Monday, November 29, 2010

change of creppy topic alert...

I feel that together, you and I have truly and intellectually explored the subjects of serial killers and long term kidnapping. And both of those gripping topics still hold my immense interest. But perhaps genetics* is pulling me towards a new independent research project: stranded at sea stories.
Blame Vanity Fair.
In the most recent issue (the one with Cher on the cover), there is a terrific and lengthy excerpt from a book about three men stranded on a life raft in the Pacific during World War II. You should read it HERE. Then, because Vanity Fair is civilization’s greatest triumph, there are suggested related stories one can find online, which is how I ended up reading an article from May of 2000 about the 19th century whaling ship, Essex, a tragedy upon which Moby Dick was loosely based. You can read that one HERE.
(That should get you to 3pm, PST. And let’s just ignore the fact that the Vanity Fair archive site has amazing suggested articles all the time, like Leno vs. Letterman, October 1996 and Online Sexual Predators, December 2009.)
Back to floating adrift. Like any interested reader, I’ve got to wonder what I would do, how I would react. In both of the cases I mentioned above, survivors of the initial incident (one a plane crash, the other a whale attack) frantically crawled into life rafts to figure out the best course of action, only to rock back and forth, facing the elements, sharks and each other for months. Literal months.
So far, here’s what I can glean:
1. Grab as much shit from the sinking piece of crap that landed you in this mess as possible.
2. Figure out a solid way to get rainwater ASAP.
3. Use something as a hat, both as shade, and so birds land on it. The kill the birds to use as bait for fish.
4. Find ways to keep your mind and the minds of your fellow survivors sharp. Tell stories, ask trivia questions, etc. (Also, fun!)
5. Punch sharks in the nose. (Old news, sure, but apparently this is sure fire.)
6. Aim for the closest land, even if you think cannibals live there.
7. It’s always okay to eat the dead. (See Donner Party, the most interesting survival story in American history.)

What I now need are the names of interesting stranded at sea tales, and links if you have them. Never have I found such an amazing source of creepy stories I’d never heard of than from commenters to this very blog. Without you people, I’d never know about the Wichita Massacre, Dear Zachary or the Taman Shud Man. So let's get on this, people...

*My whole life, I’ve rolled my eyes at my father’s devoting an entire bookcase to obscure Sea Disaster books. My eyes roll no more.

the feds have really done it this time...

On the top of everyone's, "Who would you like to watch The Secret Garden with whilst snuggling?" list is Mark Ruffalo. Obviously. And so it comes as greatly upsetting news that this star of stage and screen has been placed on the terror watch list.
What, I ask you, is the fucking world coming to?
I generally concern myself with normal things, like Oprah and the Amazing Race and what to order at Wexler's (the chicken liver mousse), but THIS is where I draw the line.
Someone get me a picket sign! Handcuff me to a tractor! Arrest me if you must! But let Mark Ruffalo fly! For the love of God, I can think of no one more deserving...

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

i'm thankful for my number one ho, melissa...

Episode 13 from Necessary Conversation on Vimeo.

a thanksgiving top ten...

Today on SFGate's Culture Blog, it's my list of Top 10 Things San Franciscans Are Thankful For. I am thankful for beating a commenter to the punch with, "It's actually 'Top 10 Things For Which San Franciscans Are Thankful.' God, you're such a carpet-bagging, Marina-living, 23-year old idiot from Oklahoma..."

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

instead, i let him walk into work like that...

