Tuesday, June 30, 2009

who wants a bolo tie...

Mere hours from now, I will touch down in Albuquerque, New Mexico and then drive to a rental house in Santa Fe. Why? Because Santa Fe doesn't have an airport. Why New Mexico out of all of the fine states in this Union? Beats me.

I've never said no to a free trip.

When I started this blog (happy 5 year anniversary, everyone!), I soon found myself spending a few weeks in China with my family. As an adult, travelling with one's parents actually requires some form of creative outlet, and for me that creative outlet is bitching about things on the internet. That first post-blog trip, my only break from my mother screaming English at confused taxi drivers or my father calling my hotel room next door to his with a question about the light switch was my daily hour alone in the hotel's business center. Ever since, my favorite blogs, the ones that are often the most fun to write, are about our travels.

I love my parents. They are incredibly generous, smart and funny people. But they are still my parents. And they will still drive me nuts. I promise you, we won't make it on the Park N' Fly bus without a few terse words and an expletive. You should see these two try and put up a Christmas tree.
This is my way of informing you that another Spotswood Family Adventure begins tomorow morning.
Please stay tuned.
We're flying Southwest out of Oakland, so you know, right there...

*PS! My lengthy Culture Blog about Pride will be up at the usual time and place tomorrow. Please for to enjoy.

Monday, June 29, 2009

stop, drop and roll...

After walking home from Pride because I had better odds of catching a unicorn than catching a cab, I collapsed on my bed and decided to take a nap. But since it was so gorgeous outside, I opened all of the windows and then, just to be extra homey, lit a subtle “Beach House” scented candle.
I looked like an advertisement for Ambien as I drifted off to sleep.
All of a sudden, my alarm began to go off, and as I raced to the alarm panel, I realized, “What the fuck? My alarm isn’t even on!”
I wandered back in my room when…OH MY GOD. It's the fire detector.
The curtain above that Beach House candle was in flames as apparently, the open window blew curtain right into the path of the candle.
When I say flames, I mean that literally. FLAMES.
I know what you’re thinking. And yes, I attended 3rd Grade. I was not sick on Fire Safety Day. I had my photo taken with Smokey the Bear. And still, 22 years later I lit a candle near a cheaply made curtain and left it unattended.
I grabbed a skirt from the floor (a green, floral Liz Claiborne number picked up at Ross) and started smacking the flames. It actually worked! But embers of melting, sheer white curtain were flying everywhere, dotting holes on my duvet cover and flying over to my dress form, covered in a vintage kimono, a Mr. T-esque collection of necklaces and a gigantic straw hat. Within seconds, the kimono, the form and the hat were all on fire.
When they say that fire travels fast, they’re not fucking around. I quickly realized that at some point, I was going to have to decide when to give up and let my house burn down.
My father, whom I regard as slightly paranoid, had purchased me a fire extinguisher years ago, but it rested a few rooms away in the kitchen, a logical location for a fire extinguisher if you ask me. I can’t believe I was actually considering using one. That skirt kept flying through the air, batting down flames as the fire alarm continued its screams for help.
No one came, by the way. I once burned a quesadilla to the tune of seven firefighters in my home. Yesterday, I was inhaling serious smoke and hollering bloody murder as I fought actual flames. Not a siren in sight.
The very moment I was ready to dive for my phone in the living room and record what I hope would be a very famous 911 call, I pretty much got everything under control. Shaking, I dragged a dining room chair into my boudoir, climbed on top of it and dismantled my fire alarm. Then I took stock of the damage, which includes the death of the kimono, straw sun hat, duvet cover, sleeve of my new silk top and of course, the curtain, which will be saved for haunted house props. I went over that whole side of the room with a wet towel, hoping to catch any last embers before they erupted into my funeral pyre. I then put my fire alarm back together, because I might be incredibly stupid but I’m not so stupid as to ignore the loss of a kimono. I had big plans for that kimono.
I went to the bathroom to run cold water over my hands, which had sustained minor burns and looked at myself in the mirror.
Disheveled hair, black soot smudges from where I’d rubbed my eyes, shaking and in shock.
“Jesus Christ.” I panted. “What the fuck is going on?!?!”
My teeth have decided to escape their bindings, I’m absent-mindedly setting my house on fire and my boss just realized that payroll has forgotten to withhold Federal Income Tax. What is God trying to tell me? Because I’m boarding a plane on Wednesday and if there’s something I should know, I can gladly reschedule…

Friday, June 26, 2009

my jacked grill...

