Monday, March 29, 2010

"i hope this doesn't make me look like an asshole..."

I love my 24-year old co-worker Amanda a lot. But she's a goddamn hipster in denial. As we spend this afternoon in a heated debate as whether or not people actually hide in attics stealing food and peeing in sinks, Amanda puts on MGMT.
"Amanda, you are such a fucking hipster."
"No, I am not a hipster Beth. God, you always think me and my friends are hipsters. We are so not. We WISH we were hipsters. Hello? We don't do coke until 4am. We don't go to gallery openings. I go to Starbucks, Beth. I got to Starbucks. (pause.) But I prefer Blue Bottle."Amanda's (that's her in the middle) definition of hipsters:
1. "Hipsters join Alcoholics Anonymous because it's cool and then sit in Delores Park discussing conversations they had with their sponsor."
2. "They do a lot of coke."
3. "They go to gallery openings."
4. They went to the Neon Indian show at Mezzanine. (I don't even know what this means, but she just shouted it across the office.)"
5. "Hipsters ride bicycles with no brakes."
6. "They play the keyboard."
7. Hipsters live in the Mission. That's obvious. (Wait. I live in the Mission.) Or Oakland if they're poor."
8. "They go to random wherehouse parties to see bands play at 17th and Capp and then when you ask what band is playing, the asshole standing next you will say, 'Why don't you tell me?' True story."
9. "They've definitely had brunch at Boogaloos or St. Francis Fountain."
10. "Their record collection is definitely bigger than yours." (Even assuming I own a fucking record makes Amanda a hipster.)
There you have it. The oft discussed but now official definition provided by a real, live hipster I caught...

Sunday, March 28, 2010

it puts the lotion in the basket before it touches the venus flytrap...

Brian Devine is in his kitchen making "hand-crafted soap" right now, so it should come as no surprise that he's a really big adorable nerd. The Brians have bought themselves a massive, 70's-style, beachside fixer-upper in Bodega Bay, and Devine and I decided to spend this weekend up here. There really is a lot of work to do, especially because there's so much room. Mr. Project has decided to focus on the garden. (I literally just looked out the window, and there he is, roaming around the bluffs carrying a blackberry bush, looking for a place to plant it.)
So on our way up here, with the 2 pugs sleeping in the backseat, Brian announced we're going to stop at California Carnivores.
"Wait. What?"
"It's a nursery that sells plants that eat animals."
"Like Venus Flytraps?"
Indeed. My only knowledge of venus flytraps is the one my brother procured as a child, to which he fed small pieces of salami until losing interest.
We actually had several nurseries at which to stop and one of them had this really bizarre, political gardening lecture going on, with people sitting on folding chairs taking copious notes. After several tries, getting lost and joking that we could find California Carnivores if they had a big plant monster out in front, we found it.
With a big plant monster out in front.
"Do you think they'll let me use their ladies room?" I asked as we walked in.
"Of course." Brian said. "This is Sebastopol."
California Carnivores is a cross between a nursery, a Halloween Superstore and Jame Gumb's basement. As soon as we walked in, Brian and I kept shooting each other looks everytime we noticed until skull and crossbones goofily placed in a corner. But Brian was soon off, looking for plants that eat bothersome fruitflies and gnats. There was a man sitting at a desk in the middle of the nursery, which was basically a big, humid greenhouse. He looked up from his piles and piles of research and plainly said, "Let me know if you have any questions."
"Oh. Okay. (Pause.) Do you have a restroom?"
He looked back down at his work and grumbled, "The door on your left slides to the right. Outside that, it's the door on the left."
"Thank you!" I overcompensated. I looked to my left and saw a sliding, wooden greenhouse door. I pushed it in one direction.
I pushed it left and closed it behind me. Sheesh. Mr. Plant must not spend a lot of time around humans. I soon found the perfectly acceptable water closet and noted a Xerox which boldly stated "Wash your hands before touching the plants!"
Back in the greenhouse, I found Brian. "This place is really weird."
"I know." he whispered, clutching a collection of carnivorous plants. He quietly approached Mr. Plant at his research desk in the middle of the greenhouse, who said, "Are you ready?"
"Yes." Brian said. "Where do I go?"
"To the cash register." The "Duh" was silent, but present.
After some slight confusion over the cost of the carnivorous collection, Mr. Plant rang Brian up and then pulled out the "California Carnivores' Care Sheet." The margins on these instructions are like, a centimeter and this font looks like a 10. Mr. Plant puled out a pen and started feverishly underlining portions of paragraphs while shooting off incredibly complex instructions. Apparently, rainwater is best and if Brian really cared about these plants, he's institute a rain collection system. If Brian is unwilling to do that, he can purchase bottled water for the plants, but it's got to be "reverse-osmosis, deionized, distilled water."
Brian leaned over and whispered, "These plants are from fucking swamps in Florida. They're not getting Evian down there."
I offered that maybe the water from the iceberg that sunk the Titanic might be ideal. Mr. Plant ignored my suggestion.
These instructions, which go on and on and on, end with the magnificent, "You should expect a period of adjustment as your plants get used to their new home."
"What are they going to do?" Brian asked. "Act out?"
After we left California Carnivores, we stopped at my new favorite grocery store, "Fircrest Market, the little store that saves you more" which should be home to the next Christopher Guest mockumentary. Actually, it's a really fabulous, local market with a really fabulous, young firefighter in line in front of us.
With tons of plants and provisions and pugs, Brian and I made our way to the house and ate lunch on the deck, watching the ocean, playing Mindtrap and reading the California Carnivores' Care Sheet. The care sheet instructs one to call or email with any additional questions and Brian and I hatched big schemes to email them photos of us pouring salt on plants and asking, "So we're supposed to add salt, right? Any good in salads? How's paint thinner on them?"
Which is when we discovered the California Carnivores website and Mr. Plant. We'd guessed wrong, imagining that he was #2 at California Carnivores, annoyed and frustrated at the diletante owners casual interest in man-eating plants. Turns out, Mr. Plant is the world-famous owner.
There's even a picture of him.
Wearing the SAME SHIRT.
Mr. Plant has been on the Martha Stewart Show, an accomplishment I regard with great respect. I only hope Martha didn't make the big mistake of asking Mr. Plant if she could use his bathroom...

Friday, March 26, 2010

i think en vogue wrote a song about this...

It occurs to me as I finally roll in from a quick drink after work which turned into a 6-hour dinner that I have spent this week in the company of some rather lovely men. I forget, what with my cadre of girlfriends and homosexuals and Big Chris, that there is a whole species of well-intentioned door-openers and story-tellers who rarely get the praise I forget they deserve. These men, straight and standard, laugh at our jokes and stand to meet our friends. They offer casual insights and lean forward with interest. They do this thing when we run through traffic. I can't explain it. It's a thing, a protective thing. And it's nice.
These men, some in t-shirts, some in ties, watch our bags while we pee and have a fresh drink waiting upon our return. They tap our knee to make a point and offer the barstool so we can sit. They don't really judge and they really aren't that complicated.
To put it simply, these men walk the very fine line of treating us equally but different.
And so, on behalf of the harried, urban, working women who hear creepy things from cab drivers and get groped on the bus, from the spinsters cursing exes to the ignored annoying girlfriends, and because sometimes, we just plain forget to appreciate that thing you do when we run through traffic: Gentlemen, I salute you...

these two taught me everything i know...

