Sunday, February 28, 2010

oh my god, is this you...

My beloved Brock is fascinated by certain lifestyles. He loves the "downtown lifestyle" and describes things as such. If Brock calls something the "downtown lifestyle" it's a huge compliment.
"Those socks are very downtown lifestyle." It's huge with him.
Well, with my folks out of town, we decided to head up to their house and spent the weekend experiencing what has now been deemed, the "Mill Valley lifestyle."
The Mill Valley lifestyle involved a trip to Whole Foods ("I am over stimulated right now"), a viewing of Reversal of Fortune over Ina's lemon chicken with croutons, lots of my mother's beauty products, sleeping in and spending the day in downtown Mill Valley.
We watched hockey over lunch at the bar of Balboa and tried on lots of appallingly expensive casual seperates while sipping iced coffee and wearing sunglasses indoors. I don't really know how accurate that is to the Mill Valley lifestyle, but I wanted to fulfill all of Brock's suburban fantasies.
I love spending a weekend in my hometown, petting dogs outside the Depot and watching TBS while reading back issues of Gourmet Magazine from 1987. And I feel like a big nerd when I do it. But last night, in a massive flannel pajama top and little else, plopped down in the TV room looking at my baby pictures with iced tea and eye cream, Brock exclaimed, "This is so fun! Should I tweet this?"
"No!" I hissed. "How embarassing. It's 10pm on a Saturday night and we're in jammies at my parents' house discussing blogging. We're the oldest, saddest, nerdiest people ever."
"Nonsense. We make this cool."
Well, when you put it that way, it's just part of the Mill Valley lifestyle...

Friday, February 26, 2010

honestly. put this in sfmoma...

Thank you so much to reader Phil for being the first to discover the greatest piece of Bill Wilson artwork in the history of portraiture.
These photos are from some event honoring Warren Hellman, founder and funder of the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival. And yes, that is a photo of Mayor Gavin Newsom proudly displaying "Sexually Transmitted Diseases."
Take some time if you need it. I certainly did.
Do you see it? Lipstick. On his cheek.
(I don't know what other shape it would be in, but still.)

Say what you want, you whiny motherfuckers, but if Gavin Newsom is elected to ANYTHING, we get this until 2014-ish. There's a reason people prefer views. It's because we like to look at pretty things. (I feel like I jib, I jab so much, I need to give him props for still being hot.)

Keepin' it real with the G-man.

The expresion on this one is nice. It's the eyebrows, which we all know refuse to be contained.
Another framer, if you ask me.

Still more with the Sexually Transmitted Diseases. I get the feeling Gavin got all 5th Grade on us (who wouldn't?) and had a whole STD routine he was performing. Who was there? What happened? Was there a clap joke? There was a clap joke, right?

Here's hoping he was continuing the talk on Sexually Transmitted Diseases.
"Just because she looks clean..."
Someone has to pee.

Say what you want about Warren Hellman, the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival is awesome. It's where Amanda and I came up with our own Bluegrass band name after purchasing a condiment in a disgusting grocery store on Haight Street en route to the festival:
Dusty Mustard and the Deli Meats.
And also, it's wonderfully free. Thanks Warren!
More Sexually Transmitted Diseases jokes?

"Okay, now I'm bored."
He held it long enough and he clearly doesn't have to pee anymore. Maybe the next book the Mayor should teasingly display is Urinary Tract Infections because you shouldn't hold it!

Charlotte Schultz, I love you...

no word on whether cheryl lived through tennis...

Kate sent along this video of convicted serial killer, Richard Alcala on The Dating Game in 1978.

Rodney was recently convicted of the murders (among other things) of four women and one little girl. But Kate explains on her Facebook page what upsets her most:
I have several things to say about this video. First of all, bachelor #1 is Rodney Alcala who was finally just convicted in the slayings of 5 women and girls between 1977 and 1979. He was also accused of multiple rapes during that same period. He was on the Dating Game in 1978...... and WON. Second of all, did people really behave like this in the 1970's? This is embarrassing to watch.
She's right. It's really embarassing to watch. I can't help but cringe and look away and reset the font on my Blackberry just to avoid direct contact with the bold awkwardness of the vibe of the 70's. Also, Bachelor #2 kinda looks like Mikhail Baryshnikov and quite frankly, by the looks of things, they could all be serial killers.
How was I conceived during this gross, un-sexy time?
"Cheryl" picks Bachelor #1 (the convicted rapist, torturer and murderer) and as Rodney reveals himself, I like to think that I'd have yelled, "No way! Forget it. That guy obviously strangles people with shoe laces."
Not that Cheryl. She treats the ridiculous hair and polyester suit and missing tooth (right?) like George Clooney just emerged from a hybrid limo. The big date Cheryl is subjecting herself to is tennis lessons with Rodney (again, he raped and beat an 8 year old girl) and this Bachelorette could not be more, "Oh mah God, this is too funny!"
Were you around in the 70's and if so, is this what it was like? I prefer to think of the whole decade as The Last Days of Disco...
*Also, please watch The Last Days of Disco.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

show me that smile again...

Speaking of weird shit (new tag for posts!), what is up with the mysterious disappearance of Andrew Koenig, "Boner" from TV's Growing Pains? Boner was last seen in Vancouver on Valentine's Day and several signs point to the possibility that he's taken his own life.
Aside from the heartwrenching sadness and sincere hope in the slim possibility that Boner is out there somewhere, not using his cell phone or credit cards, I'm waiting on the obvious:
What does Kirk Cameron have to say about all of this? Actually, I'd like to hear from all of the Seavers and Luke the Hobo...

*Obviously, you've probably heard that Andrew Koenig was found dead today. HERE is the amazingly composed and classy statement from his folks. Ugh, so sad. RIP, Boner...

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

this is why god invented treadmills...