I am horrified to report this, but I get the feeling I’ll be writing this tale of woe in segments, so let’s begin.
I have not been to the dentist since college, which in doing the math I realize is like, 10 years.
A decade of self-performed dental care. Jesus!
I realize this is fucking disgusting, but I can assure you I use very fancy toothpaste that comes in a really high-end tube. I also gargle with something the sign at Target says is used in hospitals. So as far as I’m concerned, I’m the picture of oral health.
But my tooth is starting to hurt so much, it feels like the whole side of my head is decidedly “not cool.”
I’ve hemmed, I’ve hawed, I’ve tweeted, I even called my mom.
And as I am one of the millions of Americans without dental insurance, my mom offered, “Call my dentist. Dad and I will pay for it.”
I’m down for free anything, but the dentist? With trembling hands, I googled her dentist and called the office, revealing my aversion to check-ups much less emergency care, and detailed my symptoms.
“Is it sensitive to heat?”
“Oh yes.”
“Is it sensitive to cold?”
“For sure.”
“Sounds to me like you need a root canal.”
I dropped the phone.
They can’t see me until I get back from vacation on July 10th. Oh, and here’s a little treat for you. I can’t take prescription pain killers. Yep, that’s right. As if I haven’t been punished by life, society, bartenders, etc., those of us in recovery aren’t supposed to take full-on vicodin, et al. Having spent 28 days with my fellow “peers” addicted to pain killers, I see the logic. I just dread the pain.
As I made my appointment with the dentist lady, I asked, “So it’s cool that I wait 2 weeks to come in? I mean, my tooth’s not going to fall out, right?”
“No, no. Probably not…”

*UPDATE* I was whining my tale of woe to Brock last night, expecting his reaction to be much like everyone else’s: horror. Actually, my mother responded with, "So you were diagnosed over the phone by a secretary? What the hell does she know?" Brock's response to my potential, pending root canal. “Oh, I’ve had 2. It’s no big deal.”

somebody, ruin my sleep...

Hey, I've finally got another See Spot Write up at the SF Appeal!
Check out my night last night and note the photo, where I'm staring at Judson True wondering that's his real name or he stole it from a character in a Judy Blume book...

Thursday, June 25, 2009

really, really bad...

This morning, after the tragic loss of Farrah Fawcet following Ed McMahon's passing, Dallas and I speculated as to which celebrity would be the third to dine at the big Spago in the Sky. We went with the obvious Patrick Swayze until deciding that perhaps, it would be someone random and totally unexpected.
Perhaps we were right...Okay, Michael Jackson is definitely dead. I'm saying this after my mom called with, "Dori says he's still alive." He's dead! This is a really big deal, right? I mean, it's Michael Fuckin' Jackson.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

see. i care about politics...

You’ve got to stand in bewildered awe of the balls on the conservative Republican Governor of South Carolina who said he was hiking through the wilderness in Deliverance country when he was really “crying” on the reassuring bosom of his ho in Argentina.
He might as well have said he was in space. “Oh, I’m on Jupiter right now. I’ll be returning calls when I’m back in the office.”
I also think it’s great that when forced to reveal the truth, he pretty much breaks down in tears and sobs, “I was breaking up with my girlfriend, okay?!?!”
Oh, pardon us. This must be so difficult for you. Every report of Governor Mark Sanford’s press conference has him crying like a 12 year old girl. Wasn’t this the guy that said, “Screw you, Barack and your crazy cash hand outs so children can learn to subtract!”
I’m all for men crying. I think it’s a perfectly healthy, non-gender specific emotional expression. Hell, I cried when Sirius Black sent Hogwarts the permission letter so Harry Potter could go to Hogsmeade with the rest of the Wizards, Muggles and Halfbloods. We're all human, for christsakes.
But I’m of the inclination that such a hard-ass, conservative who voted against preserving sites of the Underground Railroad (um, yeah. This dude is so over making a big deal about slavery) might be able to make it through a press conference without using an embroidered handkerchief to dab his tearful eyes...


Today's Culture Blog is up!

Monday, June 22, 2009

i feel like joel's going to take this the hardest...