My parents have been travelling in South America for over a month. Alex and I finally came over to their place last night to celebrate my dad's birthday and pick up our loot. I might be 32, but I still gladly accept the travel gift.
On and on, this gift exchange went, each present punctuated by a wacky South American story of "the time the lights went out in Valpariaso" or "the country western couple from the cruise who sing God Bless America at retirement homes." Finally, my mother leaps to her feet and says, "Now it's time for the funny presents!"
She crawls behind some armchair and from underneath it, hands my brother a used yogurt cup, which features cartoon characters from his job, thus demonstrating that Alex's work is appreciated all over the globe. And she hands me a photograph.
"Oh, yeah!" My father screams when he sees it. "Oh, this is terrific."
It's a picture my mother has taken along the urban road at some Chilean Beach. With skyscrapers on one side and a beach on the other, cars are parked along the sidewalk. And placed on the windshield of each car is some very bold marketing collateral.
Upon seeing these massive 80's-style accordion car shades placed on every single car parked along the beach, my mother instantly said, "I'm going to go take one."
Obviously, it was just a giant version of a flier. I'm totally with her on this one. My father on the other hand, finds these sort of wacky, rule-bending adventures terrifying.
"You can't just take one!"
"Sure I can! It's a windshield flier."
"Someone's going to see you!"
"SO WHAT?!?!"
My parents apparently stood on the beach debating this for a few minutes and as they did so, the owner of one of the parked cars returned. Upon seeing this car shade on the windshield of every car in the vicinity including his own, he promptly ripped it off his car, threw it on the ground and drove off.
My mother dove for the coveted car shade, brought it back to their hotel, found it fit perfectly in her suitcase and decided that I had to have it. And so, through earthquakes and tsunamis, through three countries and customs, I am now the proud owner of this cultural object d'arte from Chile:

Welcome Home Mom and Dad! And obviously if you were ever in doubt before, you'll definitely know Rhonda the Honda when you see her now...

Thursday, March 25, 2010

i called him todd...

It's WEWU time. Get on it.

And in other news, today is the 63rd Birthday of the greatest dad ever, the affable and brilliant Dick Spotswood. Right now, Scrappers is most excited that he got a KOFY-TV20 mug. But we're partying it up tonight because my dad is seriously the greatest guy I know, my biggest fan, giver of advice and solver of problems, snuggler and story-teller, and my favorite person with whom to watch Poirot on rainy nights. HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY!!!

at least he's not in topsiders...

LOOK! LOOK! LOOK who's in today's LA Times!Rise and shine, Devine! Also, Brian looks like he's got some room there on his right to scooch over and give his colleagues some room. But no, pink tie's too busy meditating on what kind of cookies to make for my next visit to Bodega Bay...

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

um, HELLO...

I hate it when we fight. I really do. Ask anyone. I take it surprisingly hard. And so I apologize to Gavin Newsom in today's Culture Blog...

totally worth the ten bucks...

I'm generally three or four years behind everything. I mean, I'm just loving that new "Lady Gaga." So I'm still winding my way through G-shit because I just got a Gmail account and am working out the kinks.
I'm all over my G-calendar and plug in all of my nerdy activities so that little reminders get sent to my Blackberry and I can feel technologically savvy. Last night as Ray wrapped up our filming of Weekend What's Up, my phone glowed with a reminder for "If Not The Chronicle, Then What?" a panel and "party" about how much newspapers suck.
I really should go to this, I thought. Brock is on the panel and Melissa is up for Hot Media Bitch or some such thing. I figured if I haightailed it out of there, I could make the last half of this thing and win the friend of the year award while appearing interested in new media.
We film WEWU at PariSoma at 10th and Howard so I hopped in Rhonda the Honda and booked it down Mission. In the midst of this, my brother called me for our Tuesday phone call.
"I can't talk!" I screamed at him. "I'm late for this thing and I'll see you on Thursday and I gotta go."
"Alright, Bethy." He calmly responded. "I love you."
I found this exasperating. Oh Alex, always so calm, relaxed and mellow. He got all the good, happy, thin genes and I got the "big personality." It's driven me nuts for decades.
Simultaneously, I was texting Brock and Melissa. "Where are you!" "Are you there?" "Is there a list?" "Put me on the list!" "Hello?"
I got these random text responses like, "I'm at Swagapalooza with Brittney" and "I'm still at work. What are we talking about?"
I thought that was really rude. I mean, here I am running through the urban jungle trying to support these assholes and they're not even going to show? As I neared 2nd street, I turned Rhonda down some alley and rolled into a parking lot, coming to a stop in front of the kiosk. There was much confusion, what with the language barriers, and I finally figured out that the attendant would park my car and return the keys to me. I handed him $10 and he handed me a ticket and my keys.
I spun around and ran towards the Commonwealth Club, or at least where my vague recollection told me the Commonwealth Club was located. I lept onto sidewalks, jaywalked in front of busses, I was hustling as fast as I could until finally, Brock sent me a text.
"That's tomorrow."
I stopped dead in my tracks. "Oh my God, it is? Are you sure?"
"Yes. It's definitely tomorrow."
I took a deep breath and turned around, making my way back to the parking lot.
"Hi." I smiled as sweetly as I could. "I was just here 2 minutes ago. I got the day wrong. Is there anyway I can get my money back?"
In this economy, I wanted my $10. But I was met with an awkward and difficult to understand lecture about how they don't do refunds. "Once you park car, you pay."
The gentleman who'd parked my car mere moments before appeared. "You back? You forget something?"
"I got the date wrong!" I gave him the 'Oh, aren't us women idiots' look. "I was here 2 minutes ago. Is there anyway I can get my money back?"
"Oooohhhh. Oh no. We don't do that."
"Really? I was here for like, 10 seconds."
He looked horrified. "You talk to supervisor."
He pointed down the alley, into some cavernous building that looked like the shooting location for Michael Jackson's BAD video. "Will you come with me and tell him I was only here for a minute?"
I marched off towards the supervisor as he ran after me. "Thank you so much!" I screamed, staring straight ahead. "I really appreciate this."
The supervisor sat in his office with his feet up on the desk, and a collection of 3 or 4 attendants surrounded me as I explained my error apologetically. "I'll be back tomorrow, I promise. I was only here for a minute and I got the date wrong. It's tomorrow, not tonight. I'm such an idiot."
The supervisor didn't seem to care. "You got ticket?"
I handed him my ticket. He scribbled "VOID" on it and handed it back. "You give this to them."
"Them" had become my curious entourage. We all walked back outside and down the alley to where my car was parked next to the parking kiosk.
I handed the one guy who hadn't joined our little field trip my voided ticket. His nametag proclaimed, "Hector" and with great disgust and disdain, he handed me $10. Then, in an unnecessary display of douchery for the benefit of his co-workers, who if I do say so myself, had grown to enjoy my effusive apologies, gave me this bullshit tirade about how "next time" he won't be so nice and really, they're not supposed to do this because it's "no fair."
The gentleman who'd been my sidekick this whole time dove in. "No, no. no. She nice. She come back tomorrow. Is okay! Is okay!"
But Hector was having none of it. "Next time, she don't do this. Take money."
The rushing, the panic, the texting, the mix-up. I was done with Hector. "I'm not taking your money. I spoke with your Supervisor down there."
There was no 'Oh, silly me' look. There was only 'urban warrior' look. And just as I suspected, Hector was a big wimp. "Oh, okay. You can go."
Yeah, thanks dipshit. I know.
I got in Rhonda the Honda, kicked up the Lady Gaga and got the hell out of there.
Which is a very long way of saying, there's this thing at the Commonwealth Club tonight and you should go! You can sit in the back with me and pretend to care about new media...

