out, he's been friends with Sunset Ben forever. And thus, I get to be friends with Jacob. Since I completely failed Ben in plugging his Comedy Genius because I am a flake and horrible person, I'm doing my damnedest to remember the important plugs as of late.
Which brings me to... Jacob is on Last Comic Standing!
Now, know that Jacob isn't really this... well, tame in real life. You old timers might remember Jacob kindly agreed to be one of my Celebrity Interviews. He and his wife, the equally talented and incredibly sweet, Sherry Sirof moved to LA with their kid to make it big. These are lovely, funny, friendly folks who are *this* close.
The original ring bit (see below) was a little better than the new one, but Jacob is an unusual delight and has good stuff to say. Thus, you're all (okay, some of you are) a bunch of uptight activists. Here's your chance to help out my friend and save comedy.
Gavin and what's-her-bucket leave for Africa tomorrow and I could not be more annoyed. Why are they honeymooning in Africa? Oh, because Swiss Miss has spent so much time there and she wants to "show him around." Please. I bet she makes him visit Oprah's Leadership Academy for Girls. Well, according to Gavin, he'll have his cell on so if there's a crisis, he can race back. Oh, the Golden Gate Bridge collapsed? No problem. I'll be there in 23 hours. Unless of course, they're taking the Jetty, in which case, assuming they refuel in London like everyone else, he'll be back in 22 hours. Phew. I hope, god forbid the Golden Gate Bridge collapses, that if Gavin's racing home to come rescue us all, he leaves Swiss Miss in the middle of some game reserve eyeball to eyelash with a stampeding herd of elephants. Oh, and by the way, if you're going to go to Africa, THIS is how you do it, wimps...
Anyway, last night Chris and I had our usual Sunday night, which means cheap Mexican food, drinks at Dirty Thieves, television at my house and then I fall asleep wherein Chris plays fantasy sports on my laptop and leaves god knows when without locking the door or setting the alarm.
It's more fun than it sounds, I swear.
Sitting at the bar, I noticed an attractive tattooed gentleman scrawling what appeared to be a set list on a cocktail napkin while drinking straight scotch and rolling his own cigarettes. Much to my embarrassment, I was dressed in stuff white people like (Gap jeans, REI fleece, freshly washed hair, etc.) and felt I needed to establish my street cred. So I started nagging Chris to play me that Pogues song I love on the jukebox. Anytime someone went up to that jukebox, I'd be all, "I hope they're playing The Pogues!"
I regard The Pogues as the only band I like that hipster scary music people might also like. I mean, the lead singer has no teeth. And it's basically The Committments Soundtrack, so you know, yay.
Eventually, tattoo scotch guy got up and shoved some scratch in the jukebox, smoked another cigarette and returned to silently work on his cocktail napkin set list. I leaned over to Chris. "See this guy?"
"Oh, the artiste? I bet he has lots of 'feelings'."
"That cocktail napkin could be on the wall of a lesser Hard Rock Cafe one day, Toph."
I was analyzing the music tattoo scotch guy had selected. It was much as you'd expect, very old school country/rock/punk. I'm sure there's a name for this type of obvious tattoo scotch guy music and I'd be delighted to learn all about it over black coffee and viewings of Singles with tattoo scotch guy. He just sat there, silently scribbling and sipping, and maybe I'm being paranoid, but tattoo scotch guy was totally avoiding eye contact.
So he listens to his songs and abruptly gets up, says adios to Matt, the chatty bartender who TOTALLY looks like Jesus and splits.
And with that, The Pogues came on.
Oh my god.
I was tempted to run out on the sidewalk and scream, "I love you too!"
After the song ended, the jukebox went silent. Yep, that was his song. I remain convinced that song was for me. Convinced.
Which is when Chris stood up. "Give me two dollars, I'm sick of this tight-jeans shit."
He took forever selecting his songs, once coming over and flicking my shoulder. "Babe, what's that song you like?"
1. Since when do you call me babe?
2. Fairytale of New York, you idiot.
3. Chris, who would ditch me for a tranny hooker if the bargain was good enough, is an oblivious cock block.
4. He made it up to me with:
Beth: What's this song?
Chris: A song I knew you'd love.
Beth: I love it.
Chris: Yeah, I know.
Then Chris played me Fairytale of New York. Which was very sweet, even if he rolled his eyes the whole time.
There's a ghetto grocery store in my hood, and if you've been to 23rd and South Van Ness, you know the shithole to which I refer. I don't buy actual groceries there, just the occasional Top Ramen and toilet paper, which is exactly what I needed this afternoon. As I strolled the barren aisles (a mere three types of Domestic toothpaste available), I received a call from Big Chris inquiring as to tonight's plans.
Our phone conversation lasted approximately three minutes, Chris never really seeing the need for pleasantries in plan-making and when I hung up, I was met with an employee of ghetto grocery.
"No phones."
Um, excuse me? We are not in a movie theater or house of God. We aren't even in a lesser Safeway. How can they have a cell phone policy? They don't even have brie.