Spotswood Family Thanksgiving preparations in full effect. How do I know this? Five of us were ready to fight to the DEATH last night over the following:
1. Are appetizers and hors d'oeuvres the same thing?
2. What will be included in the antipasto platter ("Listen, I just want to make sure you're including the things you don't like, like marinated artichoke hearts.")
3. Whether or not use of the outdoor grill will be permitted. (That's a hearty no.)
4. One table or two tables? Or two tables combined into one table?
5. Will Big Chris consider the Silver Palate's chocolate-covered poached pear dessert?
6. Who the fuck is responsible for the goddamn cracked crab. (I'm paraphrasing.)
7. "You know, Melissa's a vegetarian."
Once we hashed out the above, I was sitting in my parents' living room with my brother and my Uncle Ted, and presented them with the following:
I was driving to work down Van Ness the other morning, stopping at a red light. Standing on the corner, presumably waiting for the bus was a very nice looking man about my age. He'd clearly put together his ensemble with some effort, he'd styled his hair, he'd matched colors. He had a cute messenger bag slung over his shoulder and his buttons all lined up. For a straight guy, he'd done the work. And like any living person, I tossed him a look and thought, "Oh. He's kinda cute."
Which is when I noticed that his zipper was down.
I'm talking down.
It wasn't like it kinda looked closed, the fabric maintaining it's place even though his fly was down. This guy's zipper was wide open, screaming at all of San Francisco, "Hey! Look down here!"
And I felt for him. I once walked the entire length of St. Ignatius College Preparatory with the back of my skirt tucked into my tights. As humans, we have a responsibility to say to one another, "Um, excuse me. You've got this big thing of spinach in your teeth. You might wanna...no, over one. The other side. Yeah...yep. You got it."
So there I was, in my car with it's manual windows rolled up and a conundrum. Do I tell this guy? Do I scream across Van Ness Avenue at a perfect stranger something related to his private parts? Because while fairly benign, let's face it. This is penis-related. Or at least toilet-related.
Oh god. Even now, I'm squirming at my desk.
Last night, my brother piped up. "You roll down your window and let him know, Beth. Come ON."
"What was I supposed to say?"
"Hey guy! Your hangar door is open!"
Ah yes. Of course. The old 'hangar door' line. How silly of me...

Monday, November 22, 2010

it's like old times...

It's a holiday week! Which has nothing to do with what I'm about to tell you. I'm just happy that today is basically Wednesday. Anyway, today on the Appeal's See Spot Write, I've got a Magnum PI-themed Gavin Newsom Hawaii itinerary for you!
And on Tourist Trapped, up now on SFGate, I head back to the first job I ever had, Beach Blanket Babylon. It's a heartwarming story of redemption and love. Kinda.
No one's expecting you to work this week. Might as well read some shit on the internet...

Friday, November 19, 2010

how about a new tv, ope...

That screaming you hear in the streets is Oprah's ULTIMATE Favorite Things episode. Brock just IMed me a panicked, "TURN ON OPRAH FAVORITE THINGS."
I flicked my little desk Zenith on, one of the bonuses of working at a TV station being that everyone gets a TV at their desk. I have, it's safe to say, the oldest TV in the building. Anyway, Oprah was standing there dressed in this weird looking Halloween costume thing.
"Why is she dressed like Robin of Batman and Robin?" I asked.
And with that, Oprah ripped off her costume to reveal a red, sequined dress and screamed this was her LEGENDARY Favorite Things episode.
The audience, as they have been trained to do, promptly lost their shit, Brock and myself included.
Crying, rolling in the aisles, complete hysteria.
Because they know what Brock and I know: that any shit Oprah likes, they get for free. So far, they've gotten a diamond watch, cashmere sweaters and a matching throw, a Tory Burch tote and shoes, the 18-scent collection of $55 scented candles ("a candlepalooza"), hair products, a fancy camera and diamond earrings.
And we're only 20 minutes into this.
It is both horrible and wonderful. And, as is tradition, the audience never knows that's the show they're going to. So they're really...flipping the fuck out.
Oh, and it's fake snowing the whole time.
I just pointed this out to my straight male co-workers and Tim, nervously glancing at Oprah, offered, "That's...that's a lot of stuff to carry home..."

