Tuesday, September 30, 2008

well this explains a lot...

I had yet another late meeting in Marin last night (it's gala season!) and thus, swung by the folks. My mother, now semi-retired was desperate to know what I wanted for dinner.
"Oh, nothing. I'll be over late."
"Nonsense, what do you want?"
"Okay, well remember when we were kids and you'd make chicken breasts in mustard sauce?"
I arrived home to find my mother run to the kitchen and start sauteing things. Who is this woman? My whole life, my mother's been a workaholic, racing home from the FiDi in suits and impatience to pick up Alex and me, the last kids at Day Care. My mother has, God bless her, suffered through lots of tearful "You put work before me!" so I'm no longer allowed to give her shit about this, but as a kid, all I wanted was a mom in a minivan who was in the pick-up parking lot when the bell rang at 3pm, with cookies, juice boxes and low expectations. Well, shit, now I'm 30 and she's running all over the place changing sheets and making chicken and wanting to watch West Side Story with me at 11pm. Ugh, Donna Reed, give it a rest!
My folks shuffled off to bed, but only after they delighted in showing me Letterman mocking McCain on "the You Tube." I then ventured into the TV room and discovered my Baby Book. My mother dutifully kept track of my eating and movements and interests, while my father catalogued travels I don't remember and current fads, of them being his confused addition of "disco." Dad's kept up Alex and my Baby Books, with high school essays, report cards and Chronicle clippings. Shit, he might print this nonsense out and add it.
Anyway, I then discovered my pre-school progress reports.
Pre-school.
I would like to point out that this document is dated June 1983 and signed by some bitch named Kathleen. I would also like to point out that I was FIVE years old.
Five.
I attended Montessori school, where one of my apparent interests was "Study of Europe: food preparation, flags, etc."
Get a load of this (completely verbatim) progress report:
Social Skills:
1: (yeah, Kathleen numbered this shit) Beth has opened up her social life substantially this year. (I guess when I was four, I was a social pariah) She has become a well-accepted and well-liked member of the older children's social circle.
2: Beth has also been the idol of the younger girls, and has spent a great deal of time with them also. (Overuse of the world 'also', Kathleen.)
3: Beth got into social problems (here we go) over the semester when she would tend to over-indulge one younger girl with attention and ignore another. Beth likes being the center of attention at school (and beyond) and has to learn to be fair and kind, considering the feelings of all the members of the class instead of leaving some children feeling left out. (Pussies.) Often, Alexis C, Lexi, Heidi, Rebecca, etc. (etc.?) would compete (hell yeah) for Beth's favors, and she was totally in a position of power with their feelings. (Again, I was five. God, I musta been awesome.)
4: This power as a leader with younger children can be focused on developing Beth's leadership with children her own age. (Ouch.) Then there will be more give and take on an equal basis.
In response, 25 years later, I have this to say to Kathleen:
1: Fuck you, you house-boat hippie. It's called moxie. Look into it.
2: I was sick of those goddamn carob chips so I apparently gave 4 year olds self-esteem problems. Big deal.
3: Fair and kind? I'm sorry. I'm too busy studying Europe and being unable to relate to people "my own age." Which is motherfucking five.
4: These problems obviously continue onto kindergarten, where we awere graded by the highly complex system wherein; E: Excellent, S: Satisfactory and N: Needs Improvement.
Needless to say, nary an "N" touched my report card.
Prints last name? E.
Days of the week? E.
Likes to sing with others? E.
Folks, all I'm looking at is a sea of "E's." But wait! What's this? An occasional "S?" OMG, in what subject, pray tell!?!?!
~Sportsmanship
~Fair Play
~Application of Principals to Social Situations
~Listens to/follows Directions
~Self Control
~Oh, and large and small muscle coordination, whatever the hell that means.
Jesus Christ.
Should I ever be cursed with the dreadful and unnecessary burden of children, I will refuse to subject them to this bizarre and judgemental environment of misguided educators. They can get that crap for free at home school...

wheddah ya like it a naht...

Monday, September 29, 2008

someone throw acid in my eyes...

My very sweet day job boss and Board took me to Spring Awakening last night, which meant three middle-aged couples and me met for a pre-theater drink at Grand Cafe and then watched a musical about incest, suicide and abortion together. 
Needless to say, I loved it. 
I was seated in between former Board President, the fabulous MJ and an empty seat. Apparently, someone assumed I'd have a plus one. Uh, nope. Mel just saw the show and any man I know would never attend 'the theatre' with me and a bunch of my bosses while people have musical sex, abortions and commit suicide 100 feet away. 
Yeah, that'd totally fly with Big Chris. 
Anyway, right behind us, a couple could NOT shut up. On and on their chatter went, often rising beyond a whisper and always, of course, at tense, silent emotional moments. My prolonged, twisted stares went unnoticed and while I would normally never say a word and merely complain to others, I was this close to asking them to zip it. 
As the intermission lights went up, I got a good look at them.
Oh god. 
He's a blind!
While the central casting sunglasses and foldable cane gave it away, I'm already sensitive to the plight of the theater-going sight-less American. Said day job is a theater company and we offer one show that is "described for the visually impaired." We give them little transmitters and headsets and hire people to describe everything that's happening on stage. You know, along the lines of, "So now, Dorothy and Toto are following the yellow brick road, which you've probably gathered by that song they're singing. Anyway, the road is actually made of yellow bricks, not that you know what yellow looks like..." You get the idea. 
Back to Spring Awakening, it was very clear that the pair behind us consisted of a describer and a blind person, which meant I couldn't very well turn around and hiss, "Shut the fuck up! What are you? Deaf?"
But MJ was unaware and clearly, not as sensitive to cripples and their 'rights' as me. 
"God, that couple behind us!"
"Midge, shhhhh!"
"They're very rude, don't you think?"
"Um, well I would if he wasn't BLIND."
"Oh dear."
Man, those blinds get away with murder. If I were blind, I'd walk (carefully) into every bar in town and order a Belvedere Gibson. 
"$14, ma'am."
"Of course! He's a crisp twenty dollar bill, my good man."
Then I'd hand him a five with a big, proud smile on my face. "Keep the change, friend."
What's he gonna do? Nothing, that's what. 
Hey, the perks of suffering through 3 years of brail lessons, I guess...