I was so caught off guard, I apologized and shoved my cell in my handbag, but was slightly convinced I was on some type of poorly thought-out Punk'd. Maybe it was some new employee hazing ritual in which the rookie bagger has to sass a shopper. Or maybe this bitch was just in a mood. But there is no way a grocery store of any caliber much less one with an entire aisle devoted to Jesus candles can have a cell phone policy...
There is nothing that delights my Sunday morning like Ashley Judd done wrong then fighting her way to survival and justice with quick thinking determination and her convenient Judo hobby. There's always good movies on Basic Cable on Sunday mornings. Today, we've got High Crimes, Titanic, Sleepless in Seattle, Ghostbusters, City Slickers, Flightplan and Police Academy. I'm so torn. If someone could bring me mimosa fixins, a continental breakfast basket and a latte...and a maid...and an assistant...maybe a funny gay or a hot flirty straight guy, well shit. My day would be perfect...
I've decided to do my own version of live blogging:
10:54am: The old chick in Titanic really reminds me of my Grandma.
10:56am: How do you go from Red in Shawshank to Charlie Grimes in High Crimes? Oh yeah. Bills.
11:02am: Jack Dawson didn't look this young when I saw Titanic 8 TIMES in the theater. Jesus, he's like 11. Oh, and you've got to read Da Mayor's column today. Fabulous.
11:55am: Boy, Ashley Judd just can't catch a break. Thank god she's got her BFF Morgan Freeman.
12:12pm: OMG, it's the "I'm flying...Jack" scene. My heart will go motherfucking on!
12:14pm: I really want to go on a cruise.
12:21pm: Billy Zane is fabulously over the top as Cal. He's way better than Jack and his bangs.
2:29pm: I cannot believe that old loon tossed that tacky necklace back at Jack. Every time, it ticks me off, with her stupid little yelp.
Soluna, The Daily Grill, Lefty O'Doul's, Michael Mina and Martuni's.
Oh, Fridays. I love you.
I met Mel, Tara, Pooj and Vansmack at Soluna, some 90's joint by City Hall where policy wonks think they're cool for eating tapas. Mel and I had plans to go to dinner at Fog City and then meet up with X and his friends at Kokkari. Those plans quickly flew out the window once Lefty's was mentioned.
But the concept of dinner there wasn't kosher with the crew (um, ask me the parking story) so we grabbed a bar table at The Daily Grill (thank you Tara) and I ordered (wine and) the $4.50 side of "risotto." Number one, I was having wine because Tim the Trainer sent me a link with the calories in cocktails. Gibsons? Yeah, 210. As Tim the Trainer pointed out, I have to run two miles for each Gibson. Shit. Number two, folks, this risotto was rice with peas in it. I ate one of Tara's quesadilla triangles and some of Vansmack's coleslaw and was like, "Alright, we're missing shit at Lefty's. Frank started 15 minutes ago!"
Frank, god bless him, recognized Mel and I instantly. And again, started in with the "Melissa is horny routine." This, again, prompted the biggest losers in the joint to approach Mel, pass her notes (oh yes, we saved it), try and share their pitcher of beer, etc. I'm a snob, so you know, this is nothing new but gentlemen, look who you're trying to talk to. Melissa, much to my horror, is a stunning and hilarious attorney in a designer size nothing dress who just climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro. For fun. You sir, on the other hand, are in Dockers and a $4 haircut, in town from a moderately priced St. Louis suburb and have communication devices attached to your belt. This would be like me stumbling over to Clooney in my favorite sweatpants whilst chomping on a hot dog and handing him a ripped piece of cocktail napkin with a grammatically incorrect note upon it.
He'd take a pass, I'm guessing.
Pager couldn't take a hint.
He came over to Tara and I while Mel was in the ladies. "Tell me something about Melissa."
"Okay. She's my wife."
"What?"
"She. Is. My. Wife."
And then Tara deadpans, "Welcome to San Francisco."
So Pager screams across the bar to his friend, "You were right! Oh my god, you were SO right!"
I took a sip of my wine and looked at him. "I'm just fucking with you."
Which is when Mel returned and Frank worked "Little Melissa is back from the toilet" into a song.
Okay. That's our cue. It was time to meet X, K and T at Michael Mina. So we all headed over to fancy pants bar and friends, the transition was bracing. Fuck it, Tim the Trainer. Someone get me a $17 Gibson! I've been slumming it.
Which is when K announced, "Have you ever been to Martuni's?"
Oh hell yes.
Mel, Tara and Pooj headed home. As Mel put on her coat, she looked at me. "You sleeping over?"
Um, Martuni's, bitch. See ya.
I've loved Martuni's since my homos took me there for cabaret and Claret circa 2002. And the last time I was there, I said to Devine, "You know who'd love this? X."
For example, this magical moment captured on film. What the hell is our foxy Mayor trying to do up there? One thing's for sure. He's got "wacky voice" face. Even the kids are like, "Awww, come on. Wacky voices? Lame."
Anyway, "Tyler Forence Mill Valley" was growing on me, even though when we met him, Tyler couldn't have cared less that he was talking to two humans much less, well...US! I always assume that once celebrities of any stature on the alphabet ladder meet me and my friends/family, they'll suddenly discover that we're way better than normal, dorky people and want to be our friend. Never happens. Probably because we're normal, dorky people. 