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

next year, it's going to be all mo'nique...

I was reading the Mommy Files today (what?) and am loving this list of "elite baby names." Apparently the Daily Beast figured out what rich people are naming their heirs and I find the whole thing fascinating. Here are my favorites:

2. SERAPHINA (what? really?)
4. ELIZABETH (holla!)
8. SOPHIA (after Petrillo, no doubt.)
10. MAISIE (eyeroll.)
19. IMOGEN (I actually know someone who named their kid this.)
20. HARPER (After Lee, right?)
22. MATILDA (Love it.)
23. STELLA (Love it.)


1. HENRY (Love it.)
2. FINN (Love it.)
5. ASHER (See Kai.)
7. JASPER (Jasper brings drugs to people in rehab.)
9. KAI (So he's going to be gay and an idiot? Terrific.)
10. ATTICUS (also Jake Gyllenhaal's dog. FYI)
18. MILO (This stops being cute when you hit 35.)
20. PHINEAS (is this really necessary?)
24. AUDEN (or anyone quoted in Four Weddings and a Funeral.)
25. SILAS (Jesus Christ...)

Monday, March 22, 2010

she must see a lot of no shows to be so cavalier...

I arrived at the restaurant late because I was busy sitting at the bar of Shotwells watching glorious history take place and asking aloud, "Does this mean I get dental?"
"Hi, I'm just meeting some friends. They're probably already here." I said, looking around.
"Name of party?"
"You're the first one to arrive."
"Oh. Hmm, okay."
"And the kitchen closes in 15 minutes."
"I'm sure they'll be here any minute."
"Well, if they show, they need to be here in 15 minutes."
If they show? If they SHOW? She walked me over to the bar and announced, "Her group hasn't shown up."
Dressed to the nines, I ordered a sparkling water with lime and pulled out a 20.
"No charge, ma'am." The bartender clearly felt sorry for me. I sipped my drink and considered the consequences for "Griffin" if she didn't show.
She did, of course. And I never would have doubted her if the hostess had a little more faith in humanity...

Sunday, March 21, 2010

you'll need a shot of espresso for this. i'll wait...

"I want to acknowledge that this weekend doesn't begin and end on Saturday. It extends to Sunday."
-Mayor Gavin Newsom, March 13, 2010
If you were holding your breath for another nugget of genius, you can just forget it. This week's Mayoral Update is deadly. Gavin kicks it off by reminding us to fill out our census forms. He holds an envelope "which has most likely arrived in your mail or will about to arrive in your mail." Basically, you better fill it out and mail it back or you're an asshole and we won't get any money. It's incumbent upon you (he says this twice.)
Blah, blah, blah, boring census history.
Moving on, we reached a deal with the airport. San Francisco gets 15% of the concession revenue of SFO and he goes on and on in explaining it to us like we're retarded. Thanks Mister Rogers. We got this.
Pardon my sass, but of all the things that are going on in San Francisco, like, oh, I don't know, Gavin running for Lieutenant Governor (or Attorney General if you ask Bill Maher) and no one really knowing how or who will replace him, the Mayor's got to first spend an eternity on some ancient deal with the airport? Can someone please CGI an elephant in the room?
All of a sudden, a cartoon elephant should just pop in through the door behind the mayor and walk past wearing a lieutenant badge. "Oh, excuse me. There's just an elephant in the room. Anyway..."
Then, shocker, we chat more about Jobs Now. I, an employed adult with no dependents, know way more about Jobs Now than I could have ever hoped.
Spoiler alert: snooze.
When Gavin starts punching certain words Barack-style, that means it's time for tweets from YOU! And by you, I mean "calibayareagrrl." Oh, calibayareagrrl has a question about Jobs
Now? Amazing. What are the odds? Hey, Zach on Facebook has another question about...Jobs now Isn't this mind-blowing? Quick, run outside, stop the first San Franciscan you see and ask them what, if anything, they'd ask Mayor Gavin Newsom right now. Apparently, it's going to be all about Jobs Now. Who knew?
The next tweet question comes from Jake Tapper (swoon) who has the most West Wing name since Sam Seaborn. Jake tweeted to Tucker Carlson (forbidden swoon), "Who was the last Republican Mayor of San Francisco?"
Are you ready for the most boring story you've ever heard in your life? Terrific because Gavin is about to tell you something very uninteresting about George Christopher, the last Republican Mayor of San Francisco 1956-1964. Instead, I will tell you interesting things about George Christopher:
  • He brought the Giants to San Francisco
  • He opened Candlestick
  • He was a civil rights activist
  • He started alcohol treatment programs
  • He was too cheap to buy a historic old movie theater which was demolished and folks are still pissed
  • He built the Embarcadero Freeway that was gross and collapsed anyway in the 1989 Earthquake
  • He let the House Subcommittee on Un-American Activities have meetings in City Hall
  • He was born in Greece and moved to South of Market's "Greektown" when he was 2
  • He married the love of his life, Tula Sarantitis
  • He was prosecuted for fixing the price of milk in the 1940's
  • He told the cops who were harassing gay people to give it a goddamn rest
  • And he was apparently the greatest storyteller, ever. Unlike some people.
Finally, the Mayor answers the burning question, "Do you use a BB (Blackberry)?"
Um, hello? Gavin is "an iPhone kid." He's clutching his phone in every video. What goober asks, "Er, uh, do you use a Blackberry? Because I use a Blackberry. I like the Blackberry."
Ugh! I hate this week's video. It gets a D+ and the + is only for Jake Tapper. I really think Gavin should address the Lieutenant Governor run, offer his thoughts on the plan for a replacement and tackle the more controversial tweets he must be getting. I mean, come on. What's next? "Dear Mister Mayor, What's your favorite color?"
We already know this. It's blue. Bring the drama, next time Room 200. Bring the drama...

eyes and ears, folks...

Thank you to my old friend Bob who alerted me late last night to a missing 17 year old girl in the Marin Headlands. If you've been following my slight obsession with missing women in the North Bay, the Headlands should be setting off alarm bells. If you're new in town, the Headlands are basically the green stuff on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Alicia Scott Lee was last seen at 1am Friday night/Saturday morning at Tennessee Beach. She wasn't reported missing until just after noon, which is fucking weird. Apparently she became separated from her friends near the beach, which, I can't say this enough, is really goddamn close to my parent's house, my job, my horrific childhood memories, etc. It is also 20 minutes from San Francisco so you should join me in being freaked out.
She was reportedly seen near an abandoned military installation, of which there are many. Everyone goes out there to screw around, smoke weed, kiss boys. It's fun-scary out there with your friends in the middle of the night.
A couple of things that come to mind:
1. She wasn't last seen on the beach, so I hope no one tosses around the old rogue wave excuse. For the past few months, anytime anything goes wrong, I blame it on a rogue wave because apparently, they're responsible for everything. Oh, the copier is broken? It must have been a rogue wave.
2. I'm a long way from 17, but if Melissa, Brock, Tara and I are wandering around abandoned military installations in the middle of the night (possible) and I go missing, those bitches better call the cops ASAP. Hopefully Brian would be there because he calls search and rescue if we get separated in Safeway. Anyway, my point is obviously why wasn't this girl's disappearance called in when she disappeared? Christ, that whole time from dawn until 12:30pm, folks could've been out there looking for her or for clues.
Anyway, I know we're not supposed to jump to conclusions, but I think you know what I'm thinking. Well, that and of Alicia's family. Ugh, heartbreaking.
I hope we get a happy ending on this one...
*UPDATE* They found her. She fell off a cliff! Jesus Christ. So sad.