UPDATE: They also got one of those brownie pans that makes every brownie have an edge (plus brownie mix!), a 7-day cruise, knives, macaroni and cheese (yes, macaroni and cheese), a panini press, Oprah ladies v-neck t-shirts and 3-D television. Also, the Black Eyed Peas arrived to sing a mash-up remix of "I Had the Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing AND "Little Drummer Boy."

My co-worker Bill just looked over and said, "Beth. (pause) I want you to go home and drop a brick in a brownie pan. BOOM. Every brownie has an edge."

necessary conversation, episode 12...

Yeah. Episode 12. Featuring improv!

Episode 12 from Necessary Conversation on Vimeo.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

seven hundred and thirty days...

I’m thinking today of just how long two years is. Two years is an Associates Degree. Two years is if you got pregnant today, in two years there’d be someone calling you mom. And two years is exactly, to the day, how long I’ve gone without a drink.
I can report that the second year was just as tough as the first, but for different reasons. The first, I was just clawing my way back, figuring out how to live like a normal person and taking lots of deep breaths.
This second year, I’ve kinda gotten on with my life, barreled forward and taken risks. Which is great and exciting, but occasionally terrifying. You know what helps terror? A chilled, top-shelf martini.
Like, nine of them.
But I can’t have martinis. So instead, I rely on the following:
1. Melissa Griffin: just, in general. For everything.
2. My parents’ house. For the past 2 years, that house has NEVER ONCE been without Diet Coke. It’s always there. And there’s always backup in the pantry.
3. Mary J. Blige: also, just in general. For everything.
4. My biggest tip in staying on any kind of wagon, for achieving any kind of brief mental health, is to stay in a hotel by oneself for a weekend. It seems kind of wasteful, to drop $300 on watching Queen Latifah movies alone in a terry cloth robe an hour away, but again, I don’t buy $14 cocktails anymore. And it really, really works.
5. The $19 Thai Steak salad available at all Hillstone Restaurants, including Hillstone on the Embarcadero and the Rutherford Grill in Rutherford. Bonus: you can probably see people on leave from rehab at the Rutherford Grill, having awkward lunches with their nervous families.
6. Saying yes. I have this thing that I’m trying to be really consistent about following, where I say yes to every opportunity. It’s kind of like that movie “Yes Man” but not stupid. As I would generally much rather stay home buried in vintage suspenseful thrillers, I accept all invitations, and end up meeting a lot of really weird people. Which brings me to…
Tonight, once again I’m celebrating. Please feel free to swing by Cantina on Sutter Street. We’ll be there from 6ish to 8ish, and don’t worry. You can still get booze there. In fact, Big Chris claims he’ll be getting even more trashed than last year.
Around 7, I’ll tell a very brief, very cheesy rehab story. But otherwise, we’re going to stand around, drink and gossip about people. If you can come, fabulous! If you can't, I'll never know.
What I do know if that I am grateful for many, many things. But one of the bigger ones, one of the things that means the most to me, is that you read some of this nonsense I write.
So very sincerely, internet nerd to internet nerd, awkward moment-style, thank you...

Monday, November 15, 2010

let's get this toad on the road...

Today on SFGate's Tourist Trapped, Leslie, Kate and I venture onto a Mr. Toad's Tour, wherein we grow bored within 15 minutes yet fall a little bit in love with a man named Don...

what am i? huevos rancheros?