Friday, September 26, 2008

ps: brock's in love with dana king. pass it on...

I'll always love Dan Noyes, as he is hilarious and was an extra in Broadcast News, thus making him Cronkite-esque in my mind. But Dan's got a little competition on my favorite foxy, married local TV news guy who laughs at my jokes list.
Because said list now has 2 foxy, married local TV news guys who laugh at my jokes! Count em, two!
Who, you're asking yourself, is this obviously insane regional journalist?
Folks, meet Joe Vasquez.
Ding Fucking Dong!
Loosened windsor knot, KPIX rock-band frontin', joke crackin', Kokkari drinkin' Joe is my new hero. Seriously, he could not be more adorable in every possible way. 
I want Dan and Joe to have their own late night talk show, where I'd get to be their sidekick and pick out their trench coats for the big dicey stories "in the field." There'd be nightly guests, I guess, but mostly, the format should be Dan smoldering, Joe being adorable and me asking questions about their hair and children and craziest story they ever covered. And we'd sit on couches and talk with cocktails and canoodling. We could have a weekly archival highlight, a greatest hits reel, if you will. 
"Tonight, Dan's coverage of the tragic yet fascinating events of September 11th! Tune in next week for Joe's story on that bitch who put a human finger in her chili!"
Finally, once a month, the most interesting person I've ever met in my life (Marin County Coroner, Ken Holmes) will stop by to report on any dicy bodies rolling through his office. 
I'm giddy at the concept and encourage a letter writing campaign to Dan, Joe and any station willing to put us on the air at 2:13am...

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

happy birthday brian!

Just about a year ago, I was sitting at home alone feeling down in the dumps. I'd been invited to some blogger beer thing but was unmotivated to drive to some dive in the Lower Haight with a bunch of nerds I didn't know.
Back and forth I went, debating the pros and cons of making an appearance or wallowing into my chicken and stars at home.
It finally occur ed to me that I could die cold and alone with 47 cats if I remained a big chicken for the rest of my life, so I threw in some lip gloss and courage and headed over there.
Hours later, I ended up eating shwerma on a sidewalk with this wonderful man I met.
And today is his birthday.
I have no idea who or where I'd be if I'd never met Brian Devine. I'd probably be sitting at home still drinking soup out of a can.
So in honor of this momentous occasion, here are my Top 10 Favorite Things about Brian James Devine:
10: He's taller than me
9: He makes pasta and bread from scratch
8: He owns the only dog I actually like
7: He will gladly attend any event and stand in the corner with me, making fun of everyone
6: He never lets me pay for anything and when I ask why, he says, "Because it's Beth Day!"
5: He loves to scream in chants "9! Million! Dollars!" and doesn't care that he's the only one chanting
4: He will say anything to anyone, especially if they deserve it
3: He pre-orders me a Gibson if he gets there first
2: He can be funnier with one sentence than anything I've ever written in my life
1: Brian Devine would run through fire, leap tall buildings, throw himself in front of trains and take a bullet for me (and Melissa). He blows sunshine up my ass daily, showers me with undeserved praise, sprints to my defense and laughs at my stories. He knows every single goddamn humiliating thing about me and has never once judged a thing. He is kind and friendly to everyone until they give him reason not to be, in which case he turns into dry, witty bitch. He is brilliant and smart and generous and affectionate. Brian is gorgeous and hilarious and interesting and gifted in the culinary arts. Brian is someone I love very, very, very much and I thank God I went to that shitty bar...

two and a half down, two and a half to go...

Today's Culture Blog is up! Enjoy it...

this has made my wednesday...

Holy Shit, you've got to watch this. 
My god, the introduction alone!

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

color me shocked...

Welcome Clay!


God Bless this magnificent queen! Seriously, Dick Spotswood is the greatest Dad on Earth (he brought me a jar of pickles today!) but I would die if Clay Aiken was my dad. Die!


This, by the way, is exactly how I feel about every single person who reads this blog. For reals. I am Clay, singing to you...

Monday, September 22, 2008

he he he...

and the winner is...

You watched the Emmy's right?
Shit, tell me you watched the Emmys.
Okay, read Tim Goodman's review right HERE. (I love Tim Goodman based on his KFOG appearances alone.)
You know how I feel about Mad Men, so I'm thrilled it won. (Recap. Soon. I swear.)
I adore 30 Rock and Tina Fey is basically my editor Eve, so rock on Eve. You just won another Emmy.
And Jeremy Piven, while correct in mocking the shitty reality show hosts hosting, is King of the Douchebags. Seriously, imagine meeting Jeremy Piven. Imagine it. Close your eyes and pretend. He's a dick to you, right?
Yeah. Jeremy Piven will be really goddamn mean to all of us.
Anyway, I rolled around on my couch in heaven, taking a short break to join the Brians at the Velvet Cantina but otherwise, loving every minute of this annual tradition.
The fashion alone!
Basically, the best part of the Emmys is to see awkward shit like this:

And be glad that you're not a celebrity stuck talking to a Melrose Place reject about fucking 'boob sweat.' Jesus Christ...

Sunday, September 21, 2008

shit, san francisco...

The brilliant and gorgeous Zoe and I embarked on a hike through the Castro and Noe Valley this morning, hiking our way up an down "Alt-Yuppie Canyon" in the hopes that even on Tim the Trainer's days off, we might still adhere to his insane fitness and food requirements. 
In true fag hag form, we usually meet at the Rainbow Flag, Zoe running there from her pied a terre in Cole Valley and me leisurely strolling on up from my shithole in the Mission. Up and down the hills we trekked, giggling and gossipping while chugging Evian.
We bitched about work and woes, boys and bitches, the food we were both desperate to devour yet deny ourselves for no apparent reason, other than knocking my 47 chins down to 46. (Zoe's employed Tim the Trainer and you should too.)
After taking photos of our journey, much deserved shopping at Under One Roof and a fun run-in with the ba-reath-taking John volunteering on the sidewalk with elderly dogs, we sweat-hugged goodbye and I embarked on my mile and a half back home. 
What a morning, what a friend, what a city!
And then...

and we didn't get shot...