Tonight, Jon and Kate are making an announcement.
This is separation, right? Divorce? Do we get to watch them tell the kids? No one seems too broken up about this news, most likely because the country has pretty much decided Kate is the devil. This is sad for the kids and all, but at least they can go to Dad’s house when Mom’s on one of her rampages.
My distaste for Kate Gosselin grew tenfold on Friday night, or I guess technically Saturday morning, when Mel and I were watching Oprah at 3am. The episode was all about “Hero Dads” and this one dad was the father of 9 children, 7 of whom were adopted from Guatemala and several of whom were special needs kids, including one baby with an incorrectly set broken arm. He wakes up at 3:30 every morning, works full time as an attorney, lost his wife to cancer when their oldest was 2 and decided to build and raise a huge family by himself.
Kate Gosselin can suck it.
But then, Jon Gosselin went and got a diamond earring stud, so I pretty much hate them both. You’d think one of them might be able to handle tabloid, reality show fame with the tiniest smidge of grace under pressure.
Nope. They’re all gaudy sunglasses and screaming at the nanny while the rest of us are watching the widower on Oprah with his sweet, humble, grateful, affectionate kids. And Mel and I kept screaming at the TV, “Give him something, Oprah! Where’s the house? The free car? Send ‘em on a cruise!”
But I think Oprah’s stopped handing out flatscreens to kindergarten teachers because assholes like Kate Gosselin have ruined materialism for everyone…

Saturday, June 20, 2009

making your way in the world today takes everything you got...

Last night, Melissa and I averted insanity by hitting Gina's fabulous birthday party. Gina's the co-owner of Le Club and the Bambuddha Lounge (both of which you should patronize constantly) and was celebrating her birthday at Le Club with a "Great Gatsby/Great Depression Party." We were instructed to "dress to impress" and I believe there was some fine print about costumes, fine print Mel and I chose to ignore. 
I think costumes parties are one of those things where you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. We could have gone all out, but had we done so, I promise you we would have been the only ones swathed in feather boas. And we would have looked awfully strange having dinner beforehand at the Big Four in flapper dresses. 
Instead, we stood out like Republicans in black cocktail dresses and got an earful about it from Gina. The place was packed with a breathtaking collection of gorgeous people, all of whom have invested significantly in Gatsby-appropriate designer apparel. I was hoping to dig a Culture Blog out of Gina's birthday, maybe perhaps Peter Getty would emerge from his hairdo and want to discuss blogging or Stephan Jenkins might serenade the party with hits of the early 90's. 
Melissa and I found two seats at the bar, knocked back Cassidy's "virgin suicides" and laughed. Having spent so many hours and guffaws and tears on those very seats, Mel and I wondered how we'd changed in the past year. Turns out, not very much at all!
Within an hour and without a drop, we were back to texting people at 1am, screaming across the bar at friends we'd made minutes before and calling strangers douchebags. 
I can't tell if it's good or bad that we don't need to be trashed to be obnoxious. Maybe we just need to be together. In which case, get used to obnoxious. My friend Melissa is having a rather rough weekend, the details of which are none of your goddamn business. It's chick shit and unimportant. But what is important is that no matter what anyone else says or thinks, I know a few things to be very true. My friend is selfless and kind, generous and affectionate. She's loud and proud about everything I accomplish, she reminds me constantly how inspired she is by my sobriety and ends every email, every voicemail, every text, every car ride, every dinner and every night out with love. 
I spent many Le Club nights falling into best-friendship with Melissa. And I couldn't be more sure that wasn't the booze talking. It's because she's awesome and wonderful and I suddenly feel very Springer towards anyone who says otherwise. 
We took the Le Club Town Car home...yeah, there's a Town Car. It's quite the nice touch! And we crashed at my house, watching Cheers until 3 o'clock in the morning. I hope we're not the only two people in the world who fight about who gets to be Carla. I've always felt Carla wasn't appreciated enough, perhaps due to my sinking suspicion I'm my office's Carla. Oh, I'm no Diane. I'm definitely Carla, just taller and with conditioner. 
Diane's too slow on the uptake. 
Anyway, I wish I could tell you the swanky society shindig was overflowing with scandal. It wasn't. It was actually really fun, if for no other reason than the fact that I was back at Le Club with Le Friend till Le Dawn. 
Sadly, however, I fear the next themed party invitation I receive will result in my attending a rather subdued barnyard BBQ as the ass-end of a cow costume
At least I know I won't be alone in there...