Friday, March 19, 2010

and no, we didn't break anything...

Glitz! Glamour! Gump's!
When I was a little girl, my grandmother would take me to Gump's. It was the kind of errand that involved wearing ladies suits with gloves and she treated this particular department store like she was wandering through the Met.
I've always thought of Gump's as pillows with embroidered koi fish on them, boxed coaster sets and caftans. And I think that's still pretty much the case, in addition to $4,500 ceramic fruit. So you can imagine my excitement at worming my way into a Gump's cocktail party. Myself and a guest were invited to preview the work of some artiste I've never heard of and needless to say, Brock and I swirled with glee.
Due to the whole embroidered koi fish/golden Buddha Chinois vibe of Gump's, I chose to wear a $15 pajama top I purchased in Chinatown and cropped cigarette pants. It was only as Brock and I walked arm in arm into the majestic palace that is Gump's, I realized I looked like a nut.
The whole main floor was packed with pashmina types and we grabbed the requisite wine glasses of water before standing awkwardly near a $5,000 stone frog wondering what to do next. We ended up chatting with Katherine, an interior designer who recognized me from the Literary Death Match! Any nerves I felt about my stupid outfit or my lack of Gump's grace went right out the window when this stunner asked me, "Were you the girl that knocked over the Christmas tree?"
Yes! Yes, that's me!
I spotted Drew Altizer, society photographer to, like, everything. Brock and I went over to say hi and beg him for gossip and glamour shots. Drew photographs everyone (if you consider random rich people everyone, which Brock and I do) and has generally nice things to say about them, which was a little disappointing.
We did spot some crashers, and I have to say, society party crashers are my new favorite obsession. How they even know about these events in beyond me. There must be some underground network of freeloaders and I want to infiltrate their ranks. Easily spottable, these folks are bizarre, mysterious and wonderful. And of course, as dictated by Hollywood, there was a woman with a dog.
At each turn, Brock and I oohhed and ahhed, so excited to finally be included. It felt like the time in high school I got to go to a cool kids party in the ballroom of a Pacific Heights mansion because I agreed to be a designated driver.
Lo, the irony.
Overheard favorites of the night include, "My wife was not receiving guests that particular evening" and another, having just returned from fashion week in Paris, "Lenny couldn't attend the Chanel show because, you know, they scheduled the Oscars the same week."
My genius line of the night was to the charming and friendly CEO of Gump's, to whom I asked, "So do people ever buy, like, a $4,500 jade apple?"
Apparently they do.
Are these people more fabulous than us, standing around congratulating themselves on appreciating expensive nick nacks? Technically, no. Was I delighted to be there, wonderfully uncomfortable in my own skin and rubbernecking plastic surgery mishaps?
Indeed I was, dahling...
*all photos are by Mr. Drew Altizer

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

perhaps you can explain this to me...

I'm steering away from my usual fascination with the morbid underbelly/criminal element today. I've discovered something new which has me marvelously baffled.
Have you ever heard of Adult Baby Fetish.
(I bet you a dollar my traffic skyrockets with that single phrase.)
Grown men (and I guess chicks) dress as cartoonish versions of Prohibition-era babies. Often in bonnets with gigantic lollipops and baby rattles, they behave like really feminine babies. Some even wear AND USE diapers, and enjoy getting changed by their "mommies."
Tim the Trainer and I spent an hour on this subject this morning. At one point, Tim curled himself up in an armchair and hid underneath his jacket, he could no longer handle the visuals. I was literally having a conversation with a man who had a fleece on his head because it was all too much.

And all I can think about is what if I fall madly, madly in love and one day, Mister Wonderful goes, "So, uh, Beth. There's...there's something I guess I should tell you."
At which point I would probably hide inside my clothes and weigh my options. I'd also have a lot of questions. Why the over-sized safety pins? The frilly bonnets? The over-the-top ensemble? No one still living wore that shit as an infant. It's not...accurate.
But for love? True love?
I could probably feed someone mashed peas if there were diamonds in it for me. But changing a diaper? And I'm talking a dirty diaper? On a perfectly capable yet fully developed adult male? I just don't see it happening.
I like to think of myself as a pretty open-minded person, which is an absolute lie. I'm not in the least. But I just don't get it. And most things, I generally get. You say strangling yourself with a tacky belt until you're almost dead is orgasmic? Fine. I'll take your word for it. But shitting your pants amidst ruffles and rattles is just, as Tim put it, lazy...

the power of ambiance...

I should've stayed home and mocked Facebook pages of local candidates last night. But I didn't. I went to an SFYD event for today's Culture Blog...

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

surprisingly normal...

Via text:
Beth: I met Generic tonight.

Via GChat:
Beth: I met Generic tonight.

Comments on blogs are powerful, powerful things...

Monday, March 15, 2010

what about the GUM...

I know what you've been thinking.
It's about time we focused on roller skating, right?
Well you're in luck! Because according to the Mayor's latest video update, "It's about time we focused on roller skating."
I should point out I watched this weekend's video with "Sober House" muted in the background. Just, you know, FYI.
Gavin starts off in a dress shirt and what appear to be jeans (!) sitting in his office rubbing his hands together like Montgomery Burns giving some pa'tick'alarly sinister instructions to Smithers.
I know I've brought this up before but, honestly, what is the story with the Mayor's struggle with the words particularly and literally. And if they pose such a problem for him, why does Gavin insist on using those two words above all others? We're half a step away from "libary" and nearing "supposably" at this point.
Anyway, Mayor Newsom wishes us a happy St. Patrick's Day! Apparently he'd just arrived from the parade still going on to some degree outside. At the festivities, Gavin got to introduce Sheriff Hennessy with the awkward "It's Hennessy Time!"
Ugh, it's not the booze joke I have a problem with (this time.) It's the bad joke. That's just stupid, it doesn't even make sense, his last name isn't Miller. Who is writing this shit and are they not aware I'm available?
Fortunately, Carrot Top drops the shtick and moves on to Sunday Streets. I guess yesterday was the first Sunday Streets of the highly anticipated "walk in the middle of the road" season. Believe it or not, in addition to juggling and magic (the lit'ral kind, not the figurative kind) they also had a roller rink.
I would leave it to the hippies to express outrage that San Francisco has a fucking roller rink while our fellow humans sleep in the gutters right in front of us, but hippies probably love roller skating. Those burn-outs are no doubt all over this shit, because it's outdoors, physical and rich people wouldn't be caught dead doing it.
Roller skating? Really? Of all of the activities for which we could've built a structure, roller skating won? It seems like such a nerdy, 70's-style waste. San Francisco has always had this good taste thing going for us. Well, you can forget about that. We just blew it with the goddamn roller rink.
Anyway, the whole video it's clear that Gavin is in a very sassy and smirky mood. This is a good thing. I think. I can't tell yet, it's too new. Even when he's going on about the budget and the busses and how Sacramento basically fucked us, he's trying to have a good time.
Again, I think that's what's up. I could be very, very wrong. He did just leave the St. Patrick's Day parade. And he wasn't introducing Sheriff O'Doul.
There is loads of hand jive in this video. Much like his eyebrows, Gavin's hands are flying left and right! Watch it with the sound off. It's like a scene from Children of a Lesser God.
Suddenly, the Mayor is cut off and the video fades to black only to fade back in so that Gavin can answer some of YOUR tweet questions. Selected for being completely boring, someone tweet-gests that like one of those kooky European countries, we sponsor something called "Adopt-A-Pothole."
Eyebrows, hands, smirks-none of them are contained at the kookieness of it all.
Oh Gavin, you good sport! What have you gotten yourself into?!?
And that's about it. I give this video a B-. On the positive, the Mayor is wearing jeans and attempting humor. On the negative side, he's moving into awkward-dad territory. Enjoy!