Big Chris and I couldn't agree on where to go last night, until we remembered that the leader of the Hells Angels was recently shot in front of what Chris calls, "The Usual."
Dirty Thieves it was.
I'll admit, I was nervous walking fro and to home, as my neighborhood is rapidly becoming a demilitarized zone. And Chris has made it perfectly clear he plans to use me as a human shield should bullets start flying. Thieves was dead, no pun intended, which meant we had total control over the jukebox, a music selection we now know like the back of our hands. It was marvelous.
Anyway, here are the Top 3 Chris quotes of the night, as written on a cocktail napkin, in chronological order:
-"Your wedding, by the way, if someone's ever crazy enough to marry you for citizenship, will be the greatest party of all time."
-"That's the Absolut Los Angeles talking."
-"I've got to pee like a child."
We came home and fell asleep watching some straight boy movie Chris found On Demand. The next thing I knew, Chris was screaming at me to stop drooling on him. 
"You know, I was supposed to go on a date with some Asian chick tonight."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because if I don't hang out with you, no one will."
"You're retarded."
"I'm just saying, I could be having saucy Asian sex right now, but instead, I've decided to take pity on you."
That's Big Chris. A regular Mother Theresa...

Saturday, September 20, 2008

at least there were hot barrista boys...

Think of the worst possible thing that could ever happen to you. Right now. I mean it, the worst thing on Earth that could happen to you. Rack the depths of your imagination, no matter how painful and dark. Are you there?
Well, it just happened to me. 
That's right.
I got stuck behind strip mall security guards on their break at the Peet's condiment counter. 
Ugh, I hate these sinners. 
One packet of Equal. 
Stir, stir, stir. 
Another packer of Equal. 
Stir, stir, stir. 
One drop of milk. 
Stir, stir, SIP. 
Another drop of milk. 
Stir, stir, stir. 
All whilst blocking the entirety of the cream and sugar counter. I'm talking like a good 5 minutes, hunched over, completely aware of me and my sister in frustration. This poor woman had a kid in a stroller and what appeared to be a much needed latte. But these wanna-be bailiffs were taking their sweet, sew-on badge time. 
After all, they were on break from saving lives and linens at Bed, Bath and Beyond. 
Obviously, coffee custom states that when amending your beverage, you hustle and, if possible, make room for others. I don't care if you're fresh from the cargo hold of a freighter, all of God's children know this rule. Therefore, those that don't follow it deserve the death penalty. 
I realize I've bitched about this horrible crime against humanity before, but much like those that have gone before me in the struggle against injustice, I must continue my thankless work in the hopes that one day, perhaps even within my lifetime, we will see an end to such atrocities as I witnessed today.

injured celebrities!!!

DJ AM and Travis Barker were in a plane crash last night, and of the 6 people on the plane, they're the only 2 survivors! The dead folks are the pilot, co-pilot, an assistant and a bodyguard. DJ AM has burns all over his face and Travis Barker is burned from the waist down. 
You can read all about it HERE.
omg...

Friday, September 19, 2008

can i get a witness...

Gentleman, I am off the market! The search is off! My mother can exhale!
Bishop Weeks is perfect for me.
Please stop everything you're doing and read this entire article. It will take you 3 minutes.
Bishop Thomas Weeks the Third is an Atlanta based minister who got divorced from his televangelist-wife, Juanita after they got in a messy parking lot brawl. Bishop Weeks got arrested (the bitch was probably asking to be "pushed, choked and beat") and is on the internet search for a new bride. He's even roped his staff into this noble endeavor.
Enjoy a few "Future Mrs. Weeks" requirements:
-Must be at least 25 years old (I'm 30!) but special exemptions can be made for 21 year olds, provided they are classy.
-very discerning (Me!)
-very social (Hello? Me!)
-very intimate (Me, baby!)
-very sensual (Sweet Jesus, Me!)
-very diverse (Moi!)
-not ugly (I'm meeting Tim the Trainer this very afternoon!)
-must want children (Ugh. Well, as long as I don't have to sign a...)
-must sign pre-nup (donated pro-bono by Bishop Weeks attorney, thank God!)
Now, the good Bishop might still be in love with his ex, as evidenced HERE, where he reveals incredible private and grammatically incorrect texts from poor Juanita Black-Eye. But who cares? He can text whomever he wishes. Who cares! I want to be The Preacher's Wife!

Thursday, September 18, 2008

AND we got extra sausage maple butter and biscuits...

My gorgeous and charming constant companion invited me to join her at the Black and Pink Ball last Friday night, a boozy fundraiser with a remarkably high douche factor. There was lots of pink silk neck ties and skimpy magenta frocks packed into Mezzanine, but we had a lovely time mingling, dancing and bidding on silent auction items. (Mel got a Sephora gift bag!)
Before the ball, we decided to grab a long dinner at Lark Creek Steak, Bradley Ogden's surprisingly fabulous steakhouse in the mall. 
Nothing beats those fabulous potato pancakes like a view of Illuminations. 
Anyway, we walked in together. Mel was instantly greeted by the bartender and a familiar looking server marched right up to me. 
"Oh my gah! (unintelligible) Es nigh see jew!"
"HIIIIIII!!!!!" I overcompensated. "Hey! Oh, wow!"
He looked at the bartender. "Ees my flen!"
Oh god, I know this guy from somewhere. But there's a lot of gin joints in a lot of towns and...
"This is my best friend, Melissa."
"Hello!" He shook her hand. "I'm Beektor."
He excused himself as Mel and I ordered drinks. 
"Who's your friend?" 
Nervously I responded, "I don't know."
"Beth, he took our coats!"
We giggled over our cocktails and were seated. I was racking my brain when recognition hit me. "Oh, Mel! I think I remember. It's Victor from Flytrap."
"Okay?"
"He was a server at Flytrap. I used to have dinner there a lot. You know, they have rose petals. Anyway, Flytrap. Definitely. Phew."
Victor returned and we chatted, as I was now able to inquire intelligently about our past. 
"So, you're not at Flytrap?"
Cue 7 minutes of me not catching one word.
More hugs. Gratis appetizers. We got our coats back. 
Now, I'm aware that I might come off as some elitist who doesn't remember the names of 'the help.' Screw you. 
They have names?
I had no idea...

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

heaven defined...