Thursday, June 18, 2009

"if you look to the left side of the cabin, you can see the beautiful...THUD."

There is an airplane in the air, RIGHT NOW, with a dead pilot. Interestingly, my first thought was, "Continental still flies?"

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

i still don't know how it ends...

You never know when your eyes flutter open in the morning and you fling your feet onto the floor the weirdness the day has in store. Like I said, it’s the last two weeks on insanity in my day job right now and as we’ve all got to work weekends, the staff (all four of us) get to pick a weekday to take off. My day was yesterday and I looked forward to catching up on both my mental and physical health, agreeing to meet Tim the Trainer for a session in Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields.
You’d think Tim would go easy on me, what with it being my first official post-drunk session with him. As far as I’m concerned, if I can’t have any martinis, I don’t need to do any lunges. But nope, Tim had me running around the track like I was running for my life. He discovered that the best way to get me to run is to promise that if I caught up, I could hit him.
Anyway, as I was forced to run (again, something I would not do were I being chased by a psycho with an axe), this huge bodybuilder with weights on his wrists and ankles emerges from his pushups on a bicycle rack and says, “Lisa!”
Um, no. I’m Beth.”
“Oh yeah, Beth! Of course. I knew that! What’s up, girl!?!? I’m Joe’s friend!”
Random, muscley gay in a public park who knows Joe?
Sounds about right.
Tim and I jogged on. “Do you know that guy?”
“No. At least not sober.”
“That’s weird.”
Tim then forced me to sprint to some destination miles ahead and I reached it, throwing my elbows down on my knees and sticking my head between my legs. Birds squawked away in fear from my labored breathing and disheveled fly-aways. You know who wasn’t afraid on me? This weird Thai dude with those little running shorts with the side slits showing off his muscular, tan, old man thighs.
“Running good for you!” He screamed at us.
Tim, not winded in the least responded, “Yeah!”
”Great day for run!”
“Sure is!”
I may have glanced at him with disdain. After all, I am exercising. No one is allowed to look/address/mock me. Does shaman hair not know the rules?
“We run today! We eat good food!”
What the fuck is this guy talking about? Tim screamed back at him, “We sure do! That’s what it’s all about!”