I am currently in the midst of a mild hiking phase, largely inspired by recent and mysterious missing hikers. Since I have to exercise anyway, due to the combination of my need to dive in front of cameras and my vanity, I might as well keep in interesting by wandering aimlessly through the killing fields of a potential serial killer.
As you (should) know, I've always been particularly fascinated by David Carpenter, the Trailside Killer. Recently in the news, I've been talking about this nut for ages. And with the mysterious disappearances in Pt. Reyes and death at Cazadero Creek last month, I've spent a lot of time lately focused on my theory that something is...wrong.
Saturday, I started out on a hike up Mount Tam and before heading out, texted my brother, Melissa and Brock of my plans, just in case.
"Someone's got their thinking cap on!" My brother responded. "Text me when you get back."
I stayed mainly on paved roads, marching like a nerd and singing along to my showtunes much to the distaste of various people working in their yard.
Monday, I started another hike in the opposite direction. I headed down into Blithedale Canyon. At the end of the road, there's a tiny parking lot in the middle of the redwoods and a county maintained dirt path up the side of the mountain.
As I started up the path, I realized I hadn't texted anyone. I pulled out my Blackberry and...shit. There's no service down there. None the less, I plugged on, but the seed was planted. A knot started to grow in my stomach as I marched uphill. My iPod coincidentally began to shuffle the scariest songs ever as my walk took me in and out of the shadows of the forest, around a bend and into sun, around another surrounded by woods.
Forever lacking grace, I often had to look where I was walking, lest I trip or fall on rocks and branches. So caught up in my music and my foot placement, I didn't notice a jogger behind me.
When he brushed past me, I let out a scream I can only imagine. For a brief moment, I was hysterical, paralyzed, terrified, preparing to fight to the fucking death.
It was a yuppie, works from home, drives an Audi, jogs before edemame, stay-at-home dad. And he looked at me like I was the serial killer.
I turned around and headed down the mountain, making my way along the main streets, back up another hill until I was a quarter of a mile or so from my car. In the home stretch, I kicked myself for heading off into the wilderness without telling a soul and said a little prayer of gratitude that I wasn't begging for my life in a clearing.
The roads up there are windy and when it's sunny, you can see around the some of twists and turns in the road. The twist in front of me revealed a white van parked in the middle of the street. I power-walked closer and closer, soon realizing that the van had it's engine running.
And no one was in the driver's seat. No one was anywhere, anywhere I could see, at least.
So there's this van with no one in it and the engine running in the middle of the street in a relatively remote residential neighborhood. And me.
I really felt I had no choice but to pass it, especially since I was obviously being paranoid.
I have said before that I hate running. "I'd never even run for my life."
Well my friends, I ran.
Pulling out one earpiece, which seemed like a good thing to do, I sprinted past that van hugging the other side of the narrow road. I was practically running in dirt, actually weighing the option of sliding down the side of the mountain into a ravine should I suddenly have to.
I made it back safe and sound, obviously. There's no exciting end to this story. I have no idea why there was a fucking goddamn van with the motor running in the middle of the street. I have no idea if those poor women in Pt. Reyes fell into the hands of someone sinister and I have no idea if the poor woman who was found in Cazadero Creek was murdered.
It's weird, tho, that as all of this is going on and reminds me of the Trailside Killer, the very man pops back in the news. They connected David Carpenter through DNA to another murder: a jogger in 1979.
Ever since I proposed my theory that something unnatural might be up, ever since Brock and I went to Pt. Reyes to look around and ever since Eve, Brock and I discussed serial killers on SF Views, I have been getting some SERIOUSLY INTERESTING EMAILS. Never has any post I've written drawn such a response from folks.
Okay, I am sufficiently creeped out.
Alarm's on. No more solo hikes. And maybe I'll take a break from watching Copycat again tonight...

photo unrelated...

Today's Culture Blog is basically my sentence by sentence reaction to Demian Bulwa's genius report on Gavin's testimony in court against a mean, evil hacker. You can read all about it right HERE...

i just want to dance with him...

I know that, you know, obviously I have some Mayoral issues to work out, but I have to tell you that my love for Newark, New Jersey Mayor Cory Booker grows with each tweet.
The very adorable Mayor Booker presents a weekly video (sound familiar?) and people, THIS is what I'm looking for. This!

You love him too, right? I know. Swoon...

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

a big news day for me...

We need to discuss something immediately. For a growing list of reasons, I obviously need to move up the coast. Get a load of the drama going on right now in Fort Bragg.
Aaron the 32-year old handyman shot his 63-year old lifelong molester, Darrell and then watched him die for 30 minutes. The cops want to throw the book at him. Everyone else in town has "Save Aaron" bumper stickers.
The best quote comes from Darrell's wife, also present at the shooting. "I know the man I was married to, but this other man who abused kids, I didn't know. I call them Darrell One and Darrell Two - but I have no reason not to believe Aaron."
Mrs. McNeill is 52 and was married to the late Darrell (numbers 1 and 2) for 25 years and even she thinks Arron should get leniency.
In other news, a local serial killer I have been discussing for years upon years in finally back and splashed across the headlines!
David Carpenter, the Trailside Killer has been connected to another murder, this one in San Francisco (gasp!). Apparently in digging around in the evidence this past December, the fuzz found over-looked DNA (blood, semen, what?!?) and tested it. Turns out, it's David Carpenter!
The SFPD sent out a weirdly-worded press release:

San Francisco Police Inspectors Joseph Toomey and Holly Pera of the SFPD Cold Case Unit served a search warrant on Wednesday, February 3 to obtain DNA samples from a suspect, David Joseph Carpenter, known as the Trailside Killer, in a 1979 San Francisco homicide case. The purpose of the warrant was to obtain oral swabs from Carpenter to confirm Department of Justice DNA findings.
On Sunday, October 21, 1979, at 4:30 P.M., a 23-year-old woman, Mary Bennett, was found dead at Lands End, just north of Painted Rock, in San Francisco. Dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and jogging shoes, she was found in a wooded area, her body partially covered with dirt and branches. She had been stabbed multiple times in the neck, chest, and back.
In December 2009, the San Francisco Police Department Crime Laboratory examined the physical evidence that had been collected from the crime scene. A DNA profile of an unknown male was detected on the items. This DNA profile was submitted to the California Department of Justice DNA Data Bank (COIDIS).
On January 4, 2010, COIDIS notified the SFPD Crime Laboratory that the DNA profile sample that was submitted was associated with Carpenter’s DNA profile that was on file with DOJ.
On February 18, 2010, the San Francisco Police Department Crime Laboratory examined the oral swabs taken from Carpenter and developed his DNA. This reference sample confirmed the results provided by the DOJ. The DNA profile developed from the evidence is a match to David Carpenter.
Carpenter, now 79 years old, is on death row at San Quentin State Prison awaiting execution for the murders for which he was convicted in California in the 1980s.