Everyone turn on Channel 7.
20/20 is doing a two hour special. A year in the life of the Royals!!!
I've called my mother AND Zoe. Shit, Zo has dual citizenship. You'd think she'd be enthused. Mais non. So here I am, in paradise, my quips lost on everyone.
We'll be discussing this ASAP. 
Shit! It's back on...

congratulations brians, part two...

Bear with me today. It's a highly personal day! I'll give you some Ghetto Gas gas tomorrow. But I haven't reported on the Brians' wedding!
OMG, the Brians got married!

Oh, Mark Leno. Like all of my boyfriends, you politely tolerate my father.

Forgive me. I can't figure out this YouTube music thing. Anyway, here's those queers gettin' hitched...

And then I cried hysterically...

for tara...

Keep smilin', keep shinin', knowing you can always count on me...

I love you, Tar Baby!

congratulations brians...

Today's Culture Blog is UP!

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

rhonda is a new woman...

I said we could take my car, Rhonda the Honda on our trek to Berkeley for The Brians' wedding. As Mel, Alex and Hastings climbed in, they were appalled by the horrific state of affairs both inside and outside poor Rhonda.
I guess she was filthy. I never clean my car. Why should I? It looks like rain.
Anyway, Hastings was so particularly horrified that he showed up at my office yesterday and took my keys. As I relayed this to John last night, he squinted and looked over at me. "Your friend came to your office in Marin and had your car cleaned? Shit, Beth. That must have been one disgusting Civic."
In looking through the 3 garbage bags of junk he tossed in the dumpster out back, the kid had a point. I was cracking up watching him from my office window and was forced to video this dramatic act of friendship...

Monday, September 15, 2008

i wonder what heather fong's batman signal is...

My father's response to everyone getting shot mere steps from my front door was to buy me two cans of pepper spray.
Because apparently one can blind a guy, but two can stop bullets.
These are probably famous last words, but I'm not that freaked out by the constant gunfire surrounding me, even though MY BAR is closed tonight due to all of the dead bodies littering the sidewalk. If I'm out late, I'm taking cabs, which mean I've only got a bullseye on my back from the street to my front door and if I'm walking, usually to Dirty (or perhaps now, Dead) Thieves, I'm with Big Chris. And of course, nothing could happen to me if I'm with Big Chris, right?
"Chrissy, if someone shoots at us, will you leap in front of me and take the bullet?"
"No. I'd use you as a human shield."
Even the other night, up at 4am reading my latest serial killer book, I heard what was obviously a gun shot. Not firecrackers. Not a car back firing. A gun shot.
I calmly took out a piece of paper, noted the time and approximate location of the sound and went back to my book. My roommate John is mere steps away, should he need to race to protect us and I enjoy thwarting crime after the fact.
This crimewave has prompted John to stop sleeping with his window open, as open windows require our house alarm to remain off.
"Fine, John. Sleep with the window open. Just promise that if someone breaks in, they kill you first."
"Oh sure, Beth. Of course. I'll just explain, 'Listen, dude. You've, uh, you've got to rape and kill me first. We have this deal. So let's get this over with.'"
The window is now closed. The alarm is now on.
Anyway, I'm not seeing what the big deal is. So people get shot, oh...about once a day within 3 blocks of my home and So no one's been...what's the word? Oh yeah. Arrested.
I ain't worried. I have two cans of pepper spray. I'm fine...

plus, you get free outfits...

On my way to work this morning, I saw a nun and I was suddenly shocked.
Oh yeah. Nuns. Whatever happened to them?
So I went to Catholic.org to check it out and inquire as to joining their holy ranks.
Turns out, there seems to be little information for chicks. Well, this doesn't surprise me. I've seen the DaVinci Code. But you'd think they'd want more nuns and do a better job of recruiting hopefuls such as myself.
I did, however, enjoy this section on the vows taken by priests:
Priests who belong to a religious order (e.g., Benedictine, Dominicans, Franciscans, etc.) take the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. Diocesan priests make two promises, celibacy and obedience; these promises are part of the ordination ceremony. It is also expected that diocesan priests will lead a life of simplicity consonant with the people they serve.
That sounds about right. Most of the priests I grew up with didn't strike me as THAT impoverished. I remember in grammar school my classmate, Marc and I were dispatched to the rectory to deliver something to Fr. Shanahan. Father, it appeared, was indisposed so we peeked in his office while we waited.
Whoa.
That joint was tripped out. Father had this huge desk surrounded by very 80's burgundy leather furniture, a la a Southern law firm's waiting area. Lot of religious art hung on the walls and it was packed with fancy looking books and potted plants.
"I guess we just found out where our tuition goes." Marc whispered.
Diocesan priests always have cars (at my high school, a couple of 'em had Jettas) and golf outfits. I could never firgure it out, as they really shove that chastity, obedience and POVERY crap down your throat. But thanks to Catholic.org's explanation, those hooked up men of the cloth make a lot more sense. If you're going to be a priest, the trick is not to join one of those fancy orders with monasteries and rope belts, but to get assigned to some rich people parish in a gorgeous community and live a life "consonant" with the people you serve.
Sounds good to me. I'm booking myself a ticket to the Little Convent of the Holy Angels of South Hampton...

Sunday, September 14, 2008

here come the brides!

Last night was the Brians' rehearsal dinner at Harris Steakhouse and I'm saving that story for the Culture Blog because if I'm going to re-live getting in a drunken fight with a cab driver while holding a stolen centerpiece spilling all over my silk dress, I wanna get paid for it. 
Which means today is the wedding! 
This glorious event is going to be in a park in Berkeley, which means I have no idea what to wear because I rarely go to either. Melissa, Tara and I are bartending (at least until we get bored with it) and had the brilliant idea to wear those old-timey bartenders ensembles, a la the opening credits of Cheers. Alas, they're difficult to find. 
I promised my table last night (shout out to table 4!) that I'd mix them awesome cocktails, but they started to get sassy, requesting I prepare to concoct complex cocktails. 
Forget it! You're getting Crystal Lite and Skyy.
I'm so excited for today's wedding, I'm almost okay with going to the East Bay!

Friday, September 12, 2008

my vida famillia...