Is this a trick, a ploy? Because I’ve never wanted to run so bad in my life, just to get myself away from this stupid conversation. Finally done with training, I hopped in my car and decided to take myself to the movies. The Century 20 Theater in Daly City is fairly anonymous. Parking is abundant and free and it’s so massive, you can really sneak from movie to movie and no one cares. Since I was already in the Sunset, I drove down there and settled in for a 12:45 viewing of The Hangover. There was quite a cast of characters heading to the movies in the middle of a Tuesday. My theater was filled with a loud-whispering elderly couple, a few random singles and ‘The Bros.’ There were at least three of these straight man “couples” and HAND TO GOD, they all sat with one chair between them, providing what my grandmother would call ‘room for the Holy Spirit.’ I’d heard tell of this straight man habit, refusing to sit next to one another at the movies lest legs touch. I’d just never seen it with my own eyes before.
The Bros were hella into The Hangover, as was I, although perhaps for different reasons. While yes, there is a touch of the douche, Bradley Cooper in that black suit with the tan and the unbutton and…my stars.
Anyway, the movie was just about over when all of a sudden, this light flashes in the distance. I thought someone had taken a picture of the audience, that’s what it looked like. The light flashed again, coming from a corner above the movie screen. And then, flash again. Others began to notice.
And then faster. Flash, flash, flash!
The flash began to flicker as the movie on the screen faded to black and the lights came on. Over the groans and “What the fucks!” from the masses, a loudspeaker announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, may we have your attention. The fire alarm has been activated and we ask that you calmly leave the theater and find the nearest exit.”
Cue mayhem. Everyone leapt to their feet and, I kid you not, panicked, pushing and shoving their way to the door. Not that I wish to die in a towering inferno in Daly City, but I’d already run that morning.
Film aficionados were flooding out of all 20 theaters and I was having none of it. I figured there was 10 minutes of this movie left and I certainly wasn’t going to stand around with 200 people waiting for a refund on my $8.75.
The movie theater was on fire. I was going home.
Brock and I decided to spend the evening enjoying another “salon des bon mots” at Spruce, so I went home, wrote my Culture Blog and took a shower. With my pink silk kimono over my ripped jeans (seriously, I had to mention this, I’m so pleased with this look), I picked Brock up, parking along a little alley near his apartment.
“Oh, I can’t believe where you’ve parked!” Brock said, sliding into the passenger seat. “A pizza boy was pistol whipped here last week. Like, right here.”
Terrific. I sped the hell out of there and across town, into Spruce. We found two marvelous seats at the bar and debated what to order.
“You know,” confessed Brock. “I’ve never been to Le Club.”
“You want to go to Le Club?”
“Well, yeah. Unless you think it would be a trigger. I’d hate for me to push you off the wagon.”
“We can go, sure.”
“Can we get in?”
Yeah, Brock. We can get in.
After a flawless dinner and what Brock would describe as “breezy” conversation, we headed over to Nob Hill and into Le Club. I haven’t been back there since knocking back a good 11 martinis on a Monday night. And a bottle of champagne. And shots during poker in the game room with people who claim to be models in Milan and then demanding they be kicked out. I really didn’t know if I could return to my favorite party spot without my old school, scene causing, making out with the bus boy alcoholic antics.
Turns out I can! Oh, how I can!
Cassidy fixed me up with a “virgin sacrifice” and Brock with a martini, told us about his tourism ideas for the swingers set and introduced us to Rupert, the Windsor knot at the end of the bar who reads my Culture Blog.
Yes, Le Club. I still love you.
Around 11, Brock and I threw on our pashminas and headed home, locking arms and walking to the car.
“That was just marvelous!”
“I know! What fun!”
“Rupert’s our new friend!”
“You had cider in a champagne glass!”
“Bon mots!”
I dropped off my beloved Brock, felt a twinge guilty for Le Club cheating on Melissa and headed home. What a day, I thought as I dropped my bag on the dining room table. Public park strangers, running and push-ups, flaming and evacuated movie theaters, breezy burgers at the bar of Spruce and my Le Club Come Back…I was ready to collapse. This day of leisure really took it outta me.
But…oh my god! OH MY GOD! TherealhousewivesofnewjerseyisonanditsFIGHTNIGHT!!!!!

Money really means nothing to me. Do you think I'd treat my parents' house this way if it did...

Today's Culture Blog is up! Please enjoy my thoughts on fellow SFGate bloggers, Billy and Peter Getty. I hope I don't get fired...

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

we'll actually do a lot of things so you don't have to...

Last Saturday, Beth H. and I hit the town again, capturing the nightlife to bring it to you fine people. You can check it out on the SF Appeal RIGHT HERE I don't know what event is next on our dance card, although I'm hoping it'll be the Frameline Film Festival, as we've has such success with the gays. We actually wanted to film a tour of Alcatraz. Do you know how much it costs to film on Alcatraz? Like, $600. You have to actually rent a ranger. And since Phil Hartman is tragically dead, well, forget it.
Anyway, if you've got any brilliant ideas of where The Beths should go next, email me at beth (at) sfappeal (dot) com! I, personally, would like to cover your wedding. 
And shout outs to the Appeal and VidSF for letting us do this. Because really, it's ridiculous...

Sunday, June 14, 2009

oh dear god, this is excruciating...

Pardon my lack of posts. I feel as if I've abandoned you.
This is one of the blessedly few times a year the day job must rule my life. I love my day job, I really do. I get to work with lovely people for a non-profit I adore.
But I think I broke my foot at work today.
After 2 back-to-back 11 hour days running around the top of the mountain, it was finally time for us to leave. So about an hour ago, Amanda, John and I headed for the parking lot a quarter of a mile down the hill. Carrying a huge box of filthy crap, Amanda asked if I could grab the massive 1970's thermos precariously balanced on top.
I grabbed the thermos and began a little routine about how much I hate the word thermos, how "thermos" makes me wildly uncomfortable. We got to the parking lot and I handed the thermos to Amanda who placed it on the roof of her car as she loaded everything else. As we stood and chatted, the thermos (half filled with ancient and probably spiked coffee) slid from her roof and crashed on top of my right foot.
After previously and privately agreeing that a woman who'd "totally ate it" earlier reacted too dramatically to her own fall, I briefly screamed in pain but shook it off within seconds.
"Oh, that's okay." I said though clenched teeth. "I'm fine."
"Jesus!" Amanda winced. "That looks like it really hurt."
"No, no." I thought I was going to die. "It's no big deal."
It's an hour later, I am now home and I can't move my toes. My foot's not so much swollen as it is dull with pain, a navy half-moon the shape of a thermos base throbbing atop my dirt-covered appendage.
Since there's got to be some gay former boy scout reading this somewhere, what the hell do I do? My first instinct is to get a pedicure and call 911. That can't be right...