Why did they need swabs on February 3rd if they knew on January 4th. I don't think anything's shifty here. It's just either being over-complicated or poorly explained. But it's throwing me off, I'm already stressed at work today and now I really want to post something about this but everytime I read the press release, I'm like, "Wait. What the fuck are you trying to say? This is horribly worded."
Any why did someone decide to check out 30 year old evidence from an unsolved murder? How can that be my job? Because I would love to do that. Cold Case Files? I'm your gal.
The moral of this story is not that a murder has been solved. The moral of this story is that I've been talking about David Carpenter for ages, brought him up recently because I think the next generation version of him is currently at work (more on this later, I promise) and I feel like finally, everyone has to talk about one of my favorite things ever to talk about.
Creepy? Indeed. But what else is new...

Friday, February 19, 2010

phoenix rising...

Watching the Olympics is a little bit like being on safari. Suddenly so immersed in a very specific subject, such as elephant gestation periods or triple axles, you have no choice but to care immensely until it's over and you forget everything you learned.
Last night, my brother and I took over our folks' house, brought Indian burritos up to the TV Room and watched the 2010 Winter Olympics until midnight. We started with women's snowboarding, and my only observation was that I'm not wild about the United States' uniform. Come on, ladies. You're cuter than THIS. The whole ensemble struck me as a little...Deliverance. I confessed to Alex that I hadn't watched any of the Olympics thus far.
"That's ridiculous!" He said. "Why?"
"I have other shit going on. Jeez. But I figured people were going to start talking about it. So I'm starting."
Alex admitted he'd already been sucked in. A lifelong lover of sports, Alex can instantly get on board with any competition. It all comes very naturally to him, figuring out the rules and quickly getting the jist. Right away, he's screaming at the television.
"Dude." He laughed. "I've been super into curling."
"Yeah. I just started watching. There was all this drama with the US Curling Team and the next thing I knew, I was screaming, 'BRUSH! BRUSH! BRUSH! BRUSH! BRUSH! BRUSH! BRUSH!.' Curling is surprisingly awesome."
Then we started watched the Men's Figure Skating.
Turns out, I decided to tune into the Olympics just in time. I had a front row seat for Priscilla, Queen of the Ice Rink. If there's ever a sport I can get behind, it's bitchy men expressing themselves in sequins.
And my brother, true to form, took 30 seconds to find his comfort in his masculinity before screaming, "Oooooooohhhhhhh!!!" at the first icy fall.
I've followed that sassy Johnny Weir here and there, mainly because he talked trash in a full length fur. Johnny Weir was, in my passing opinion, the Bobby Trendy of men's figure skating. But as we learned last night, Johnny's struggled the last two years, suffering a series of professional setbacks (I just watched ALL of them on the Sundance Channels' flawless 'Be Good Johnny Weir') that have instantly endeared him to me.
I have a permanent soft spot for the talented but obnoxious diva who suffers an embarrassing, humbling and public failure but then gets up, brushes the dust off her ass and tries again.
They called him "Johhny Weird." How could I not love him?
Johnny was hanging out around 6th place. We saw him warming up, tying up his laces, zipping a lip for the cameras.
The lights dimmed.
Johnny took to the ice.
The costume, the make-up, the hair...I ate it up.
Suddenly, the announcer came up with some bullshit introduction, "And now Johnny Weir, after two years of personal and professional disgrace, has entitled his performance, 'Fallen Angel' and claims it reflects his struggle."
I have never been a particular aficionado of ice dancing, but Alex and I were rapt. Perhaps it wasn't technically flawless or worthy of growing Scott Hamilton another magical ball, but my GOD, you could just see this athlete be all, "Fuck it. This is who I am."
It's very rare, but you can always tell when someone has let go of everything else in the world, and simply does whatever it is they are meant to do. The greatest triumphs come from the greatest risks. Johnny Weir's performance could have been at the Olympics, last night, or it could have been on a frozen lake somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
My girl danced like no one was watching.
The crowd went nuts. They lept to their feet. My phone glowed with ecstatic texts from Brock. Johnny was crying. They crowned him with roses.
And he still lost.
I have loads to say about the other contenders, particularly Evan "Professor Snape" Lysacek and the Russian Villain from 80's movies who (surprise, surprise) is a dick in real life. But they've stolen enough thunder.
Who cares about a stupid accessory when we get to see a real live comeback.
Olympics on...

i'm a regualar mother theresa, part 53...