I'm enjoying living with a straight guy, as quite frankly, he doesn't give a shit about anything. 
John is my new roommate who has a relatively opposite schedule to mine, what with him being a bartender. As Tim the Trainer said, "Oh, great. An enabler."
You know what else he enables? My sick, twisted television viewing. As Big Chris had to work, we cancelled our usual Sunday night plans and John and I stayed home, eating leftover fajitas he stole from a BBQ while watching Flight 93 AND United 93 back to back. 
And unlike a chick or a gay, John didn't sit there gasping and weeping. As per our discussion along the lines of "What would you have done were you a passenger on that fated flight?" John responded:
"I just want to grab them and be like, 'Dude, you think you're right and this is God's will. But it's not. You're being a dick.' Seriously. I just want to grab that dude and scream, 'You are an asshole.' I mean, come ON. 72 virgins? Real noble cause, you fuckin' piece of shit. And also, a can of Sprite is not a weapon, 26F."
Needless to say, John and I are fast friends.
Speaking of which, I had a very late work meeting in Larkspur last night and decided to crash at my folks. I kicked open their door, helped myself to some much needed wine and headed upstairs, finding that Mom had just discovered Kitchen Nightmares. 
"Oh, a new sweater!"
"Target."
"Sit, sit. Have you seen this show?"
"Yes! It's awesome. I love Gordon Ramsay. I think he's kind of hot."
"ME TOO!"
My father decided to join us, and he and I eventually moved onto 30 Rock. 30 Rock isn't really Joanne's style. "I hate Alec Baldwin." 
She rolled her eyes and went to go read a book. 
My folks aren't television devotees, but some of my fondest memories from my horrific childhood are when I watched 'Mystery' with my dad on rainy nights in the 'TV Room." (You can really hear rain in the TV Room and it's wonderful.) Dad would smoke his pipe, drink something boozy and chuckle at that clever Poirot. I was honored just to be included and allowed up past 10. Last night was kinda like that, my Dad watching 30 Rock and The Office reruns with me, getting the jokes I was delighted he was cool enough to get. 
Oh mom, I thought to myself, how are we even related? After all, as Tim the Trainer pointed out, much to everyone's horror for the past 30 years, I've got my father's Rob Reiner genes and not my mother's Diane Keaton ones. 
Anyway, I was bonding with Dad over network programming when The Office ended. 
"Oh look, Daddy! MSNBC is doing the entire morning of September 11th, as it happened!"
He rolled his eyes and went to go read a book.
My mother on the other hand, the one I couldn't possibly be related to, passed by me on her way down the hall to take a bath. 
"(gasp!) What's this?"
"MSNBC is doing the entire morning of September 11th as it happened."
Which is how my mom and I stayed up until 1am. My father couldn't have cared less. Apparently, he hates America. But mom and I poured over every second in gory, inappropriate, marvelous detail. Maybe we're related after all. 
This morning, I woke up and crawled in bed with Dick and Joanne. 
We had a lengthy discussion on whether or not my brother was molested by his creepy driving instructor 10 years ago. The three of us decided to call Alex and find out, assuring him that we'd support him throughout his humiliating, hidden admission. According to Alex, "Who? You mean Carl? I was bigger than him. If he raped me, I must have really blocked it out because I don't remember a thing. Plus, if he did, I'd be killing cats by now."
Good point.
"Anything else?" My exasperated brother asked.
"Yes." (giggles) "We're having a very serious discussion."
"You're in bed with mom and dad, aren't you."
"Anyway, seriously. How quickly would someone die if they were in the Twin Towers?"
"2 or 3 seconds."
"That's what I said!" screamed my father...

i don't even think they have a starbucks...

I'm not terribly high maintenance in terms of where I prefer to "get down." I mean, I once hooked up with a guy in the ... oh god. Nevermind.
But the Sunset? Ewwww. I would never have sex in the Sunset. (I'm now racking my brain to try and remember if I've ever broken this new rule ... does 14th and Fulton count?)
Apparently, brothels are all the rage out in the middle of nowhere and I'm baffled. The Sunset? Is that convenient for johns? My god, have these people never heard of Skid Row?
The best part of this whole article, other than the subject matter alone, is this:
"According to California Penal Code Section 315, the charge for keeping 'a house of ill-fame' is a misdemeanor."
Ill-fame? Love it!
Oh wait, I enjoy this gem as well:
"It is illegal and it shouldn't be happening," said Supervisor Carmen Chu, who represents the Sunset. "Particularly in neighborhoods like this."
Neighborhoods like this? Reality check, Carmen San Francisco. If we'd like to keep the world's oldest profession away from civilization, I don't think we can do any better than your district, which is closer to the Farallon Islands than a decent cheese plate.
Even my friends who suffer their "lives" out there realize just how out of the way their dinner parties are to people like us, who have to trapse a half an hour down Geary just to be in cell phone range of what is now apparently, Hookertown, USA...

Thursday, September 11, 2008

never forget!

My co-worker Amanda and I have spent much of this morning on You Tube, unable to stop searching for Sept. 11th footage. We agreed that our generations' "Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" is officially "Where were you on Sept. 11th?"
I was at Bill Grahm Civic Auditorium, having begged my boss at the old job to let me help set up as part of our cast was opening for Huey Lewis and the News.
I fuckin' love Huey Lewis.
I came home to my then-roommate and her then-boyfriend who is German and didn't really get why us loud, obnoxious, gun-loving Americans were making such a big deal.
Anyway, I'm curious to know if people are still freaked out by today's date and are somberly sitting around listening to country songs or if we're all over it. I can't decide...

let's roll...

