Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
It's like a little skit! For like, a pep rally or something. There are so many wonderful, safe, hilarious ways for the Mayor to poke fun at himself. But the old "I talk a lot because I care so much" is kinda dumb. That being said, you have to appreciate that they're trying. They really are trying!
Someone needs to sit down, watch 200 episodes of the West Wing for inspiration and go balls to the walls with this. Da Mayor and da nurses gives the best performance, hands down. Also, where can I buy that rockin' soundtrack?
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
At least that's what I expected when I agreed to bring Big Chris to a cocktail party at Gump's, the very cocktail parties Brock and I attend to feel special and fancy for 20 minutes a week.
"How come you never take me to your high class parties anymore?" Chris asked over a PBR at Dirty Thieves.
"Because you're socially awkward and refuse to pose for pictures."
"I'm incredibly debonair." He replied. "And I will pose for fo-toes."
"Well, you could come with me to a party at Gump's." I offered.
"Wonderful. Please email me the information and I will be there."
We discussed what Chris might wear to this soiree and agreed on "big boy shoes" and something Jude Law-esque. As we walked home, Chris announced. "I don't see what the big deal is about some touristy seafood place at the Wharf."
No Chris. Not Bubba Gump's.
I informed Brock that Big Chris would be joining us last night. "No!" Brock gasped, thrilled. "Really? Oh, this is going to be wonderful."
We thought that our including goofy and blunt Big Chris in a high-end gay decorator event would be wonderful because Chris would entertain us with the perspective of someone who spends thousands of dollars annually on Nike Air Jordans. We were practically philanthropists, reaching out into the community, plucking a little inner city child from his crime-ridden basketball court and showing him a Renoir.
And really, some of those cocktail party attendees need a little Big Chris in their life.
We met at Otis first, enjoying cocktails and admiring Chris "fitted" jeans which were apparently killing his sperm as we spoke. I told Chris he should tuck in his shirt, Brock just about had a heart attack at the notion and we were off.
Chris does not really chat with strangers. Standing near a $24,000 coffee table, we struck up a conversation with a woman who seemed to be friends with incredibly important people, or so she claimed. Chris smiled and nodded along until I asked the woman where she lived.
"Here. In San Francisco. I have a Loftiminium."
From under his breath, I heard, "You've got to be fucking shitting me."
Brock and I headed towards the fancy lotion section and systematically covered ourselves in something called, "Opulence."
"WHAT IS THAT SMELL?" Chris arrived to find us smelling our hands. "You smell like a rich old lady."
"We do?!?!?!" I mean, honestly. That's the whole point of Gump's!
I confessed that my hands were starting to burn from too much opulence. Chris couldn't drink any more white wine and Brock can only stand still for 15 minutes at a time.
It turns out, Chris spent far more time making fun of us than the homosexual, overpriced splendor we'd provided. People carried actual dogs, candles cost $80 and like, seven men wore ascots, but Brock and I were the butt of every joke, the origin of every eyeroll.
It drove me fucking nuts until I realized that my creepy, sad, psychotic dream had come true. Chris was making fun of us like we make fun of socialites.
Brock baby, we've made it!
This photo was taken by Stacy Alo Cahill, of Drew Altizer who went to high school with my brother. As happens at these high society functions, after your photo is taken, the camera is then held to your face so you can scream your name into a little recorder for the editors of 7x7, San Francisco Magazine, etc. Stacy held her camera to Chris first, who stared at it, then at her. Confused, Chris thought Stacy was showing him the digital image. He kept saying, "Yeah. That's great. Uh-huh. Real cute..."
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
While I was out there, I swung by my favorite anonymous cineplex and watched Date Night, curled up by myself pretending I don't want to bear Steve Carell's children. As a teenager, I regarded going to the movies by oneself as social suicide. Even if only strangers saw you, those strangers would think you have no friends. But now, on a Monday afternoon, with a bucket of Diet Coke and a virtually empty theater? I'm in absolute heaven.
So there I sat, ignoring any responsibilities and wasting a perfectly good day hiding at the movies, when the solo man sitting directly behind me props his BARE FOOT onto the arm rest one seat away.
I have certainly rested my feet on the chair in front of me. I may have even kicked off a shoe or two in my day, although I was probably drunk at the time. And while my feet are tended to by the lovely ladies of Holly Nails, I don't subject them to strangers in public places.
But this guy tosses his cave man foot around like it's never occurred to him that both he and the arm rest could be incredibly gross. I mentally measured the distance between his foot and my face and by my calculations, we were 14-17 inches away from each other. My shoulders tensed, I moved my Big Gulp to the other side of me and turned myself all the way around in my chair, giving him a solid and silent, "What the fuck?"