product of the future...

I felt like I was waiting forever, practically naked in the middle of some relaxation atrium. My girlfriends, Melissa and Tara had decided to spend Saturday with me at Cavallo Point Lodge and I'd arrived on time. Obviously.
I was given a green terrycloth robe and pink flip flops and I waited, feeling incredibly, incredibly nude. I pretended to read a magazine until I could hear them clanging into the lobby, hallways away.
They went back to the women's dressing rooms and emerged in robes matching mine. We were each ushered off for our massages and afterwards, met out by the unisex meditation pool where we pulled three lounge chairs together, ordered $8 green wheatgerm drinks and laughed for hours. We were having a marvelous time, eventually heading in to steam, then to a jacuzzi, then back to steam. We clinked cucumber water and decided to take our time getting ready for dinner, across the lawn at Murray Circle.
I hopped into a shower and used everything available. Cavallo Point shampoo? Check. Conditioner? Indeed. Shower gel? Of course. And shaving cream? Don't mind if I do! I'm sure I was in there for an eternity, scrubbing and buffing and pretending not to care that the shower doors there don't actually close all the way.
Mel, Tara and I brushed our conditioned hair our in the dressing area and marveled at the all-inclusive toiletry situation.
Which is when I saw it.
There on the counter before me was a very simple clear spray bottle, boldly labeled, "UNISEX DEODORANT."
According to Tara, my eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas.
I was riled up anyway. It's not every day I get to pretend I'm one of Bravo's Real Housewives. Sometimes, I'm having so much fun I can't really take it. I'm too sober, too present. When it's wonderful, it's all TOO wonderful. It's like the time I felt drunk by association and "discovered" the Fabreeze scent "Moroccan Bazaar," insisting on buying as many as I could carry because "obviously, they're going to discontinue something this awesome."
"I call dibs on the unisex deodorant!" I screamed too loudly. The other women in the spa paused and looked over at us. I lowered my voice. "I've never heard of such a thing. What if it's wonderful?"
I waited until the moment seemed right, when only my girlfriends could see me and everyone else had ventured into the showers or steam room. I spritzed myself and turned to my friends.
"It smells like fresh linen." I sighed.
We headed over to the hotel bar for drinks and then to dinner, which was all very deconstructed and complicated, with special sauces that had to be poured table-side and in a specific pattern.
Tara looked across the table at me. "Well, Beth?"
"Well what?"
"How do you smell?"
Oh yes! The unisex deodorant! "Beats me! Smell!"
I don't know when I segued into the kind of person who gets giddy at something like a mysterious, unisex, free and public deodorant. But that persona also has the kind of friends who will lean over and smell her without a second thought, so you know, I'm clearly onto something...

Sunday, March 14, 2010

a dapper bachelor indeed...

I'm used to being late to the party on many, if not most things. But I'm generally at the forefront of gay shit. And I had no idea Ed Koch is gay!
This morning I watched a riveting documentary called Outrage about closeted gay politicians who vote against gay rights issues. It's interesting and frustrating and upsetting and Ed Koch is gay? Get straight outta town!
I had no idea.
And it's making me wish he'd just come out. How wonderful would it be to have Ed Koch on Team Homo? He can't change the mistakes he's made in the past, rewrite history and un-ignore AIDS. But Mayor Koch is a bold, blunt, pushy guy. If he suddenly decided to become a gay activist, I think it could be amazing.
You know who I don't want to come out of the closet and become a gay activist? This dipshit:

my mother actually paid for that haircut...

My 3rd Grade friend Lauren has always been 100 times cooler than me. She matched her friendship bracelet colors to her short/tee combos and had a CD player before I really understood the concept. Lauren had an INXS CD, her ownership and comprehension of which I found unspeakably international and adult.
Lauren was also the first non-family member to think I was funny. Actually, she was the first and only until, like, the middle of high school.
I remember a giggly Lauren and I looking at our legs under a Fisher-Price microscope in the middle of the night and freaking out. We choreographed dance routines and were on swim team together. I was really awkward and obnoxious and looked transgendered. Lauren was really friendly to everyone and popular. She'd kind of try and convince our peers I was cool too. But it never really worked.
I had this very artsy journal my mother had given me and it asked all kinds of sexist questions like "What will you wear on your first date with him?" and "If you could be anyone on Earth, who would you be?"
I wrote that I would wear my purple leggings with my purple and green patterned tunic sweater and I would be Lauren.
All those years ago, as we slowly and painfully figured out how this social thing worked, I first began to notice that there were three kinds of girls: girls that were on your side, girls that would stab you in the back and girls that would straight out call you names in mixed company.
Lauren was the first girl that was on my side.
Well guess who's married with a baby, just moved back and came over for an adult play-date today? You guessed it!
Lauren is still incredibly cool, as evidenced by this photo from the LA Times' Street Fashion, and one of those friends with whom I fall instantly back into familiarity and intimacy. She's fabulous, she's gorgeous, she's irreverent, and I can't wait for her to start trying to casually and subtly convince folks I'm cool too...

Friday, March 12, 2010

do you love it...