I apologize for my lack of posts, pals. I've had a crazy past 36 hours.
Please indulge my itinerary. 
Tuesday, 7pm: "Quick drink" at Perbacco with Mr. X to discuss my career/personal life. 
Tuesday, 10pm: "Quick drink" ends.
Wednesday, 10am: Meeting at X's office, which I'd never been to. Whoa. It's totally like my Dad's office. I'm looking for a new day job, folks, and X is very kindly being helpful. Turns out, I'm sick of working in the burbs and I have a new Calvin suit. I should be downtown. Which brings me to...
11am: Meeting over. I slipped into a Starbuck's and in a very lady-like manner, changed from my nerdy slacks, which I then shoved in my purse, into my favorite jeans. The bathroom key involved an attached plastic cafeteria tray, FYI. I had an hour to kill before my meeting with Brittney, so I sat on a bench at Market and Battery and watched (I swear to God) a hobo play with a dead pigeon. I pretended to write in my journal and text Dallas, but mostly, spent 45 minutes pretending not to stare at that hobo and bird. 
12noon: Lunch with Brittney at Shanghai 1930. Brittney piled up some menus to prop a video camera aimed at me (from below and while I ate Chinese food), interviewing me for some CBS profile on local bloggers
"What topics are off limits to you, Beth?"
"Nothing. Can you please pass the soy sauce?"
1:45pm: I left Brittney and had yet another hour to kill. Well, obviously proximity-wise, I had to go to Boulevard. I grabbed an Examiner (they're free!) and sat at the bar, deciding to text Mel and Devine, just in case either could spare a second and join me. 
My text? "At Boulevard."
Mel's response? "Be there in 5."
There's a reason she's my best friend. 
We killed time until I had to go to the Hospital Council Conference at the Palace Hotel, where my beloved Ron had recruited me to discuss blogging. 
4pm: I discussed blogging with people that work in marketing for big hospitals. 
5pm: Ron and I retreated to the Pied Piper Bar for discussion on Ron's impeding (black tie!) wedding. Ron had kindly offered that I bring a date to the wedding. Melissa is pissed, but I'm taking my tux-clad brother. Quite frankly, Alex loves to dance and is, in general, a really good "plus 1." Also, should I wish to find a boy to flirt with, mon frere couldn't care less. I asked Ron, "So, any straight, disposable income, 32-39 year old coming to your wedding?"
This was Ron's response, which was interrupted by a waiter. 
"Oh, Beth darling, I don't think...Oh, hello. Yes. I'd like a Tanqueray martini with three olives and the bartender will look at you like you've very strange, but I'd like a third Vermouth and he'll just have to forgive me... Anyway, no Beth. I'll have to think but I doubt it."
7pm: I met Mel, Tara and Pooj at Town Hall, as we were all planning to attend the MoveOn.org event mere blocks away. 
7:30pm: No one answered the door at the MoveOn.org event. Fuckin' hippies. 
10pm: Both Pat Kuleto and Hastings show. Kuleto (whom Hastings needed to point out to us) chose to buy some cougars drinks. Not us. 
Well screw him. He has a ponytail. 
11:30pm: At this point, I hadn't seen a computer in days. I'd fallen into deep withdrawl. So, I kissed my friends goodbye, hopped in a cab and crawled into bed. 
I just woke up and checked my e-mail. I'll write you bitches something funny later. 
In re-reading this, I just realized... Oh shit, those slacks are still in my purse...

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

pray away the gay...

As my dearest Mel would say, Oh Em Gee!
I haven't written about Sarah Palin yet because there's too many things to make fun of and I can't make up my mind which mockable flaw to start with.
Until now!
Get a load of THIS. Sarah's church promotes converting homos! (hold on, I need to applaud alone at my computer, this shit cracks me up so much.) How kind of them to want to convert the queens as opposed to damn them to hell for all of eternity. Or is that what happens if you don't convert to...what? Screwing some chick with a bad perm and a pilgrim collar?
After a long 'day job' meeting in Mill Valley last night, I crashed at my folks and arrived just in time for my dad's steak pot pie and snuggling with my mom whilst discussing my fitness routine and career path. Then I watched "Once" and crashed in my brother's room, pristinely maintained as a museum to Alex's greatness.
Oh, heterosexuality. You work so well!
"Bethy!" My father screamed. "We have three gay weddings!"
Um, what the hell are you talking about, sinner?
My parents, who attend mass religiously (heh), could not be more delighted for this fall's barrage of homo-nuptials. The Brians will be married on Sunday, and much to my horror have registered with charities as opposed to Gump's. My mother was thrilled to buy some hut-dwelling third world a cow. Screw that!
Mel, Tara and I, instead of kicking in for a couple of goats, decided to offset catering costs and...you guessed it. Bartend!
Next, we have Ron and Rick's wedding, a black tie affair at the City Club. Ron's instructed me to bring a date. And much like a chorus member in a high school musical with an invitation to prom, I'm bringing my tux-clad brother. Ron and Rick, thank God, have registered exactly like Ma and Pa.
At Tiffany and Gump's. (Jesus Christ, my grandmother lives on! I'll be getting Ron and Rick a $72 scented candle and a hug.)
Finally, the folks have a gay wedding with queens I don't even know! Where are they registered? Oh, just donate to "No on Prop 8."
Hold. On.
"Wait, wait, wait. What gays do you know?"
"Beth, relax."
"I just think it's funny that you have so many gay weddings to attend." I sheepishly offered.
"Jesus, who's kid are you?"
"Really, Bethy. It's not a big deal."
"I'm surprised at your shock."
"We think it's great!"
My mother, so Catholic she spent 2 weeks in Mexico giving eye exams with her homegirls to celebrate her 60th, bought the Brians "His and His" designer coffee mugs months ago. You know, in addition to the cow.
"How adorable is THIS!"
"It's cute, mom."
"Won't Brian and Brian love it?"
"Oh, they'll love it."
The Brians made the mistake of having my parents to homemade pasta and political discussion at their fabulous home. Dick and Joanne are now "highly gay friendly" and thus, self congratulatory. Shit, they've got gays I don't even know about!
So getting back to my point, let's use my insane family as a barometer. They're as nuts as you could ever find. And if Ma and Pa, who truly make their Catholic faith a big part of their fun, sinner lifestyle, are excited about buying the Brians, whom they love very much, a cow AND trendy coffee mugs, then uh...maybe...Sarah Palin can suck it big time...

Sunday, September 07, 2008

turns out, i like the funky whopper...