In their relative retirement, my folks have taken to spending a lot of time volunteering with the St. Vincent de Paul Society. And while I no longer practice Catholicism (although I maintain I'll return if they jazz up the music and do away with the the Profession of Faith which makes us all sound like cult members), I'm really impressed with just how active my parents have become in working with the poor.
So last month, I joined my dad in serving lunch at a soup kitchen, or as I now refer to it, my exhaustive work with the homeless.
My father, it seems, is currently responsible for lining up the volunteers who serve this lunch, available in San Rafael from 11am-1pm every day. According to their website,
the St. Vincent de Paul Society of Marin County is committed to ensuring that all individuals have equal access to our assistance, programs, facilities, and employment opportunities. We do not discriminate against any person with regard to race, religion, color, creed, gender, marital status, sexual orientation, age, national origin, political affiliation, immigration status, mental or physical disability, income level, or medical condition.
I can attest this statement to be true, as every single one of those described above showed up for some tuna casserole. Including my father and myself, there were six of us serving lunch, and upon arrival, I was immediately assigned to the dessert station. Apparently, the dessert station is the most fun job at the soup kitchen and my fellow volunteers seemed both jealous of my awesome responsibility and excited that a new recruit would be sucked in to the wonderful world of community service by this plum assignment.
My father gets into the "zone" immediately. He's got his apron and his latex gloves and he's already trying to speak Spanish to a gringo hobo before the line even gets moving. I was torn between paralyzing embarrassment and overwhelming pride.
The set-up consists of this big hall with lots of dining tables and cafeteria style kitchen. Those receiving lunch gets trays and we hand them whatever they want that's available, 100% of which is donated. Soup, tuna casserole, brown rice, red beans, rolls, sliced fruit and dessert were available at the kitchen. There was a salad bar and water jugs in the main dining room.
The six of us volunteers stood shoulder to shoulder, with me at the very end in the coveted dessert station. An array of desserts sat before me, from giant apple pies donated from Costco to individual brownies and cookies. Various and complex looking cakes and cream pies each called out to the diners, many of whom wished for a description.
Unlike one of my fellow volunteers who secured himself a plate of food before even getting started, I wasn't about to rip sustenance from the mouths of the poor. So I had no idea what the hell to tell these folks.
"Hello! What can I get you!" I overcompensated.
They'd look through the glass, occasionally making the obligatory calorie joke before asking, "What's that one?"
"Oh dear, let's see. Well, it's got green mousse so perhaps some sort of mint? Chocolate mint cake?"
Huge cakes and pies were cut into like, 8 pieces each. So the portions were gigantic. But I wasn't about to cut someone's grasshopper pie piece in half right before their literally starving eyes. And next to me, the wonderful volunteer Rick would ask, "Fruita?"
We were supposed to push the fruit, for obvious reasons, but I found that pretty hypocritical as when I looked down the kitchen at my father, spooning out tuna casserole, the chef came over and started drizzling something orange on top. He drizzled with such flair, as if he was sprinkling truffles or organic lardons atop the noodles. My father moved out of the way with enthusiastic reverence. I looked closer, the orange drizzle coming into focus.
As a special treat, cheddar flavor squeeze cheese was swooped and swirled atop each huge steaming tray of tuna casserole.
I later asked my father what was with the squeeze cheese. Apparently, the entire meal is directed by the chef and it never occurred to my father, or I assume anyone else, to question his culinary vision.
For 2 straight hours, the line never let up. We served around 400 folks lunch, and not all of them were your standard Central Casting hobo. Lots of folks just seemed down on their luck and happy for the free meal. About half spoke English, the other half apparently from Mexico and Central America.
There was one couple in particular that just looked like, well, us. Like my friends, like people that certainly could be my friends. I couldn't stop wondering what had happened.
I was probably staring, just dying to know what their situation was, and a knot crept into my stomach and a tickle in my throat and my cold, heartless soul got a little choked up.
But then Rick came over, screamed, "You need a towel!" and shoved a dishrag into my apron with a familiarity I wasn't expecting.
I got back to work.
One of the donated dessert items was a plastic box filled with 4 massive, brick-like brownies. A woman requested one, I placed it on a plate and slid it under the glass towards her. She took it and departed. 10 minutes later, she returned holding the brownie in her hand.
"This is stale. I can't eat this." She shook it at me.
"Okay." I paused, noting that beggars apparently can be choosers. "Would you like something else?"
"No! It's all crap!" She spun around and was off, probably to Tartine.
Most of the diners were grateful and friendly. There wasn't a ton of dramatics or picky eaters. If they didn't want something, they said no. If they did, they took it and usually said thank you. There were no overwhelming, gushing gratitudes. Most of the folks were quiet and quick.
They just wanted lunch.
I realize this is an obvious statement, but quite frankly, it struck me. I would like everything to be a very special episode of Webster. I envisioned tears and tales of woe, insane people throwing things and crack deals going on the corner. But everyone seemed to have the system down and folks just wanted some food, even if it had squeeze cheese on it.
Except for this one guy.
2 or 3 nuts out of 400 people isn't bad. That's better than movie theater odds. But this one guy arrived holding everything he owned, plastic bags slung over shoulders and a sleeping bag attached to his back somehow. I don't know where everyone else's stuff was, by the way. But they had all seemed to park it somewhere. Very few people were lugging around their worldly possessions. But in addition to everything he owned, this guy had a cane, was wearing a plastic garbage bag as a raincoat and was in no mood.
Under the circumstances, I would be in no mood myself.
"I don't want none of that!" He yelled at my father, who was no doubt trying to shove some food at him with a smile and a greeting in a foreign language.
"Okay!" My dad kept smiling, completely unbothered. I, on the other hand, do not take kindly to those that take a tone with my father.
Hefty moved his way down the lunch line, spitting out commands at the volunteers and precariously balancing his food tray along with his luggage. I braced myself as he neared the dessert station. When he got to me, he looked over the dwindling dessert offerings. Hefty was taking his time, really eyeing each cake and pie and cookie.
After what seemed like an eternity, the gentleman behind him in line quietly asked, "Can I get apple pie?"
His food tray wobbled with anger. Hefty turned to me. "Give me one of them cookies in the box."
He was referring to the giant Safeway sugar cookies, each in their own plastic box. I had a stack of them, some decorated with daisies and some decorated with sports clip art. There were clearly girls cookies and boys cookies. So I gave this motherfucker a daisy.
Without missing a beat, "Nah, nah, nah. Gimme a baseball."
Wordlessly, I complied. He snatched it from beneath the glass, hollered at someone in his way to move and was off. With my blood boiling, I felt someone kiss the top of my head.
I turned to find my father, full of energy and cheer announcing, "Okay! The sandwiches are here. "
Turns out, after lunch we pass out plain ham (jamon, according to my father) sandwiches (two maximum) to anyone who wants them for later. There is no dinner or breakfast service. Lunch is it. But folks can take to-go boxes and get these sandwiches.
Again, the unnamed volunteer took one for himself. We had about 200 sandwiches and 400 people. I was appalled. Upon revealing what I'd seen to my parents later that week, my mother erupted into hysterics. "I always thought that man was weird."
At 1pm on the dot, the doors close and we're done. Our two hours of work was exhausting and seemed to go both really slowly and really fast. There was never any break, there was always another person in line. And that was it. We just left, leaving clean-up to another team of volunteers.
"What did you think, Bethy?" My dad walked me out into the rain.
"It was really interesting." I said. "And hard work!"
"I know! I'm really glad you came with me."
"Me too, Daddy."
"Where do you want to go for lunch?"
The realization that I could go anywhere, have anything stopped me in my tracks. And I froze, overwhelmed with guilt.
I guess I am a Catholic after all...

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

the crab jokes write themselves...

Bear with me. I'm horrible at technology. And with the United States Military stealing my friend and editor away from me, I'm posting my own entries on SFGate! I know, I know. It's daunting.
Lest I say something truly stupid (likely), a wonderful colleague and columnist will be glancing at my work to make sure we don't get sued. That being said, the first post I created all by my lonesome is up! It's all about how I'm running for Mayor.
Check it out HERE.

And thanks to Hastings, I now have my own Wikipedia page! Well, kind of. I'll probably be deleted any minute as the nerds have already started to flag it, edit it, piss Hastings off, etc. Please feel free to go edit it and help me use Wikipedia for my own personal gain, as it was intended...