Thanks to several boring logistical issues which you won't care about, I found myself at Ross Dress for Less looking for a cheap swimsuit, which I had no choice but to purchase within a 30-minute window this evening.
If you need anything to wear at the last minute and only your best friends will see you in bizarre circumstances, ie; me in a unisex meditation pool tomorrow, Ross is the place.
Through the sleet and snow (mild mist), I raced into Ross and went straight to the old lady bathing suit/cover-up/huge plastic tote-bag section and pulled the four least offensive options from the rack. I then did a lap around the store, selecting a discontinued business suit and a polyester cocktail dress which, should it find itself within a foot of an open flame, will probably explode.
I then made my way to the fitting room with my six items and waited patiently by the "8 items at a time" sign as the attendant chatted with a security guard, protecting a bin of hangers.
She finally decided to acknowledge me and grunted, "How many you got?"
"Six." I said, holding them out for her to inspect.
"You got bathing suits?" She presented this as a question, touching the actual bathing suits as she did so.
I indicated that yes, I got bathing suits.
"You can't try these on commando."
Oh my God.
I felt the security guard suddenly listening in.
"Um, I know." Silence. Stares. "I'll leave my underwear on."
"What?" She screamed this. She literally screamed this.
The security guard chuckled.
Ms. Attendant felt the need to explain to me WHY I had to leave my underwear on, which is a universal unspoken rule everyone knows, so much so it often appears in swimsuit tags. I know the whole underwear/swimsuit thing. What about me implies I'll strip down to nothing and get intimate with a $15.99 floral print, skirted, old-lady bathing suit? Her lesson seemed to go on for hours. And the whole time, I just kept saying, "I know. I know."
Finally, I was allowed inside the dressing room and once I'd selected my little nook, I became even more paranoid. Ross' dressing room doors don't lock. They're magnetic. And I became convinced this woman was going to come check on me, making sure that I wasn't raping my Blanche Devereaux swimwear by going "commando."
I picked the bathing suit that seemed the least offensive and raced out of there, handing the rejected clothing back to the attendant, fully expecting her to make me stand there while she ran a blue light over everything.
She didn't and I paid for a 1940's style brown and white polka dot number that will inevitably get some side-eyes at the unisex meditation pool, thus prohibiting any effective meditation...

bonus: i finally know how to spell lieutenant...

Check out my thoughts on Gavin Newsom's exciting announcement in this morning's See Spot Write...

*Also! Thanks Melissa...

Thursday, March 11, 2010

anarchy reigns in this wewu...

Speaking of videos!

i'd like a dance number...

Oh, it is ON! The district supervisory candidate video bar has been raised as D8 candidate Rebecca Prozan apparently got Ken Burns to direct her video. Music? Editing? Snazzy logos? Is this (gasp) commercial quality? Indeed it is. Impressive considering this is just for one cutesy neighborhood (of 80,000 people.)

As far as I'm concerned D8 is the hottest race of them all. Hello? It's the gay race! I pity the breeder that tries to run for dogcatcher in D8. And with Laura "I always say it's nice to meet you even though we've met 658 times before" Spanjian dropping out of the race to move to Houston (yeah, the one in Texas) today, I suspect everyone just stepped up their game.
We've seen Scott, who improved upon his previous video with his slightly better recent collection of interviews. But I've yet to gaze upon Rafael. Here's hoping Rafi's got a masterpiece in the works.
The brilliant idea of having the candidates perform a 4-minute talent portion at a recent debate (yep, I'm gleefully serious) was NIXED (I'm honestly pissed), so I propose the candidates just upload 4 minute videos of their talents. I will gladly post them all on SFGate's Culture Blog provided each candidate actually does it.
Until then, I hope Proz sends a copy of her Oscar contender over to Room 200 every hour on the hour. Hint, hint...

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

the screenshots alone...

Packed with questionable amounts of culture,
today's Culture Blog is UP!

breaking horrible news...

Due to insomnia, I'm wide awake and working on stupid blog posts and thus, just got the news.
Corey Haim died.
Apparently, like, 2 hours ago. And from an overdose.
Aside from how completely tragic and sad this is, I am amazed at how fast this information was released. It's almost sadder, like he became this public commodity and his tawdry death is the last thing we get from him. Ugh, normally I'm all over a celebrity death. But this is HEARTBREAKING. I'm not even going to make a Feldman joke.
RIP Corey Ian Haim...

Tuesday, March 09, 2010

taking the top down...

The best thing to come out of my 28-day stint in St. Helena, other than, you know, my affinity for Shirley Temples, is my friendship with Ansel.
On the fly, we decided to spend Sunday driving around Napa is his perfect, gay, Beamer convertible and stopped for a long, hilarious lunch at the Rutherford Grill.
I love the Rutherford Grill almost as much as I love Ansel. As we snagged an outdoor table right away and watched the crowds, I wondered if we shouldn't swing up to the hospital and give them a little "You're the Before and we're the After!"
Ansel said, "Please, Beth. You know there are some people on day passes here right now."
I was reminded of awkward, iced-tea lunches with my folks on my day passes and ugh, I'm glad that's over.
At lunch, a table next to us had a crying baby, something neither Ansel nor I tolerate with any kind of patience and understanding. We make no effort to hide our disgust. I was having an $18 salad. 5 of those dollars are spent on ambiance alone. Either hand me the money or remove your child.
"God." I sighed. "I hate that. It's go gorgeous and perfect out here, and this salad is like, the best salad I've ever had and that fucking kid won't shut up."
Ansel looked over my shoulder, at the family with the baby. "It's that whole I-need-to-bring-my-kid-everywhere-I-go thing. You don't need to bring your 5 month old everywhere. That's part of the deal. You want a kid? Fine. Then you can't go everywhere with them until they're like, 12."
Finally. A voice of reason in a sea of entitlement.
At another table, we heard someone break a wine glass.
"Oh no." I spun around, looking to catch the action. "Ansel, have you ever worked in food service?"
He slowly put down his fork and looked at me. "I never told you my story?"
I got comfortable in my seat, sat back with my Diet Coke and smiled, "No!"
When Ansel was 19 and still living at home in a red state, he got a job at a restaurant called "The Patio." A self-taught server, Ansel had watched hundreds before him pour water from a pitcher, tilting it sideways."
"You know how they tilt it sideways?"
"Of course I know how they tilt it sideways."
Apparently, it's much more complicated than it looks. Ansel was serving a party of 10 and approached his table to pour everyone water. As his more experienced colleages did, Ansel tilted the pitcher sideways and lo and behold, the entire thing ended up in the lap of the group's patriarch.
"What did you do?" I asked, delighted.
"I went on break. And I never came back."
Ansel, it turns out, apologized to the table, walked out to the sidewalk to compose himself and just split.
"They mailed me my last paycheck two weeks later."
"But what about those people? The table of 10. They just sat there? You didn't tell anyone else?"
"No. I just walked out."
"Well I felt bad about it."
Spending a day with Ansel is kind of like hanging out with an ex. We know each other differently than just friends, so it's easy to cut through any formalities and instantly relax. I'm so glad (and in the interest of 12-stepping it, grateful) that I found myself in rehab at the exact same time the guy that 'dumped a pitcher of water on a table of 10 and then just walked out' found himself in rehab. Because while I'm still trying to figure out that whole Higher Power thing, someone somewhere was obviously like, "Oh, there's no way she can do this without, hmmm, let's see. Oh! This snarky gay, right here..."

Monday, March 08, 2010

all week long!!!

Hear all about the bizarre and exciting circumstances that led to this, in today's See Spot on KOFY!

Also, my very wonderful friends are way more excited for me that I could ever have hoped for, which makes this a million times more fun. Thanks guys!

doggie howser's tux jacket was the aretha's hat of 2010...