Thursday, June 11, 2009

ah gerald, how lovely to see you again...

Tell me you heard about the woman who missed Air France flight 447 and then died in a car crash. You've been discussing it all day, haven't you? Me too!
Did the Grim Reaper just have it out for her? What if she's the reason the plane crashed in the first place, some hellish, gloved finger pointing at her to die. Then she misses the flight, killing all of the innocents on board for no good reason. So Beelzebub or God or whomever is like, Damn it! She's keeps getting away! Not today! 
Swerve, scream, crash. 
I don't mean to make light of this tragedy, I really don't. I'm just wondering what freakish coincidence is next? They do find one body floating around the Atlantic alive, but it's Natalee Holloway
Also on our docket for today is the Don of Chinatown. I don't want to be sleeping with the sweet and sour shrimp, but check out this dude's outfit. Apparently, Raymond "Shrimp Boy" Chow, after spending 25 years in what Mel calls "the pokey" is now in charge of the Chinatown Night Market. 
We're all thinking the same thing, aren't we?
Chinatown has a night market?!?!?!?! 
Anyway, I guess Shrimp Boy's been strong-arming the competition. While this issue is certainly pressing, I have some questions about this night market: Are there knock-offs? Like mainland knock-offs? What kind of North Fake are we talking? Tiffany? Bvlgari? Seriously, I need a new ostentatious Gucci belt buckle. Because if Shrimp Boy can get me faux Marc Jacobs luggage for under $40 (apres haggling), I really don't care if he's the slightest bit shady or wears dramatic yellow gold man-jewelry. 
Finally, I can't remember if I'd mentioned this or not: I'm obsessed with Reggie Love. For those of you living in the normal, non-political people world, he's the real life Charlie. (Right now, a bunch of me's are going, "Ohhhhhh.") I think it's fantastic that the Obama Administration has basically re-cast The West Wing for...The West Wing. I watched that NBC special about the White House and other than spending the whole time swooning over Reggie, I realized that I love Rahm Emmanuel. Rumor has it, Rahm was the inspiration for Josh Lyman, and we all know Josh Lyman is the greatest West Wing "character" ever. Okay, well Josh and C.J.. Oh, and Lord John Marbury
Anyway, where's Rahm been all my life? Am I that out of it? This guy was in Congress? Apparently, he's a foul-mouthed hardass, which only makes me love him more. And what a great name, Rahm. Don't you just want to sigh, "Rahm."
As in, "Rahm, oh Rahm. Take me to the Chinatown night market."
Seriously, just watch for the Hilary handshake at 1:25...

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

casa del newsom...

Lordy, one more click. You people are troopers!
Here are my "See Spot Write" thoughts on Gavin's new love nest.
I have to confess, I now feel guilty for mocking his real estate investments. He just sent me a direct message on Twitter that was neither dismissive nor cold. It was normal, friendly...

crystal ball on room 200...

My predictions for the Mayor's race...in like 11 years. Check out Today's Culture Blog!

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

Well we'll dream for you: Billy, and Bobby, and Murph, Bugsy, Sully, and Alfred Pierre... Sleep well... Good Night...

Please enjoy my thoughts on the Air France tragedy in today's See Spot Crash. I wrote this (and this) whilst sitting in the SF Appeal offices! It's all very exciting...

i *heart* eugene mirman...

Not since David screamed "You're killin' me, Kira!" on the Real World Seattle have I fallen so instantly in love...

...with Scientology.

Monday, June 08, 2009

whether or not i want to know is moot now, wouldn't you say...