Hopefully it's a good thing that I can still have kooky, wacky, wild nights and still be stone cold sober the whole time. Because Saturday night, I may have been like that episode of Murphy Brown where Miles Silverberg thinks the punch is spiked and wraps his necktie around his head.
Lisa and I headed down to this bar in Fisherman's Wharf called the Pub in the afternoon to watch her college alma mater, LSU play football with a bunch of people from Louisiana. The people from Louisiana are all very polite, and they were all comfortably wearing purple. All I really learned, other than the appropriate use of "all y'all" was that the coach of LSU chews on grass.
"Like a cow?" I asked.
"Yes." They responded. "Much like a cow."
After the game, we headed up to this fabulous little Italian restaurant, Allegro Romano, where Lisa knows Lorenzo the owner. We were given no menus, just course after course of amazing Italian food. And as we wrapped up our main course, Lorenzo motions us over to come sit as his table. For the next hour and a half, we peppered a former Blue Angel with questions.
Yeah. A fighter pilot. With the kind of stories you'd expect from a fighter pilot.
There is a confidence to the fighter pilot, a comfort in his own skin. He has a call sign. He's literally Maverick from Top Gun. Not Goose. Maverick.
And I realized, this guy has been tasked with one of the rarest, most intense, complicated jobs in the history of the world. It is literally one in a million, becoming one of those people who flies planes off the backs of aircraft carries in the middle of the night. Actually, getting selecting to go to flight training school is huge, just because the goverment is all, "Okay, now I'm going to invest a million dollars on your brain." And once they make it that far, 40% of them fail the whole flying on and off the aircraft carrier thing.
And this guy, Mr. Million Dollar Brain is all, "So, what do you do?"
"Oh. Um, I...write snarky things about people on the internet."
"For a living."
"Technically, yes."
There is not a confidence to blogging, by the way. In fact, to be a blogger I recommend a solid lack of self-esteem and general nervousness.
Around midnight, long after the servers and kitchen staff had packed up for the night, we left our raucous table at Allegro and headed to meet Lisa's brother Doug on Union Street.
I make it a point not to go to Union Street bars. I find them intimidating, scary, imagining Steff from Pretty in Pink to pull the plug on the jukebox so he can publicly tear me apart in front of hundreds of gorgeous, popular onlookers.
But I'm 32. With each passing year of my advancing age, I care less and less what someone who owns a Abercrombie & Fitch charge card thinks. So I followed Lisa into Bar None.
Yeah. Saturday night at midnight, I was in Bar None.
I don't believe it either.
Lisa is very confident in these situations. She rolls in like she owns the place. I was wearing jeans and heels, trying to hard to blend and wondering if I should put my hair up maybe, or take off my glasses. I did neither, only because in walking into this packed bar that resembled a scene from Good Will Hunting, I realized I was one of the oldest people in there.
Children, virtual children, bumped into me with abandon. The bar seemed to go on for forever, and every section, every corner, every inch of bar was jam packed with 23-year olds. The women wore more mascara than I could handle. I spent a solid five minutes just staring at this one girl, amazed she could keep her lids open.
The guys were in rugby shirts or college t-shirts, all of them drunk and fresh-faced somehow, as if life had yet to smack them around.
From behind the bar, a huge, tattooed, smiling gentleman walked over and said to me, "You totally got dissed by the Situation."
Indeed I did!
It was Doug, Lisa's brother, cop in the Marina and friend of just about everyone within a five mile radius. From behind the bar, he passed over a beer and Diet Coke, and created a path for us to come and join his friends. I even had a stool. And a view of everything.
Doug's friends were all lovely, charming, funny. One arrived, was introduced to me and then came back up, kissed my hand and said, "All of this is great." He looked me up and down. "But you need to know, the glasses...the glasses are the hot sauce."
"What?" I yelled over the music.
"The glasses are the hot sauce."
"On the burrito that is me?"
"Yeah! The glasses is make it. It's hot."
I just about fell over. Sir, are you picking me up? But before I could respond, another one came over.
"Hey." His mouth was right against my neck. "Do I know you?"
This is why people come here. For years, I couldn't figure it out. I mean, why would you want to shove your way into a place where people angrily roll kegs over your toes and country/dance music blares from speakers directly over your head?
Oh. I get it now. The mere fact of being there means people will walk right up to you and close the deal. Badda bing, one night stand. I'd forgotten about that.
All I could think, however, was that I didn't want to wake up at 6am to find this guy awkwardly trying to make his way out of my foyer followed by me spending the next six weeks wondering if I got herpes. Were I drunk, things might have been different.
My confidence was up, though. My confidence was way up.
I took a sip of my Diet Coke and looked across the bar, smiling at a good-looking guy buying a mascara girl a drink.
"Oh my God." Lisa grabbed by arm.
Doug leaned forward and yelled in my ear. "Checking out Nate, I see."
"Nate?" I asked.