Let's just assume everyone on Earth watched the Oscars last night. I have to say, Oscar night is seriously the most satisfying night of television all year. It's non-stop shit I care about. Red carpet ensembles, award presenters, award speeches, Barbara Walters interviews...I literally live for this.
I know everyone's covering last night's hijinks this morning, but here's what killed and thrilled me:
1. Precious' swish as the Best Actor and Best Actress nominees were all paraded on stage like pageant contestants. I'm telling you. This girl is my fag hag IDOL. I could actually hear everyone in the Castro high five when all of the nominees just stood there awkwardly and they get to Precious and she's all, "Is that an Oscar in your pocket or are you just happy to see me."
2. Lady Kanye is best covered by Dlisted. But the lesson learned here is that sometimes, just going for it because this is the Oscars and this is your only chance can backfire. No one was listening to her stupid rant. We were all like, "What the fuck Tyne Daly?"
3. Suzy (Mrs. James Cameron) Amis, who should best be remembered for being the highly annoying Edie Finneran in Usual Suspects looks horrible in the way that all of those "rich hippie, no make-up, uber-organic, I-skim-Mother-Jones" dilettantes look horrible. Insanely skinny works in Hollywood because those women get their faces and bodies pulled, sucked, plumped and shellacked in all the right places. You can't get your make-up done in the vitamin aisle of Whole Foods and ask us to respect that.
Suzy Amis reminded me of this unfortunate sleepover I went on as a tween. I vaguely knew this girl, she and I were in some random, non-school-related extra-curricular together and someone thought we should hang out. We got ready for bed on sleeping bags on the floor of her rumpus room and this chick's mom came in to say goodnight. IN A NEGLIGEE. She leaned over to tuck us in and the whole organic thing just fell forward. It wasn't like you could just see her boobs. You could see her knees. She was naked, basically. And I've been forever traumatized. Anyway, she looked like Suzy Amis last night. I was having flashbacks.
4. I hated Vera Farmiga in The Departed. And I hate her now. I know she's one of 537 children born to Ukranian immigrants, but that doesn't mean she needs to dress like THIS. But she can't win with me. Ever.
5. Barbara Walters asked Mo'Nique about her hairy legs (thank God) and gay husband (he can cheat 20 times!) and I loved every minute of it. Also, no more Oscar Specials, Barbara? Interesting. As my brother pointed out to me, "Window of opportunity, Bethy."
6. Why did everyone look so bored? You could seat me anywhere at the Oscars and I'd look like Bob Wiley sitting in the car when Dr. Leo Marvin finally agrees to treat him. (No link. You should know it.)
7. Nice tattoo, George Clooney's girlfriend. Apparently, she's a former member of 98 Degrees.
8. If Miley Cyrus were to, you know, never be heard from again, I'd be fine with it.
9. Text of the night: "Kristin Stewart is a *cough* idiot." -Joe Wagner
10. In the interest of trying to be a positive person, I loved Steve Martin and Alex Baldwin. Robert Downey Jr. thrills me, even in stupid glasses. And I'm delighted the Hurt Locker reenacted the final 20 minutes from The First Wives Club.

In totally related news, I'll be guest-hosting KOFY-Talk ALL WEEK on KOFY-TV20. Tune in to Jerry Springer and you'll see me staring back at you. I'll give you the rundown on what filming was like tonight on the SF Appeal.
And then, you know, watch 1-5pm today thru Friday and if you feel like telling the fine folks at KOFY that you love my awkward/nervous/OMG-I'M-ON-LOCAL-TV brand of humor, you can do so HERE. Needless to say, my parents are beside themselves...

Friday, March 05, 2010

july's a long time from now...

Exciting crazy mail in today's See Spot Write!
Also, don't let this stop you from sending me your nutty emails. I love 'em...

Thursday, March 04, 2010

all because i didn't want to kill the pronunciation...

Your weekend itinerary is available in today's Weekend What's Up, this week with our special guest, Julian who's still figuring out the whole teleprompter thing.

Also, what is wrong with me? This weekend is the goddamn Oscars. Cancel everything I just told you. We'll be preparing starting now...

the sugarbaker of safeway...

If one is willing to get in a screaming fight in Safeway, one is willing to attract an audience. That was my excuse for staring, at least.
First of all, everyone has a Safeway story. Not the most ghetto of grocery stores, the thing about Safeway is that everyone goes there. You have no choice, it's the best and worst of America all wrapped in one. And Fabreeze is always on sale.
My friend Van maintains that the Safeway at the Beach is the most action packed. But yesterday all hell broke lose at Potrero and needless to say, I was looking for a chair to pull front and center.
I arrived at Safeway jazzed anyway, having come from a meeting at KOFY-TV20 and convinced I'm about to become as famous as the KOFY dogs. Quite frankly, I was tempted to grab a courtesy phone and announce that shit to all of Safeway. Instead, I purchased necessities befitting a local TV personality (Superfood, Vogue, bananas) and went to check out.
Potrero Safeway offers shoppers the option of checking themselves out. It's all very European and something I'm not quite comfortable with. But the express lane is right by the self check out and I enjoy watching every single self-checker require help from a Safeway employee. (Shout out to Shelby!)
I was third in line at the Express Check Out and I had well under the 15 items or less required for this fast pass. I did not count the items of those in front of me, mainly because I'm not one of those people. No one had a huge mom-cart overflowing with a month's worth of supplies. We were all on our shit, in and out, committed to efficiency. And I had only observed the people in front of me because who cares about the people behind me, right?
Not an attractive man? None of my business.
So there I was, watching brave souls attempt to check their own groceries and waiting in line when I hear screaming directly behind me.
"Sir! Sir! I say, sir!"
I didn't dare move.
Another voice started in with a stern and business-like, "Excuse me. ExCUSE me."
I had to look and slowly turned my head to see two folks throwing elbows on who got to unload their basket onto the conveyor belt first.
In one corner, we had an older Hispanic woman who kept screaming, "Sir!" In the other corner we had a stern-looking middle aged white guy in complete cyclist's ensemble. And neither was about to give in.
As my things were already on the conveyor belt, and a plastic divider separated my Vogue from the fracas, I had no choice but to watch while pretending to look anywhere else.
This continued, the "Sir!/ExCUSE me!" battle for what seemed like ages. And eventually, I stopped pretending to look elsewhere and boldly stared.
"You're being very rude!" She announced. (to Lance Armstrong, not me.)
"You're cutting!" He responded.
At the risk of being sexist and ageist, she was an older woman. He was a middle aged guy in spandex. I didn't see which of them was in the wrong, but it wouldn't kill bikeshorts to be a gentleman and let the old lady with 6 items in her basket, one of which was ENSURE(!) go ahead of him.
You know, just because it's the fucking nice thing to do.
We've all felt screwed over in line before. And maybe once or twice a year do I really go crazy, decide to make something issue and cause a scene. On those (rare) occasions, there's always some unrelated thing going on in my life that's got me on edge anyway. And then someone sets me off at Safeway and suddenly it's World War III. I wondered what was going poorly in bikeshorts life that had pushed him into a physical altercation in the express lane. I was tempted to ask, "What's really wrong?"
But I didn't. I just stared. I didn't even bother to pick up the Vogue and flip through it. Oh no. I watched that whole thing, in part because I wanted them to notice they were stare-worthy and react accordingly: with shame, embarrassment and resolution.
No one was willing to budge an inch as it bcame my turn to pay for my groceries. I shot the checker a look. He shot me one back, complete with a smirk! I was delighted that kindred spirit Safeway checker and I were enjoying this together.
Due to the fight, a huge lag had been created behind me. I was paying and the melee still continued at the back of the conveyor belt. It had really gone on for quite some time, drawing the occasional, "Relax!" from a passer-by.
I looked up at kindred spirit Safeway checker and said, "What are you going to do?"
And bless him, this kid looked back at me and with a huge smile, said, "Nothing."
In seconds, I'd swiped my card and grabbed my bags. Kindred spirit Safeway checker, half of self check out and an array of spectators joined me in watching these two completely refuse to get on with their lives.
"We could be done by now! We could be done by now!" That was Lance Armstrong, high and mightly and oblivious to the scene he'd caused.
So finally, because she really had no other choice, the older woman screamed, "You win, asshole!"
And with that, making this officially the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life, she dropped her basket to the ground and stormed out of Safeway! It was fabulous. Honestly, it was all I could do not to applaud. I may have even whispered, "Fabulous" as she sashayed out of there.
The dramatic departure was her only way to save face and made Lance look like double the asshole. He was forced to unload his crap before a crowd, all of whom were silently thinking, "Happy now, you fucking dick?"
And I finally left, thrilled with the spectacle and hoping to run into my new best friend in the parking lot, simply to gush about how totally on her side all of Safeway will forever be...