Monday, February 15, 2010

pa-tik-alarly count: 1

My apologies. It's been a busy weekend. I ran into the Mayor's Director of Protocol Matthew Goudeau at a party on Saturday night and he asked me if I'd seen Gavin's latest video. Apparently Gavin was roaming the streets on camera and it's not to be missed.
After I spoke with Matthew, I returned to my table where my friend (and oblivious straight man) Van asked, "Who was the dude you were talking to?"
I explained in detail the fabulous Matthew.
"Oh, well I got you a Diet Coke but I didn't want to interrupt."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not a cock block."
So, you know, there's that.
Onto Gavin's latest video! I watched the first 13 seconds where he stated his location and completely lost my shit.
In this week's video, Gavin Newsom is 2 blocks from my front door.
Coincidence? Please. He might as well have said, "I'm here in front of Beth's house, where I often sit in my Chevy Tahoe and watch her look in her mailbox, remove only the mail that interests her and go back inside. Sigh..."
But he didn't say that. He interviewed some chick from the Bicycle Coalition in front of Flour + Water, which is again (earmuffs, serial killers!) spittin' distance from my boudoir. Interestingly, Gavin is really dressed up, with his hair covered in all-weather, protective glaze and a suit that cost more than my car. My hood is casual, Mayor. And you're talking about bikes. I think we all know what you should have been wearing.
Suddenly, Gavin introduces the (hot) chef/owner of Flour + Water who gets all sustainable and loses me. Everyone's talking, Gavin cracks a joke (with a hint of Grey Cloud!) and we're all like, "Wood panelling who?"
Good for you, Mayor! Getting outdoors and interviewing people. What a terrific idea.
Also, Gavin does lots of manly 'bro' touches to the cute Flour + Water guy. Arm punch, shoulder touch, what's next? Fist bump? The Flour + Water guy keeps shooting us looks, a la Jim Halpert. It was all pretty fabulous.
And then we move on to toilets. Gavin is pooped from taking shit about the crapper situation. (That was my homage to Nate Ballard.) Apparently, 19 public bathrooms will be remodeled or replaced within the next 2 years. So hobos reading this at the library, get excited (but not too excited.) It'll cost 7.2 million dollars, by the way. For 19 bathrooms. That's $378,947.37 per water closet. That better be one hell of a public toilet. I'm expecting a bidet, fancy soaps in the shapes of San Francisco landmarks and first editions of the classics.
Oh, oh, oh! (I'm ignoring the boring Green thing. Sorry Eric Mar.) Mayor Gavin Newsom answers your (selected) Twitter questions! You apparently know who you are, those who asked questions he couldn't answer publicly. But I don't. So send 'em to me.
Anyway, Gavin wants to "thank ya" for sending him softballs. He answers three:
Free wifi? Actually, I'm all over that. I would also like to never have to charge my laptop, if someone could work on that. It's Google's problem.
Jobs now? If you don't have kids, screw you. That was the jist.
And will Gavin come to some dude's birthday party? The Mayor said maybe.
Oh hell no! I have invited his gorgeous ass to every major event in my life in the past 5 years, providing the pertinent where and when well in advance.
You also do weddings and anniversaries? Oh, that's great. I had a Soberversary, Mayor Newsom. It was a celebration of my courageous triumph over tragedy. Don't make me list the who's who of gracious attendees (Senator Mark Leno, Supervisor Bevan Dufty) who found the time to swing by. Had I only known that you required a Twitter message, well, I would've gotten on that much sooner.
Now I know how your calendar works. And will plan accordingly.
Although now that I think about it, maybe that whole sober thing hit a little close to home.
Outdoors and interviews automatically push my grading into the B range. The guy interviewee was cute and it was right by my house, so this week's video gets a B+. You can see it right HERE.
Keep it up, Mayor! And I look forward to seeing you at my upcoming Quinceniera...

Friday, February 12, 2010

la-ti da-ti, i love ed hardy...