It was Nate Schierholtz. Of the San Francisco Giants. I looked back at him across the bar, he looked at me...and I gave him a thumbs up.
I know. I know. I'm a goober. I don't belong here. I can't handle the vibe of random anonymous hookups and professional athletes. Someone pick me up and drop me in the middle of that charming bar at Rose Pistola.
I did have fun at the Bar None, though. It helped that I was surrounded by Lisa and a collection of protective off-duty police officers who I figured would probably not let Steff from Pretty in Pink be mean to me.
And it was all guys in there. Desperate, horny, young guys. Ladies of San Francisco: if you are less uptight than me (all of you), you need to get yourselves down to Union Street and slap on some mascara. That's just about all you'll need to have some recent UC Davis grad describe you as "smokin'."
At 2am, the lights came up and the bartenders screamed at everyone to get the hell out. Lisa and I made our way home, driving across town listening to music and marvelling at our night.
"I can't believe we met a fighter pilot!"
"And a World Series champion!"
"And that guy who called your glasses hot sauce!"
"That was really fun. Thanks for an awesome night."
"See? The Marina. Not so scary."
Well, I wouldn't go that far. But I'll...yeah, I'll probably be back. Wearing my glasses...

Friday, November 12, 2010

necessary conversation, election wrap-up...

Necessary Conversations Episode 11 from Necessary Conversation on Vimeo.


And I actually adore my brother's girlfriend. She's a nurse and has gross stories. What's not to like? However, it is indeed my second greatest fear to be the spinster older sister at my little brother's wedding, standing there with Brock trying to make my blog sound really fulfilling to my parents' church friends.
My greatest fear, however, is someone walking in on me in the bathroom...

Thursday, November 11, 2010

rufus! rufus! rufus!

I'm saving most of this for the Culture Blog, because really, I can't enjoy an experience unless people call me a whore in the comments, but guess who I met tonight?!?!
As I near the second anniversary of my boozeless life (Tuesday! Tuesday! Tuesday!), I realize I have so many goddamn wonderful moments, little fucking slices of life. And as I sat 20 feet from Rufus Wainwright performing, whose music has at times been my only companion on some of the shitter roads I've travelled, I was a little bit overwhelmed with gratitude and sheer happiness.
Christ, I cried in the middle of Davis Symphony Hall.
And you can too...tomorrow and Saturday night. The whole embarrassing story, including all of the profoundly stupid things I said to Rufus, up on Wednesday. Note the fear in his eyes...

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

the sitch is a bitch...

Hey babygirls and babyguys. Today on SFGate, Melissa and I try and interview...THE SITUATION. It all explodes into tragedy, which you can read right here. Below, the abandoned video of the event, which I somehow thought would get me on E!

Special Edition from Necessary Conversation on Vimeo.

Tuesday, November 09, 2010

he'll kill me for writing this...