It’s definitely got its perks, my parents’ home being so close to my job. I generally crash there at least one night a week when I’ve got to work late, and with my mom off to New York for the Spring, my dad tends to leave me alone when he’s not bringing me breakfast in bed. Like I said, there are perks.
My father’s never really stuck his nose in my business. I’m a girl so as far as he’s concerned, I could be on the brink of an emotional explosion over some guy or some lipgloss at all times. Anything remotely girly, he washes his hands of, not because he’s some big, butch man. But because it makes him wildly uncomfortable. Like the time my mother went away on a business trip when I was three. I was certainly fed and tucked in and loved. But I was left to my own devices in terms of bathing, clothing and accessorizing myself. Which is how I ended up at preschool in a taffeta party dress and baseball hat with no underwear on. My mother, returning from the airport, picked me up at school where she was gently pulled aside by a teacher and informed I had been sent to preschool commando. It’s not that my dad thinks three year olds should wander the world naked. He just regarded my ensemble as none of his business.
Anyway, I love my mom and I’m thrilled she’s back from the Big Apple. I got to their house from work yesterday evening and she covered me in kisses and then said, “You’re exhausted. Here’s a Diet Coke. I’ll leave you alone.”
This morning, I woke up, showered and dressed for work, pulling this skirt from the pile of clothes I keep in my brother’s room.
I kissed my dad goodbye.
“You look cute!” my dad hollered.
I went to kiss my mom goodbye. I walked in and found her working at the computer. She looked up at me and smiled. “Do you want to know that I can see your black underpants through your white skirt.”
Hey lady, at least I’m wearing some…

Friday, June 05, 2009

this is all very fox mulder...

Apparently Kung Fu star David Carradine did not kill himself. He died of autoerotic asphyxiation, which I guess is better than suicide. Which makes you more of a legend? Tragically and dramatically taking your own life or dying in a closet in Bangkok while trying to masturbate? Well, at least David gets listed with Wikipedia's other famous cases of kooky suffocation sex.
Anyway, lately I've been learning a lot about David Carrdine, or as I now know him, Martha Plimpton's uncle. He's been married 5 times, not including his relationship with the horrendous Barbara Hershey, with whom he has a child. His most recent marriage was held at the home of my personal hero, Michael Madsen or as he is known in the depths of my heart, Jimmy from Thelma & Louise. 
And then I thought this quote was kinda interesting: 
"All we can say is, we know David would never have committed suicide," said Tiffany Smith of Binder & Associates, his management company.
Binder & Associates? Wait a second. Where do I know Binder from?

Thursday, June 04, 2009

current events and what not...

There are so many things I want to discuss with you today!
Okay, let's talk Air France first, since it's so tragic, worrisome, etc. The airline is now telling relatives of the passengers to give up hope of someone found floating in the middle of the Atlantic, a la Cast Away. You know, if my brother was on that plane, I don't think I could ever fully accept that he was down at the bottom of that "mountainous" ocean. Not my brother. He'd be on an island somewhere, with amnesia, waiting for his big sister to come find him...Oh God. Moving on, I spent much of this Spring obsessed with plane crashes, particularly black box recordings and final moments of cockpit to tower conversations. So if this plane broke apart in mid-air, did people die instantly? Were some sucked out of the plane while others plummeted towards the ocean? What would we have done were on that plane? I'll tell you one thing. The second I knew death was knocking at my door, I would've grabbed a handful of Smirnoff bottles and gotten busy.
In other news, Jon and Kate Plus 8 has jumped the shark. It is now thirtysomething with kids. Kate has turned this into some sweeping, shitty, suburban, unsophisticated English Patient and I can't even watch anymore. She's so morose, such a martyr, staring off into the distance as one of her 47 children desperately yet kindly tries to win her attention. I did enjoy that Jon missed Kate's obnoxious "Woe is Me" birthday to go help disabled people and foxy ladies go skiing.
Finally, Real Housewives of New Jersey is a goddamn treasure. Danielle, the nut of New Jersey has finally been outted for getting "busted by the feds" 24 years ago and all hell is breaking loose. I love how Teresa is discussing the "quote" rumors about Danielle then then announces, "First there were the rumors, now there's the book" as she dramatically holds up THIS out-of-print masterpiece, which includes Danielle/Beverly's mugshot.
Oh, and then David Caradine killed himself today. So, there's that...

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

this is why we drink diet coke, folks. this...