Have you ever been wandering around Union Square and discovered the entire square was covered in a huge tent for a private party with music blaring from inside? Like maybe last night?
I was there! And now I finally know what it's like inside.
It's awesome.
Because she is Melissa Griffin (those are the only details I have to go on), Mel got us VIP tickets to the Hearts After Dark Benefit for San Francisco General Hospital. The invitation instructed us to dress "San Francisco chic."
I never really know what to expect at these events. I just show up and entertain Melissa in case she gets bored. I'm very good at pointing out people in weird outfits and socialites (often times the same thing) and politely pretending to listen while people discuss politics.
We arrived with some of Mel's fancy pants friends and we quickly ushered into the huge tent where Shannon, a girl I went to high school with gave me a plastic VIP bracelet and pointed out how excited she was to see Tainted Love perform.
Immediately inside the tent we ran into Boe who introduced us to more fancy pants people, including Daniel Lurie who is in every single 7x7 Magazine.
I never know if I should pretend not to know who these people are, but I'm a big fan of his non-profit, The Tipping Point. The Tipping Point is, in my opinion, the San Francisco chic-est organization in town. They throw the best parties (I've never been. I can just tell) and they give all of their money to incredibly poor people in the Bay Area. As socialites go, I was impressed (which I am easily, so, you know).
Suddenly, photographers started snapping away.
"Can I get a shot of the three of you?" Flash, flash.
2 seconds later, "I'm going to make this guy's night!" The next photographer exclaimed, implying that Daniel "New York Social Diary" Lurie would be excited to have his photo taken with the likes of the Griffwoods. Flash, flash.
A photographer's assistant came by and scribbled down our names. He got Melissa, I doubt he even needed Daniel's and then gets to me.
"Beth Spotswood!" I screamed over the music. "B-E-T-" But he was gone, having most likely scrawled "Ben Johnson."
Daniel wisely excused himself to run after the photographer and rip the film from the camera to stomp it out of existence as we sipped water from wine glasses and mingled with the VIPs. Chatting with Boe again, a server came by with a huge tray of foil wrapped caramelized onion sliders. One might think that with my new clutch in one hand and a wine glass of water in the other, in a black wrap dress and too much lip gloss, I'd politely decline.
And one would be wrong.
I tried to eat that burger in a ladylike fashion as I looked around the tent. The VIP area was cordoned off with shrubbery (!) and open bars abounded. The servers never ran out of food and it was all really good food. There was no crappy skewer or awkward taco. Everything was, at least to my ghetto ass, incredibly well done. No lines, tons of seats, loads of people to talk to...I was delighted to be there!
Melissa and I had been given these vouchers and told we could redeem them for a limited edition Ed Hardy t-shirt. I practically had a Bill Clinton, I was so excited. The entire shrub-walled VIP section contained designer-clad rich folks clutching free Ed Hardy t-shirts like they were going out of style (never!) and I kept saying to my best friend who couldn't have cared less, "I've got to get my Ed Hardy t-shirt before they run out!"
"Fine." She rolled her eyes. "Give me your bag and go get one."
My big concern is that someone would see me redeeming a voucher for a free Ed Hardy t-shirt at the Hearts After Dark VIP shrub-lounge. "Oh look, there goes Spotswood. Lining up like it's sample time at Costco."
But come on. It's a free limited edition Ed Hardy t-shirt. I had to.
So there I am at the Ed Hardy table, backed up against a bush in the middle of a tent in Union Square picking out my Jon Gosselin and I hear, "Hey Spots, what the hell are you doing."
Er, um. Hi Max. I'm not doing anything. Nothing to see here. Move along.
Max was with the stunning and well-dressed Jen, Alice and Kelli, all of whom joined us in the metallic silver ottoman area. The best part of the party was the people watching. It was quite a mix of political folks, business types and socialites. At one point, one of the girls (I won't reveal who because discresh-Anne is my middle name) pointed out an older woman sitting inches away.
"Look at her great glasses!"
I didn't even have to look to know who she was talking about. "That's Ellen Magnin Newman. And that's her husband Walter. We aspire to them."
And then, with sliders and Ed Hardy and water in fancy glasses and socialites and me in heaven, onto the stage comes 80's cover band Tainted Love. Say what you want about the 80's and about cover bands, but it is nearly impossible not to love Tainted Love, unless you are a person who enjoys not liking these, which I know much of my neighborhood thrives on.
Gina sashayed over and yelled into my ear, "Bethy! You've got to see the folks dancing up front! So fun!"She was right. A crowd had gathered at the front of the stage and this times a hundred was going on to my great amusement.
We finally decided to head home, although not before Melissa and I swung by the candy booth, where we could select candy from huge glass jars which were wrapped up in little take-out boxes. Mel and I ran out into the rain, walking right past Lori Puccinelli Stern, who's BFF with the Mayor and the Missus and scares the shit out of me. She is the publicist for Hearts After Dark and every other event in town and I imagine she could probably have me deported if she felt like it.
"Melissa!" I gasped. "That's Pooch!"
Melissa refuses to read the society pages. "Who? What?"
I hissed the only description I could think of. "She defended Jennifer Seibel in the comments of SFist."
I don't know why I offer that as a biography or resume for someone who's probably perfectly lovely. But everytime I crack open San Francisco Magazine and see Pooch smiling with Hooman, it's all I can think of.
I went home with my candy and my t-shirt, desperate for Jersey Shore to come back on TV so I can enjoy both at the same time. But why wait? Life's short! Thanks for the memories, last night fancy folks! Spotswood out...
Also, Weekend What's Up is Up! Watch it, love it, live it...

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

my dream assignment...

This week's SFViews (filmed mere moments ago!) is here for your convenience. Hosts Eve y Brock chat with guest (guess! just guess!) live on your "television with a keyboard."

book me a room at the bridge...

And of course, today's Culture Blog is UP! Once again, we venture into the Facebook pages of Supervisorial Candidates, this time focusing on the high-end District 2...

i'm not an animal person but come ON...

Are you one of the billions of San Franciscans over the moon because Mr. Harlan the Hobo was reunited with his beloved cat "Samantha"? Not up on this scoop (heh)? Please read about it RIGHT HERE, and then let's discuss.
Mr. Harlan, a homeless San Franciscan tied his cat/companion to a pole while he went to go "get food at a nearby store." Mr. Harlan and Samantha have been together for 4 years and even though Samantha is, you know, not living in the lap of luxury, they love each other. Along comes Mr. Neville (not Aaron) and seeing Samantha ties up, rescues her by taking her back to his waterfront hotel office and nursing her to relative health.
"You should see her now!"
Mr. Harlan returns to find Samantha gone and is beside himself.
Somehow, the media gets ahold of this tragedy and yesterday, Mr. Neville finally figures out he's got Mr. Harlan's cat. Actually, one of his friends calls him up and basically (I'm paraphrasing) says, "Dude, you stole a hobo's cat!"
Mr. Neville thought about what to do "for hours." So, and here's my first question, Neville gets Harlan's phone number from the Chronicle.
His phone number? I'm curious to know where the man who ties his cat under a freeway while he goes to find food takes his calls.
Mr. Harlan comes to see Samantha at what I assume to be Mr. Neville's fancy pants offices and Neville offers to buy Samantha. Look pal, either give the cat back or don't call the guy in the first place. After all this you can't say, "Um, I didn't realize you were this homeless. I should probably keep her."
Mr. Harlon says, "That's cool. I got this." (again, paraphrasing) but does accept some cat food and $40 from Mr. Neville, with which he buys:
  • a new collar
  • a new leash
  • a cart with wheels "for the cat"
  • a sleeping bag
  • a few necessities
With $40! He also got a macchiato, a subscription to 7x7, some Trish McEvoy scented candles and a bluetooth (on which to take his calls.)
Finally, and this is what really set me off, Mr. Neville tells Samantha she has a standing invitation to spend the night in his office whenever she feels like it. Samantha, lest we forget, is the cat. The human, Mr. Harlan, can go back to his brand new sleeping bag.
Mr. Harlan and Samantha both spent last night sleeping in Transbay Terminal. I would just like to remind everyone that Mr. Neville's office is where? Oh yeah. A chain hotel.
But of course with all of the media attention and whole, "Awwww, a hobo and his cat!" warmth, offers of help are coming in from all over the world, to which Mr. Harlan says, "I appreciate all the help people are offering, but I can't take money. I've always tried to do stuff on my own, but it don't work most of the time."
Cue sappy music and credits...

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

stumping the stolpas...