While I complain about pretty much everything about him, this past month has been so bizarre, such an ordeal, so profoundly overwhelming that when Sunday rolled around and I got my standard Big Chris text, I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Be at your house in 10.”
He sends this text almost every Sunday afternoon, having no idea if I’m even home. Chris has been like this for years. There’s a sick comfort in his reliability, his relentless teasing, the sheer volume of Chris’ Sunday evening consistency.
He barreled in the door, marching straight to the bathroom, and then taking over the television.
“The Raiders are in overtime. I will explain what that means during the commercial.”
It’s so rare that I experience this kind of obnoxious testosterone in a first world country, I kind of welcome it. It’s reassuring. Sure, he switched the channel in the middle of a very tense Real Housewives moment, but I could kind of switch off my brain.
After the football game, we began the discussion that dominates nearly every San Francisco conversation: Where should we go to dinner?
I spend hours a week standing somewhere inconvenient, awkwardly trying to agree on where to go to dinner.
Hours.
Sunday night was no different.
We had to factor in everything else we’d individually eaten all weekend, the parking situation, cost, if we should call Brock to come with us, our conflicting food moods and our outfits.
“Well, I have clothes in my car.” Chris said.
“What clothes?” I looked at his cargo shorts and t-shirt and wanted to know my options.
Completely serious, Chris responded, “My tuxedo suit.”
We decided on dinner at “Gay Chow” which meant that Chris didn’t need to go black-tie for the occasion, and as we got in Chris’ car, he announced, “I already know where to park.”
“You need to park right by Safeway.” I said, as we approached Market Street.
“Yeah, I know. That’s what I was going to say.”
“Well then WHY ARE YOU DRIVING PAST SAFEWAY!”
“BECAUSE I CAN’T FIT IN THAT SPACE!”
“I AM IN POINTY TOES!”
“WELL THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DRIVEN! YOUR CAR IS A COMPACT SEDAN!”
“YOUR CAR IS NICER!”
“Well, that’s very true.”
Chris is the most cautious driver in the world. The only thing he’s more uptight about is parking. It’s ridiculous. I felt like I was volunteering with senior outreach.
“You have tons of space there.”
“This car is bigger than it looks.”
“You could park a motor home there.”
“There’s no way I can get in there.”
“Let me park it then.”
“Yeah, that’s gonna happen.”
Succumbing to peer pressure, Chris slowly began the process of parallel parking his precious Nissan on Church Street. Every car that whizzed by caused Chris to completely stop and wait for traffic to subside before continuing the parking ordeal. When a bus went by, you’d have thought we were under actual attack, from like, incoming fire. Chris froze, his shoulders tensed.
“I cannot believe we are still parking.”
“I cannot believe what a fucking bitch you are.”
“I already have enough girlfriends, Chris.”
“Woman, you need to shut up. I am concentrating!”
Finally and securely parked, and after Chris walked the entire perimeter of his vehicle, we made our way to Gay Chow.
Chris is a surprisingly complex person for being such a Neanderthal. He’s really, unexpectedly weird. I can’t figure out when it happened, what in his childhood made him so bizarre. Big Chris is like a car wreck. I can’t look away. He might do something funny.
Chris ordered a Bud and spaghetti and meatballs, and then stopped our waitress. “Can I get the calamari too?”
“Yeah, it’s grilled though.” She said. “It’s not fried.”
I knew he was going to say it before he said it. “Like I give a shit.”
The calamari arrived first, and fork in hand, Chris ate each piece one by one without speaking. Then our entrees arrived, and Chris was presented with a massive bowl of spaghetti and meatballs. He looked like a little kid.
Next to us, a hippie couple began to have a heated conversation about existentialism. They were wearing hand-knit sweaters and hats and the man began to tear up. Several times, the woman stood up to walk away, but sat back down. When I heard the phrase “past life,” I looked up at Chris.
Without missing a beat, he said, “I am well aware. We will discuss later.”
The conversation next to us continued, the man chocking back his emotion, the woman picking her teeth with a toothpick while pontificating on “vibes.”
I looked back up at Chris, twirling a huge piled of pasta onto his fork.
“Meatballs, meatballs.” He sang it like a child while eating his food and eavesdropping on the couple next to us. “Meatballs, meatballs, meatballs just for me.”
It was like I was in the twilight zone.
After telling me I wasn’t allowed to order dessert because I’ve been on a “thin roll” lately, Chris paid the bill and we left, leaving the hippie couple next to us in a deep, choked up discussion on “destiny.”
We walked back to Chris’ car as he regaled me with every single word of the conversation next to us. Like Rain Man. He knew their entire argument, everything they were wearing and did. He took it all it without saying a work or looking in their direction. It was amazing.
We drove back to my house and watched a movie while Chris explained Val Kilmer’s awesomeness to no one in particular.
“The waitress tonight was jealous of you.” He said.
I was in a good mood. I set him up for his big punchline. “Why?”
“Because of my boyish good looks.”
“Well, she can have them.” I said, punching him in the shoulder. But really I was just thinking thank God for Sundays…

Monday, November 08, 2010

moroccan eggrolls and vietnamese nachos...