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

are we there yet...

Brock and I brave the taco trucks of San Francisco is today's Culture Blog!
Also, I'm very (extremely, breathlessly, overwhelmingly) excited to tell you that next week, I'm guest-hosting KOFY-Talk. Monday thru Friday from 1-5 in the afternoon, I'll be introducing Jerry Springer, announcing Happy Birthday to folks like Steve in San Ramon and giving away KOFY prize packs.
I know. I KNOW!
I'll have a full report on the SF Appeal on Monday about filming the segments, and then, you know, we're all going to stay home and watch Springer just to see me awkwardly sit on the KOFY-TV20 couch.
Brace yourselves...

Monday, March 01, 2010

the language of reality television is universal...

I've been getting bored with telelvsion, and that's saying a lot. So I decided to do a little research for the purposes of posting a public service announcement and letting you fine folks know when good TV would be back on the air.
I can't for the life of me figure out when Mad Men is coming back to us and that's what I care about most. Well that and TK's recaps. So then I went to The Amazing Race and OH MY GOD IT'S BACK ON AND I HAD NO IDEA.
Wonderfully, The Amazing Race is available online immediately after it airs, so I was able to catch up on all three episodes of Season 4628. I have to admit, I'm getting the feeling this season might not be the series' best. The "famous" contestants consist of the stupid pageant answer girl and this couple (Jordan and Jeff) from the lesser reality show, Big Brother.
This season of The Amazing race has 2 people named Jordan if that's any indication. But here are my three favorite teams:
Totally contradicting myself, I like Jeff, of Jordan and Jeff. He's like a lovable Dane Cook. We all hate Dane Cook, right? Well Jeff is like Dane Cook but slightly more likeable. Plus he's got this moustached Mike Ditka salty cop accent that I love. You know once I got that Ed Hardy shirt I was going to start liking guys like this so just go with me on it.
Carol and Brandy are the power lesbian couple who've been dating for 5 months and are proud label whores. I don't really get why they keep over-compensating with this "No valet parking is as close to public transportation as we get" bombardment, but summoning my dwindling fear of lesbians, I suspect there's a little, "We're so rich you have no choice but to accept us so just deal with it America." Obviously I adore/fear them. Plus, they have the best clothes.
And finally, in first place right now (in our hearts and on the show) are Jet and Cord McCoy, two cowboy brothers from Oklahoma. I suspect they might be virgins, they had the bright idea of changing their money before heading to Chile and got Brazilian currency by mistake. They wear specially made plastic cowboy hat rain condoms and they're not really friends with anyone because they're just so awkward and wonderful. And the best thing about them (anyone who's watched knows what I'm about to say so just say it out loud with me!) is that Cord and/or Jet constantly use the phrase, "Oh my gravy." Think of all of the variations of "Oh my God" you use and then just imagine two Oklahoman innocents substituting gravy every time. Shock, delight, horror, happiness...they always say oh my gravy and I fucking love it. The last episode, Cord realized they were about to come in first again and in totally serious Valley Girl voice goes, "Oh. Mah. Gravy."
I died.
Speaking of which, Friday Night Lights is coming back April 30th (Coach Eric Taylor, oh my gravy!) and Real Housewives of New York is coming back THIS Thursday at 11pm. And finally, I have a new show! Kell on Earth, the dramatic day-to-day workings of bitchy PR Maven Kelly Cutrone and her PR Firm, People's Revolution is fabulous. FABULOUS. I am way to slow on the Kell on Earth bandwagon and I am kicking myself for not living a trusting life and automatically watching anything on Bravo with the passion of a cult member.
If someone's got the scoop on Mad Men, I think we'd all like to know. Otherwise, things are looking up on the boob tube. Even more so on Wednesday when I will probably hopefully oh-my-gravyfully have an exciting personal update to share with you and what if I just jinxed it so I'm shutting up...

completing the lifestyle...

Brock, Big Chris and I went to Outback Steakhouse in Marin City (home of Tupac) last night. Why, you're asking yourself would we chose an establishment with wacky, themed restroom names when it's just as expensive as the nearby Buckeye?
According to Big Chris, "We'll meet weirder people at the Outhouse."
We had a 30 minute wait for our table (I couldn't believe it either) so we sat at the bar and watched the closing ceremonies of the Olympics. Not long after sitting down, I observed 2 gentlemen walking in, one of whom was in overalls and the other was in an American flag do-rag. Both had incredibly think New York accents and both sat dawn closest to me and both ordered a whiskey sour.
"My good man!" Do-Rag exclaimed. "We would like two of your finest whiskey sours with a slice of orange and..."
"We don't have oranges."
(Horrified silence.) "Alright then. Extra cherries."
2 hastily made whiskey sours were slammed on the bar.
"How about giving me and my friend some moah cherries?"
Doing all he could to stifle an eyeroll, because obviously he would be killed, the bartender dumped dozens of cherries in their drinks.
"There we are! There we are!"
Brock and I were kicking each other under the bar as Brock kept whispering, "This is the most exciting night of my life."
Big Chris, I shouldn't have to point out, was oblivious.
I couldn't help it. I looked over and smiled.
"Boy, you sure are pretty." Overalls said. He looked at Do-Rag. "Ain't she pretty?"
"She shoah is." Do-Rag said, refusing to look at me.
"Oh, golly. Thank you." I blushed, suddenly finding them wise, interesting and complex creatures brimming with sensitive masculinity.
Overalls continued, giggling. "You're making this drink taste bettah. Boy oh boy."
I thought Brock was going to fall of his bar stool. "Well, thank you. That's very sweet. You've made my night!"
Then it got a little awkward, with all of us sitting at the bar, everyone staring straight ahead.
And it just got more bizarre from there. Brock captured this photo, which he calls, "Chris speaks to Beth" and I may have thrown a baby back rib across the restaurant. We heard three (3) couples get into fights and someone (me) screamed, "This might be the french press coffee talking but you can both go fuck yourselves!"
An agitated Brock kept asking, "What do the boomerangs represent?" and Big Chris actually ordered off the menu because his cousin heard about this thing one can ask for and...I lost interest.
It all looked disgusting.
We were punchy, naughty, sassy. I warned our server he might be in for a rough table as Big Chris announced, "I apologize for my friend, here. She's a goddamn idiot."
Fine, you guys. Fine. I suspect my company might be much more appreciated with the gentlemen in the overalls and do-rag anyway...