Friday night was girls' night, a relatively new and very welcome addition to my social life. Melissa, Tara, Pooj and I have become a loud and loving foursome. We're very Sex and the City in our need to sit in bars and ignore everyone else, discussing the most intimate of intimates. So this weekend, girls' night consisted of drinks for Pooj's birthday at Zeitgeist, cocktails on the deck of El Greco's gorgeous loft, late night apps at LuLu and a final drink at the Tunnel Top, across the street from Mel's new pied-a-terre
The girls were hell bent on meeting up at 10am on Saturday for some No on Prop 8 rally, but I had bigger and in my opinion, far better plans. The Castro Theater was offering a double feature. 
Godfather 1 started at 1pm. 
Godfather 2 started at 4:15. 
If you'll recall, I'd asked weeks ago for any parties interested in joining me to submit an application stating why they might be worthy of joining me for 7 hours of Corleone bliss. Nary a soul applied, save Pooj who enthusiastically claimed to be joining me. But this was after 3 or 4 hours of drinking, so I had little faith in her convictions. 
I woke up on Saturday, threw on some clothes and got to Safeway by 11:30. After all, I needed provisions. I purchased my ideal deli sandwich (turkey on Dutch Crunch with mayo, lettuce, caramelized onions, avocado and cranberry), wine in a box and Whoppers. 
I had enough time to kill before Connie's wedding to meet up with Mel, Tara and Devine for some post rally brunch at Tangerine
"You're nuts. That place is going to be fucking hot and packed."
"I bet there's a line."
"It's 7 hours, Beth. You'll give up after 2."
"It gets so hot in there. They have no air conditioning."
"I can't believe you're doing this."
"SHUT UP!" I screamed, stealing a bite of Devine's crossandwich and marching towards the Castro. "This is very important to me."
I marched my way to the theater, nary a soul in line. 
"One, please."
For ten bucks, I made my way into the theater, finding it less than half empty. I took a seat along the side, enjoying an entire row to myself. The second I took my seat, the lights dimmed and we were off!
Folks, I've got to tell you, seeing the Godfather on the big screen, especially in that gorgeous theater, is so motherfucking fabulous, I really recommend you take advantage of this awesome opportunity. 
(Which you still can! Monday and Tuesday, GF1 is playing at 7:30. Wednesday and Thursday, GF2 is playing at 7:30. Friday, for you hardcore soul mates, GF1 is at 5, GF2 starts at 8. Lemme know if you plan on going. I could be tempted to re-do this gloriousness.) 
I kicked off my flops, threw my feet onto the empty row in front of me, kicked open that warm white wine and managed to spill 75% of my awesome sandwich on myself. 
Hea. Ven
Mel thought she might join me for Part 2, but by the time it rolled around, Tara and Mel were texting me that they were up at Devine's, mere blocks away enjoying champagne all afternoon. 
I'll admit, I was tempted. 
I love hanging out at Maison des Brian, drinking champagne, gossiping about everyone we know and eating those great date/chevre things Devine makes. But as much as I love doing that, and I sat there and pondered this, I love sitting in a vintage theater watching the Godfather by myself just a little bit more. You guys, I can't begin to tell you how much fun I was having, on a gorgeous hot, sunny San Francisco Saturday sitting in an un-air-conditioned movie theater with a bunch of gay people watching 7 straight hours of Corleones kicking ass. 
Here's my ONE complaint: Anyway showing up at the Castro to see a Godfather 1 and 2 double feature has seen this shit before. They'd seen it at home, watching silently and normally for the past 36 years. But suddenly, they need to guffaw at scenes just to show that they either get the humor or that the scene is currently over the top. You know, like Luca Brasi struggling over his thanks to Don Corleone at Connie's wedding.
"And may their first child be a masculine child." 
Ha ha ha! Big thug can't get words out. And he's sexist! Oh, mafia! Isn't this camp!?!
Yeah, Burning Man. We know. It's the Godfather. Have some respect and shut the fuck up. 
I've always identified, er...culturally, with the Italian side of my family. My father is half-Italian and he was raised within this wonderful, Dago, loud, screaming, hilarious family who couldn't stop hugging and kissing and arguing and eating. (I make a lot more sense now, don't I.) Anyway, because I'm a whole 25% Eye-talian, I maintain I'm practically in La Cosa Nostra. Which is why Kay Adams Corleone can suck it. Never tell an Italian dude you aborted his son, you spineless WASP, unless you're in the mood for a solid backhand across your pale, confused face. 
Like I said. Watching the Godfather 1 and 2 alone at the Castro. 
Hea. Ven. 
7 hours later, I made my way to the Brians' to find champagne, Indian pizza and Newsies. 
Oh, Newsies! Great! Another movie...

Thursday, September 04, 2008

i love you too, sir...

Tim the Trainer, god bless him, is oddly protective of any woman he's ever met. Last night, after our hike to hell, we grabbed tacos and chatted. Over the two months we've been working out, Tim and I have become good friends and he's gotten to know and enjoy hearing about the trials and tribulations that make up my often boring romantic interludes. Tim's constant refrain regarding my personal life seems to be, "Why are you gonna go out with that guy? I think this is a bad idea. Why even waste your time?"
Uh, pal. It ain't like I gots anything better to do.
Tim, of course, was perfectly content to be a stone cold loner until he met and married Eve, who I think we'll all agree, is an extraordinarily rare human being. It finally occurred to me, pausing on a sidewalk to complete 100 squats and justify the occasional fella, Tim might have unrealistic expectations of what's "out there."
Reality check, folks. This is the kind of man I pull the second Melissa hits the ladies room and I'm sitting alone at a bar. Seriously. This...

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

i *heart* roger sterling...