Years ago, my folks, brother and I ended up watching Snowbound: The Jim and Jennifer Stolpa Story. If you weren't in Northern California in 1993, you might be unfamiliar with the unfortunate plight of the Stolpas, a 21 year old married couple who got lost in the snow with their 5 month old baby, Clayton. Immediately their tragedy and triumph was turned into a TV movie starring Neil Patrick Harris and for reasons I can't begin to remember, all four Spotswoods watched it together.
I fondly remember my parents mocking the entire thing, screaming at the TV and skewering the Stolpa decision-making process.
Guess what I found on Netflix!
I arrived for dinner at my folks' last night and announced, "I brought an activity!"
"Oh! Terrific! Board games? Cooking project?"
No. I brought Snowbound: The Jim and Jennifer Stolpa Story.
My parents kind of rolled their eyes but culture dictates that when your adult child wants to watch a movie and bond with you, you can't say no. After dinner, we hunkered down in the TV Room and after lots of discussion on how to turn on the DVD player, started the movie.
Jim and Jennifer Stolpa's problem, other than being married and parents at 20-years old, was that they were idiots. I'm not saying they're still idiots. They've probably learned from their mistakes. But they were idiots. As a result, they became trapped in the snow for over a week on their way to a funeral in Idaho.
My folks are not regular watchers of 1990's television movies. Needless to say, I am. Their shock and horror at this cheezy, poorly acted, horribly written genre delighted me. Hello? People love this shit, you snobs!
So right away and forgetting they'd seen this over a decade ago, Dick and Joanne started screaming at the Stolpas. Every heavy-handed foreshadow prompted snark and sarcasm from my parents, but they saved their harshest words for Jim Stolpa's mom, the emotional Murial played by the mom from Webster. Every word from her resembled nails on a chalk board and my father, sitting behind me on the couch kept announcing, "I hate the mom."
"The mom" could barely hold it together, with her crappy hairdo and shoulder pads. Every piece of news or lack there of sent her into hysterics. Meanwhile, we've got Jim (who can't say 'I love you') and Jennifer making every wrong turn, taking off the snow chairs to save time and guessing about shortcuts. When they finally try and walk out, in the wrong direction of course, they zip the baby up in a garment bag, tie it to Jim's belt and drag Clayton.
My mother couldn't understand why they were always going uphill. "Head down! Head down! This is so stupid!"
I was shocked at their predicament. Even though they were young, the Stolpas were in the Army. Shouldn't they have better survival skills, instead of relying on "signs from God"?
My father took a sip of wine. "No wonder this guy's a Private."
The Stolpas made it out alive with everything but their feet. At the very end, we see Doogie Howser (or as my mother called him, Doggie Howard) get the news that they'd lose a third of their feet due to severe frostbite.
Dramatic zoom, shock and horror, "the mom" loses it.
Needless to say, just before the end credits, Jim and Jennifer (and Clayton, out of the garment bag!) sit in wheelchairs at the beach where they had their first date. And guess what? They walk on their stumps! And Jim finally says "I love you!"
I think my parents would admit that spending last night screaming at Snowbound: The Jim and Jennifer Stolpa Story was really fun. And thanks to technology, you too can join the fun in 10-minute increments on YouTube. That's right! HERE you go...

*Thanks to Rebecca in the comments. Jim and Jennifer got divorced! So much for that bullshit 'I love you.' Who else could love the stumps, I wonder? Last night, I actually thought to myself, "Well, it's a good thing they're both going to have stumps."

Monday, February 08, 2010

insert beer riddle...

Greetings beer fans! The Beths attened the Brewers Guild Opening Night Gala of SF Beer Week and you can find the results in today's See Spot on the San Francisco Appeal...

Sunday, February 07, 2010

until the birds started pecking their way through the windows and poking out our eyes...

When I try and remember the best parts of my life so far, they're rarely specific events or days. They always seem to be random moments, snapshots pulled out of 32 years of living a regular life, full of commuting and television and worrying about my hair.
Every once in awhile you get one of those snapshots, sometimes when you really need it and sometimes just like frosting; it's extra, a bonus, dumb luck.
Everything's fine with me, my mother would be delighted to know. I'm probably jinxing it but work is good, blogging is fun, no one's breaking my heart, my friends are lovely, my bed is made and my sheets smell fancy.
So it was serendipity, dumb luck, frosting really, that I found myself where I found myself last night. After shopping and exploring all day, the Brians and I sat down in the sparse dining room of their brand new beach house in Bodega Bay and had dinner. Over chicken and risotto, we talked and made plans and discussed where to put they couches they'd eventually buy.
Afterwards, the three of us piled on the lone couch in the front room and read questions to each other from Trivial Pursuit. To lazy to start an actual game, we split cookies and tea and laughed at each other.
This new house has no heat yet. That's still coming. Brian and Brian have only been the official owners for a whole week. I was amazed they had towels. Freezing, we decided to head upstairs to what I now call 'the nook.' The nook is a loft, on one side over looking the "Great Room" and on the other, features big windows staring out to the Pacific. You can see waves slam on the rocks and cars meander around Highway 1. The floor's been stripped and an ancient, overstuffed loveseat faces the view. The nook is wonderful.
Around 11 an night, we bounded up there with blankets and pillows and one of those floor heaters that you plug in until they catch on fire and inevitably burn your trailer down. Leubitz managed to find some scary stories on his iPhone, podcasts read by authors and actors and we turned off all of the lights.
Looking up, we were shocked at the stars. You could make out all kinds of constellations, the sky seemed packed with flickering lights. I lay on the floor in sweatpants and the cozy socks Santa brought me. Bundled in blankets, with the pugs cuddling up against us, I could look up and watch the sky while I listened to the ocean right outside the window.
And then Brian pressed play on his iPhone.
I haven't heard someone tell me a good scary story in years. It's been decades since I sat around a campfire and years since a vacation fully blocked the bills on my counter, the work on my desk, the shit in everyone's life that keeps you from really, truly enjoying massages and $30 entrees. But laying on that floor up in the nook like a 9 year old, gazing at the stars and listening to some women tell a long, spooky story about a Native American creature that lives in a river and rips the faces off loggers...well, I got another snapshot.
And for the rest of my life when I remember the first weekend I ever went to the Brians beach house in Bodega Bay, I will feel that blanket and see those stars and hear that story...

Saturday, February 06, 2010

yes. i'm serious. socks...