There are a million reasons why I should not be allowed to interact with the public, but the most recent happened mere moments ago. I was on the phone with an older, thickly-accented woman who had many, many questions about many, many things, all of which I'm delighted to answer. In the middle of this conversation, leaning back in my swivel chair with my feet crossed atop my desk, I decided to be all healthy (mistake #1) and drink my Kombucha instead of snacking on the fucking smorgasbord in my office. Kombucha, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure, "is the Western name for sweetened tea or tisane that has been fermented using a macroscopic solid mass of microorganisms called a "kombucha colony." It's basically supposed to "support" digestion, metabolism, the immune system, appetite control, weight control, liver function, body alkalinity, anti-aging, cell integrity and healthy skin and hair.
I know, I know. I'm practically Jesus for drinking this shit.
Anyway, what with that colony collecting at the bottom of my bottle, I followed the big "Do Not Shake" warning by gently tilting my "Organic Raw Kombucha Botanic No. 7" so that all of the crap at the bottom of the bottle distributed. I guess that would be mistake #2. Finally, still answering the bevy of questions this woman must have written down before calling our offices, I twisted the cap of my Kombucha.
It started to explode right away, but seemed like something I could keep under control. A little Kombucha on my desk is no big deal amid the coffee stains and Post-Its from November. But with the cap half open, some kind of physics experiment occurred and this goddamn Kombucha started going everywhere. The computer, the keyboard, the phone, the walls, the personal photos tacked to the walls, the handbag 10 feet away on the conference table, the window beside me, the window that's far away...everywhere. It was certainly all over me. And I'm still on the phone.
"Oh God." I started to whisper. "Oh my God."
The Kombucha hissed, a screeching warning to my co-workers to come running and watch in horror.
"Oh no!" I gasped. "Oh, can you, just, one second..."
The woman on the other end of the phone began to scream, "What is happening?!?! What is going on!?!?!?!"
"I just spilled...I'm spilling... Jesus Christ..." I had to get the cap all the way off, it's being half on seeming to make the explosion worse. But to get the cap all the way off, I'd have to get much closer.
"Can you hold on? Can I please put you on...oh GOD!...hold?"
"What is going on!?!?!?!"
"Kombucha! It's exploding! I'm putting you on hold!"
"Fine!" She hollered, as if she herself were suffering this fermented shower.
My co-workers stood watching me in disgust, asking stupid questions like, "What happened?" and saying stupid things like, "That smells."
They did help me clean up, however. On their hands and knees, with bleach and towels, screams of "We'll have to move buildings!" echoed from below my desk. They're right, of course. The sweet vinegar continues to waft all around me as I type this. You can almost see it, like in cartoons. I'm surrounded by hazy, burgundy fog.
Finally, with my window opened and a stack of Clorox Wipes in my garbage can, my co-worker screamed across the office, "Who's on hold?"

hip. hip hop. hip hop anonymous...

Today's Culture Blog is up. Hop on over...

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

and i hate cartoons...

I had dinner with my fabulous friend John last week, finally losing my Delfina virginity. I'm sure it's been shoved down our throats for years, Delfina is the new Italian restaurant. It's right in my hood, I've passed it a million times, I pride myself on hitting anywhere with buzz before the regular folks go... I just never made it to Delfina. (I bet you real money I would've been had they valet.)
I've always been a late bloomer. Ugh, it's so embarrassing. I wait and wait and wait and then, suddenly, the clouds part, the sun shines and I get what the hell the big deal is. 
When I finally gave it up and had, you know, the sex, I called my BFF the next morning and whispered, "Oooohhhhh. I see."
The same thing happened with booze, and look how that turned out. 
I refused to watch "Mad Men" for ages and, um August!
And I took one bite of that chicken liver crostini at Delfina and had to interrupt John mid-sentence, "Oh my GOD!"
"This food, it's..."
"I know."
"It's amazing!"
He looked at me like I was nuts. I guess everyone else is there constantly. "I'm so glad you like it." 
I liked it so much, I dragged Mel to their Pac Heights Pizzeria yesterday. 
We love it!
So, I'm finally learning this lesson. I didn't learn it carnally. I didn't really learn it drunk. I guess I didn't learn it with the symbiosis of the two, Mad Men. But I finally get the point. Sometimes, when people go on and on and on about how goddamn fabulous something is, they might have a point. 
The tragic result of my learning this lesson, alas, is that now I have to see Up...