As I stated on today’s Culture Blog, I’m going to try to recap Mad Men because it’s the only thing I care about, pretty much, in my entire life. If you’re not watching this show, you’re a fucking idiot and I have nothing to say to you. If you ARE watching Mad Men, you have fabulous, wonderful taste and I love you.
For the Mad Men rookie, let me just break down to main people for you:
Don Draper: He’s the Creative Director at Sterling Cooper (the advertising agency). Don is moody and talented and hot and screws around on
Betty Draper
: ‘Bets’ is Don’s gorgeous and annoying housewife who doesn’t really like her kids as much as she likes riding her horse in fabulous outfits.
Peggy Olson: Zoe from the West Wing, Peggy started out as a frightened secretary and is now a talented copy writer. Peggy’s big secret is that she has a kid, which no one knows about, even the father…
Pete Campbell: A complete asshole Account Executive, Pete keeps trying to screw everyone over. I hate him and his dad just died in a plane crash.
Okay, but none of these people compare to JOAN AND ROGER!!!!!!!!!!!
Roger Sterling: Co-owns Sterling Cooper. I love him. He treats women, employees, his wife and himself like shit and is king of the one-liners. He starts drinking and smoking at 9am and once had a heart attack immediately after riding some aspiring actress as if she were a horse. He has been having a fabulous long term affair with…
Joan Holloway: Joan is my hero in every possible way someone can be another person’s hero. Mainly, Joan is a real life version of Jessica Rabbit, only she’s a stone cold bitch, has the greatest clothes in the history of humanity and claims to be engaged to a doctor all of a sudden whom we’ve never met. I’ve got a hunch that this spinster is making up Dr. Wonderful to fuck with everyone, but who cares? I love Joan. I love Roger. I love Joan and Roger together. They’re my Ross and Rachel.
There are a bunch of other people who either work at Sterling Cooper (Harry Crane, I love you too), are clients of Sterling Cooper or random people, like the douche who hangs out at the stables with Bets.
Okay, so this past Sunday the Sterling Cooper boys (and poor, fumpy, secret-baby Peggy) are working on the Playtex advertising campaign and Peggy keeps finding herself left out of the team. Basically, the boys (Harry was noticeably absent this episode, apparently off running the unseen, never discussed Television Dept. of Sterling Cooper) were coming up with all kinds of ways to market bras and came up with this theory that there are two kinds of women: Marilyns and Jackies. When they explained this to Peggy, she quietly asked which kind she was and those douchebags called her Gertrude Stein. Don tried to make-it up to Poor Peggy, but the conversation quickly turned to a visit to a tittie bar, and the Playtex Execs were all over it.
Wisely, Peggy consulted Joan on how to break her way into the boys club and Joan, having given Peggy a what-for, told her to stop dressing like a little girl. The next thing you know, Peggy’s busting into the strip joint in a fabulous, sexy dress and sitting on Playtex’s lap, much to the horror of Pete.
Pete, as I scream at my TV during every episode of Mad Men, can go fuck himself and then come out of his OBVIOUS closet.
Meanwhile, Don and Bets get stuck at some country club (where we run into stables guy) and are treated to a bathing suit fashion show (in honor of Memorial Day, obviously.) Don decided to ditch Bets and the kids because he wants to go have sex with Bobbie, the vixen married to Jimmy, the asshole comedian. Don and Bobbie have been hooking up, even after they got in a drunken car accident on the way to do ‘it’ at the beach and Peggy saved the day. Why did Peggy save the day? Because Don’s the only one that knows about her love child/trip to the looney bin. Anyway, it kind of freaks Don out to discover that Bobbie (another fabulous dressed cougar) has 2 kids. None the less, they hook up until Bobbie reveals that Don lives up to his reputation.
Don flips, ties her hands to the bedpost and splits.
Um, what the fuck, Don? Girls talk. And you fuck around. Don’t pretend to be so shocked.
All ticked off, Don heads home to find Bets modeling a bikini she picked up at the fashion show. Don screams that she’s desperate and Bets responds, “I didn’t realize.”
Fuck you, Don Draper. You send your wife to a shrink, get the shrink to secretly reveal what she tells him, screw any woman in a mink stole and STOLE SOMEONE’s IDENTITY and Bets, not that I’m a fan, is the desperate one?
(Sorry. Calling a woman desperate is a point of contention with me.)
Anyway, Don ends up in his underwear staring at his chiseled perfectness in the mirror.
Cue credits.
This was a pretty boring episode as the Roger/Joan factor was appallingly low. Plus we got no sweet Harry Crane, but some goofy sideline about “Duck” and his dog.
Duck? None of us care about Duck.
You know who we care about?

happy wednesday...

Today's Culture Blog is up! Little Top Chef-y, little boozy, little flirty. Enjoy...

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

i have the greatest personal trainer in the world...

Tim and I had plans to work out this morning, and if you'll recall, September will kick off month three of Tim's attempt to kick my ass into something resembling a mildly attractive woman. I lay in bed at 6am, dreading what I was sure he had in store for me and watching the minutes tick by. Right on cue, I heard a soft little knock on my door at 8am. Begrudgingly, I answered.
"Hey Tim."
"Hey! You just finished month two, so I'm taking you to breakfast."
"Shut up."
"I'm serious."
"Are you toying with my delicate emotions?"
"Look at me." He was wearing regular clothes! YES!
Which is how I ended up at the St. Francis Fountain at 8:15am on a Tuesday having a fabulous avocado, green onion and jack cheese scramble in a sports bra.
As we walked back to my house, I announced, "I really like this new direction our training is taking." Which is when Tim informed me that tomorrow, he'd be back at 8am. And I sure as shit wasn't getting any waffles...

Monday, September 01, 2008

i may have done the running man...

Once again, Mel and I went where you'd never go. You're welcome. 
That's right. Last night.
We had dinner and dancing at the Tonga Room.

I'm not gonna lie. We both had a bit of a 'day' yesterday. I was over at the Brians', enjoying a blind wine tasting to select a red and a white for the wedding, a mere 2 weeks away! But I got a call from Mel that basically said, uh, "Steam. Blow off. Now." 
I may have ran red lights. 
I'm crappy at a lot of things, but I'm good at racing over to your house with wine and plans to go dancing. 

Tonga Room it was.
As any good "I'll Flip You" reader knows, I have a standing Sunday date with Big Chris, who quite frankly, couldn't care less. So I called Chris and announced, "I can't do burrito night. I'm at the Tonga Room with Mel."
Chris' response?
"I'll be there by 10."
I know I occasionally get sappy about my friends, especially about Misty. But there is no friend like the friend who will dance the shit out of a fake pirate ship dance floor. Chris sat at the bar, cringing. Mel and I, however, um.... owned that shit. We danced, you guys. We danced. 
You know that cheeseball country song, "I hope you dance"? 
Yeah. We did. 

I may have injured some tourists, I can't be sure. But folks, in all seriousness, I went balls to the walls. Fuck you, Ohio. I got some shit to work out on this pirate ship. So amidst Big Chris and his Lava Bowl, douchebag and his sunglasses (ugh), eggrolls and flied lice, matchbooks and mini-umbrellas...Misty and I twirled ourselves around a fake pirate ship dancefloor to the sweet sounds of a Filipino, pony-tailed cover-band. 
And that pretty much fixed everything...