I'm up in Bodega Bay visiting The Brians, who much to my amazement and delight, closed on a fabulous seaside fixer-upper last weekend. I arrived to find Devine peeling faux wood wallpaper off the living room wall and he gave me the full tour. This house is really big and you can see waves crashing on the rocks at every turn. But it's been a rental called "Seaside Dreams" since the 70's and the walls are painted in orange sherbert.
Thus, we have a lot of work to do. Note I say we, as I'm claiming this joint as MY weekend home as well. I'll just refuse to leave.
90% of ownership is possession.
With Leubitz in the city on business, Devine and I toured Bodega Bay, Bodega, Occidental and Freestone because I had to see every possible location Alfred Hitchcock may have used in his masterpiece, The Birds. I managed to buy every piece of The Birds crap I could get my hands on, including socks but excluding the $150 autographed Tippi Hedren photograph. Brian is a very patient partner is tourism.
"Brian! Oh my God!"
"Do you want to go into that store?"
Yes. I want to go in EVERY store.
We're back at the house, a chicken's in the oven, the board games are pulled out and the ocean is surprisingly deafening. Even though there are no rugs yet, it's all suddenly very cozy and Leubitz has just discovered Harry Potter 1 is on the flatscreen that still rests on the ground. I am in nerdy, sweatpants heaven on a Saturday night and I am looking forward to crawling into my very own guest bed after a obligatory viewing of The Birds.
Again, Brian is a very patient host.
For my next trip, does anyone know where they filmed Psycho? I'd like to stay in Room Number 1 at the Bates Motel...

Thursday, February 04, 2010

they were serious about that groundhog costume...

This Weekend is UP! What? I don't know...Anyway, this 2 minute segment took many, many takes. I dare say we made it into the double digits. I was getting punchy. So we took one final take, the result of which is now public. Enjoy your weekend...

hi my name is beth and i'm a gavaholic...

Kieran asked me the other day if I listened to morning radio. “Of course I listen to morning radio. I commute!”
Rhonda the Honda, in fact, only possesses a radio. I can’t even plug an iPod into the old gal (compose yourselves) so I’m forced to drive to and from work listening to Lady Gaga (Alice), Train (KFOG) and Luther Vandross (KOIT). This morning, I was flipping through the dial and what do I hear?
Our gorgeous mayor was live and in person this morning on KFOG and I caught as much as I could before heading through the rainbow tunnel and getting stuck with Los Lonely Boys. From what I could tell, my boyfriend has really perked up since dropping out of the Governor’s race. Based on this change in attitude, I can only assume Gavin found the whole ordeal appalling and exhaustive. Maybe his whole heart was never really in it. Maybe his whole heart was here (San Francisco) and at home (the Pinot aisle at Andronico’s.) Those are the two things Gavin said he dropped out of the race for: the city and his home life.
Which is weird because I always thought he bailed to allow himself more time to read my ever growing repertoire of internet witticisms.
Anyway, Mayor Newsom was asked if he planned on running for Lieutenant Governor.
Gasp! Swerve! Well???
Gavin hemmed. Gavin hawed. And then he said something about embers. The ember is still there? The ember cannot be dimmed? I don’t know, I was too excited and distracted by his poetic metaphors. Basically, the Mayor said running for Lieutenant Governor was, “very, very unlikely.”
Which makes sense because as you know, he’s got his big back-up career of booze slinging. And now, help me up on this soapbox. I’ve got something to say. Hold on. Lemme put on my recovering alcoholic nametag here and…okay. Here goes:
I have no problem with someone mired in public scandal to use alcohol as an excuse and seek (perhaps insincere) treatment. I don’t give a shit, do what you want, drink or don’t. It’s all the same to me. But once someone in the public eye, particularly someone in public service claims to suffer from an addiction and seek treatment, I take offense to the casual reintroduction of booze.
Treatment, I assure you, is no joke. Personally speaking, I did not seek treatment out of boredom, dramatics or because I wanted Dr. Drew to hold me while I wore Uggs and Von Dutch hats in a Trust Nook. It was an incredibly painful, serious decision. Although I did wear Uggs.
Once you pull the alcoholic card, you can’t pretend like it never happened. If Gavin’s exploration of his demons at Delancy Street was a means of scaling back an escalating issue, that’s fine. But I don’t think it’s fair to say “OMG, I fucked up because I’m an alcoholic” when you’re in trouble and then a couple of years later, giggle, “Ima be a wine clerk!”
His statements diminish the seriousness of the issue and the nearly impossible commitment it takes to overcome a disease. I think once the Mayor chose to announce alcohol abuse as an explanation for his personal drama, he took on a responsibility of representing the disease. I loathe political correctness, but enough with the wine jokes.
Okay, if someone could give me a hand down from my podium…thanks.
That being said, tomorrow I'll be covering the San Francisco Beer Week Brewers Guild Opening Gala! So stay tuned for a new boozy video from The Beths...

Wednesday, February 03, 2010

marzipan flowers...

Everyone in town already beat me to writing about this, but here's my version of Saturday night's Celebrity Autobiography on today's Culture Blog. It should come as no surprise that Fred Willard is human perfection...

foods that start with the letter q...

One of the many perks of my courageous struggle, turning my head at alcohol and plodding through life boring and sober is that people are adamant that I get whatever else I want to drink. I guess since I can't chug martinis anymore, my friends and family actually pre-order my beverage before I arrive, lest I be brutalized with a wine list or forced to listen to cocktail specials.
I arrived at Quince to find Melissa sitting at the bar.
"Hello! Happy Birthday! I tried to order you a Diet Coke."
"Oh thanks." I said, looking around and finding nothing matching that description.
"I was told they don't serve diet product."
Oh. Well pardon me.
What's that about? Do they have regular Coke? Not that I would ever drink regular Coke, but is this a general soda snobbiness or a forced heath issue, forbidding me to consume aspartame amidst the fine art and hanging chandelliers?
That being said, the lack of Diet Coke is my only complaint about Quince. My brother gasped to discover they'd printed "Happy Birthday Beth" on top of the menus and our hilarious server let me believe it said that on every diners' menu, all night long.
"Oh yeah. Everyone's wondering who Beth is! I told them not to make eye contact with you and you'd prefer not to be recognized tonight."
That's basically all I need to fall madly in love with a restaurant until the end of time. Actually, I selected this birthday destination based solely on San Francisco Magazine's report that the "dining room is dapper enough to stand up to Willie Brown."
Shut up. Just...shut up. You had me at dapper.
Based on my ridiculous system of rating restaurants, which factors in ambiance and over the top snobbery above all else, Quince was fabulous.
But no 'diet product'? It's not like I wanted a fucking Lean Cuisine...

Monday, February 01, 2010

the investigations continues...

Well, here it is. A full report of Brock and my day investigating the mysterious disappearances in the North Bay await you in See Spot Write on the SF Appeal. I brought a backpack, I was so prepared to solve this. There's also video, and yes, that music is from the Season 1 Finale of Queer as Folk. I'm interested to hear what you think...