Man foot stared straight ahead at the screen and chuckled out loud. Stumped as to what to do, I considered confrontation. I envisioned each of the possible reactions to "Excuse me. Your bare foot in my face is disgusting."
Each option seemed like it would prohibit the continued enjoyment of my 90 minute cinematic vacation.
Eventually the foot and the man it was attached to departed. He was only there for 20 minutes or so, perhaps killing time for what he really intended to see. Century 20 Daly City is marvelous for sneaking in and out of movies all day. I just hope he kept his foot to himself.
We'll see if Man Foot makes an appearance when I'm back at the movies next week. I have no choice but to attend. After all, Zac Posen is coming to Target...
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
My flight from Atlanta to San Francisco on Monday was late at night. We left Savannah at 10pm, and I was smack dab in the middle of our plane in my standard window seat. Next to me was a United States Marine who was flying home to surprise his family, whom he hadn't seen in a year. And next to him was a gorgeous young woman who promptly fell asleep.
The plane was very dark as we flew across the country. Everyone was either fast asleep or watching the little TV screens on the backs of the chairs in front of them. Very few people had their reading light on and of course, it was pitch black outside. 2 hours into the flight, midnight Atlanta time, I tried to fall asleep. I was wildly uncomfortable, I felt gross and cramped. But my whole row had fallen asleep and there was no way I was going to wake up this American hero so I could stretch by the bathrooms.
The Marine, by the way, was Filipino with very big muscles. He sat in that center seat with his feet square on the floor and his hands in his lap, as I imagine he'd been trained to do. And he looked a lot like my burrito buddy, Big Chris. Also, I'd like to point out, I've spent most of my life travelling with my brother. Flights of any real length have historically been spent next to Alex, and we're used to taking care of each other as we travel.
Ugh. Okay. Here goes.
So with everyone on that plane asleep and finding myself stuck, really in my cramped window seat, I balled my Windbreaker up into a pillow and tried to rest. I slipped in and out of consciousness for about an hour, and when I woke up, the man next to me had shifted forward, resting his elbows on his tray table and sleeping with his head in his face.
In my haze, confusion and general disorientation, the man next to me seemed like Big Chris or my brother. His presence felt very familiar and the poor guy was uncomfortably trying to sleep on his elbows.
I reached over and lovingly scratched his back.
I know. I know, I know, I know.
The second I did it, I woke the fuck up and realized that I just molested a United States Marine somewhere over Kansas. The Marine sat right up, unsure of what happened and looked over at me.
"Oh my God." I whispered. "I thought you were my brother."
I started laughing a little, out of sheer horror and shock at what I'd done. The Marine didn't say anything, but sat back in his chair and stared straight ahead. And then we sat like that for another 2 or 3 hours. I have no idea how long it was. It fucking felt like 10...
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Friday, April 09, 2010
Thursday, April 08, 2010
I'm visiting my Uncle Bill in Savannah, Georgia through the weekend. And mah gahd, these folks have accents. My Uncle Bill's lived down here for 8 years. He paints, he talks to strangers, he's really into his dog. And so this year for my birthday, my folks hooked me up with a flight to the Deep South.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Monday, April 05, 2010
So ruined by the earthquake, the freeway had to be torn down to great controversy. Seriously. People were PISSED. I mean, really. How could you tear down this beautiful, convenient, totally necessary freeway?
Sunday, April 04, 2010
Friday, April 02, 2010
He's cheaper than Turbo Tax.
After completing various federal and state forms, Chris and I headed down to Pop's for some pops. We discussed "life and shit" for an appropriate amount of time and headed home to watch Sherlock Holmes, making our way past the raucous religious events exploding from the unmarked doorways of 24th street.
As we approached Bryant Street, I noticed a dog tied to a parking meter and next to it, a huge pile of barf, poo or a combination thereof. Passing it, I grabbed Chris' arm. "Oh my God, Chris! Look!"
Human contact caused Chris to jump, causing the dog to go ballistic, causing me to scream, causing an old man sitting in the window of the restaurant to start banging on said window, causing Chris to scream. If you were within the City and County of San Francisco at 10 pm last night, you probably heard something weird.
That was us.
The whole sequence of events set me off. I couldn't stop laughing. I was laughing so hard, I couldn't move, trapping Chris in my "death grip" and stuck on the disgusting sidewalk as "the hounds of hell" tried to eat us alive.
I was less afraid of the dog and vomit/shit and much more afraid of this old fart slamming his fists against the window of a filthy Chinese restaurant at us. He was screaming something I couldn't discern over Chris' admonitions. I'm really curious to know what his problem was, as he seemed perfectly fine when I went back after our escape to take the following picture:
Do you see it? The shit/vomit/internal organ/scoop of stuffing from Lefty O'Doul's? Yeah. What the fuck is that...