Today's Tourist Trapped is up on SFGate. This week, Christopher and I visit the famed Cheesecake Factory and eat something called a Luau Salad. Bon appetite...

Friday, November 05, 2010

necessary conversation, episode ten...

Today's Necessary Conversation: Episode 10 is up! This week, Mel and I go to the San Francisco version of the Daily Show/Colbert Report Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear. We don't find sanity, but we definitely get kinda scared.
Also, here is yesterday's Culture Blog. My apologies for being tardy to the party. I implied Buster Posey might be illiterate and I think all things considered, they handled themselves really well in the comments section.

Tuesday, November 02, 2010

unnecessary updates...

What a fucking week, right? I’m thrilled for San Francisco, more importantly, thrilled for Brian Wilson. And most importantly, thrilled for me and my fellow bandwagoners because I am exhausted. Congratulations Giants. Let’s get on with our lives. (That sound you just heard is the sound of my brother screaming at this blog post.)
A few things, as I feel I’ve been neglecting you:
1. Les wrote an amazing, wonderful post about visiting her dad in Nashville. Les is amazing, wonderful in general. But you should read it.
2. I am super into my book right now. It’s called ‘A Death in Belmont’ by Sebastian Junger and get a load of this: When Sebastian and his cheekbones were one, his mom hired some folks to build an artists’ studio in their backyard. There’s even a photo of the builders posing in the studio with baby Sebastian. And one of the builders was…ALBERT DESALVO THE BOSTON STRANGLER. Now, some debate whether or not DeSalvo was actually the Boston Strangler. I myself do not. One day, Sebastian’s mom discovered DeSalvo in her basement. She stood at the top of the stairs as he motioned her to come down, claiming something was wrong with her washing machine. Um, you’re supposed to be building a studio in the backyard, Al. Mrs. Junger told him to forget it and shut the door. Gasp!
3. The Elizabeth Smart trial began yesterday. Let’s all stay tuned, shall we.
4. Along these morbid lines, Leonardo DiCaprio will star as serial killer H.H. Holmes in the movie version of the book, ‘The Devil in the White City’ which I now need to read. H.H. Holmes was interestingly insane. You might want to check him out.
5. I think Weekend What’s Up may have died. I know. I’m not that heartbroken about it either. But Necessary Conversation is doing all kinds of new and exciting things (reporting from the field!) and I’m roping Beth H. into new and exciting video ideas I want to pitch to the Appeal. (Oh yeah, hey Eve. Beth and I want to occasionally make our own videos and we want you to post them, please.)
6. I do not know which election night parties I’m going to. Because I don’t know who’s won. However, I think the ladies and I are meeting at a la-ti-da bar to watch the early returns and then we should all coordinate via Twitter or Facebook or LinkedIn (that was a joke, relax) about which parties are rocking or sucking. Yes, let’s.
7. I could spend a week in a (fabulously appointed) log cabin in the woods by myself, wearing buffalo plaid pajamas and wool socks, reading my true crime books and harnessing my fucking chi right now. FYI…

Monday, November 01, 2010

the wonderful world series...

Today on SFGate's Tourist Trapped, Melissa and I attend Game One of the World Series (of baseball.) Included in this exciting sports adventure: a great view of Gavin Newsom, Benjamin Bratt in the house and Brian Wilson getting us pregnant...

*My brother is now speaking to me. Peter Hartlaub is not.