Wednesday, September 29, 2004

tj's...

I ust returned from Trader Joe's, where the entire store (myself included) was dancing to "Legalize It (Don't Criticize It)". Sometimes, I love hippies.

her mr. dj...

Andy calls me Buttercup, because I want my life to be like the movies. Ya know. Buttercup, from the Princess Bride. Anyway, he's right. Life should have spot lighting, a soundtrack, and always a happy ending. Today, instead of working on election night like I should be, I'm creating my soundtrack.
Now, a year ago, I made the soundtrack of my life, 20 songs from every stage of my past 26 years. That's not what I'm making today. Today, I'm making a CD to carry around with me, with an appropriate song for each potential situation. For example, when I tell someone off with my biting wit and verbal pyrotechnics, I want "It's in the Way That You Use It" by Eric Clapton to play, as I spin on my heels and walk away from the offending party, perhaps high fiving a stranger on my exit. When I drive off into the sunset, on my way to go make it big in New York or London, "Send me on My Way" by Rusted Root, or when I'm speeding down the freeway, hair flying everywhere, I need some Aretha. When Bonnie and I walk into a happenin' bar, they should play "Crazy in Love". And, when the credits roll, the enemy is sqaushed, and me, my fabulous friends, and my gorgeous husband (potentially, a member of a European royal family) live happilly ever after, I want "As" by Stevie Wonder to play, as the credits roll.
I wonder if I can hire a dj to follow me around. Because, seriously. Life's more interesting with an actual soundtrack. I pretend one exists anyway. Why not have a real one?

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

benji...

I'm hideous from lack of sleep. After returning from Doc's last night, I stayed on the phone till 3am with Ben, laughing so hard I actually hurt. There are some things so specific, that there's only like 5 people on the planet that would have any idea what you're talking about. I love those people. Ben is one of those people.

Sunday, September 26, 2004

oregon trails...

Last night, at the toga party, I got to talking about the glory of kicking ass at Oregon Trails. You all MUST know Oregon Trails, the late 80's pseudo-educational computer game where your task is to get you and your family from Independence, Missouri to Independence, Oregon all in one piece. I've been obsessed with this game since it burst onto the green screen in 5th grade.
Our family has an ancient laptop. It might as well be on wheels it's so heavy and out-dated, but we bring it on family vacations just for the Oregon Trails. When you're stuck in some foreign country, and nothing but dubbed Roseanne is on TV, you get pretty into OT. In fact, I've maintained my rank in first place since the Japan trip of '99. I have OT down to a science, and since I know you're all about to go on the internet and find it, I'll give you my tips.
1. Choose "carpenter" as your job. Bankers get a lot of money, but poses no skills. Farmers have no money, but lots of skills. Carpenters have enough money, and can fix everything. You never know when an axel is going to break or your wagon tongue gets stolen in the night by Injuns.
2. At the general store, always buy a little bit more than they recommend. The store manager tells you to purchase two sets of clothing per person, so get 3. And buy lots of bullets. Skimp on food, because hunting is fun.
3. When hunting, it may seem wasteful to kill a buffalo, as they weigh 900lbs and you can only carry 100lbs. Fuck that. Waste the buffalo. They're not real anyway, and deer only weigh, like 70lbs. More importantly, never shoot at rabbits. They're impossible to hit, weigh 3lbs, and waste bullets.
4. Never float down the river as a shortcut. It always, always, ends in a crash. I've played this thousands of times. You will NEVER survive the river. It's bullshit. Plus, if there's one thing I've learned from my years of reading about The Donner Party, it's never to take shortcuts. It's true. There really are no shortcuts in life. And no shortcuts in the OT.
5. When you have to cross a river, which you should only have to do twice, pay the Indian the 5 bucks to help you cross the river on a ferry. It's worth not hearing that "crunch" when your floating wagon tips over and the sudden black screen with the following:
"You're wagon capsized. You've lost: Alex, Joanne, 4 sets of clothing, 83lbs. of food, 346 bullets, and 2 oxen."
6. Never let health get below "poor." If anyone dies along the trip, there go your chances of hitting the top 10. Stop and rest while you hunt.
7. If playing OT while on vacation, and your family is driving you crazy, name everyone on your wagon after your family and then delight when suddenly "Joanne has dysentery" or "Alex has a snakebite." It's remarkably therapeutic.
Seriously. If you don't know OT, do yourself a favor and check it out. It's fucking awesome. I've never been one for high tech, super modern video games. But OT on the green screen is pure computer nerd heaven.


Saturday, September 25, 2004

"you will never age for me..."

Have you ever just fallen head first into a movie?
I have seen Shakespeare in Love a million times, but I watched it this afternoon, when I should have been napping, and for 2 hours, I did not exist. I was in heaven, in bejewelled corsets, in the 16th century, in a fabulous country manor, in love with William Shakespeare, who wrote me sonnets and immortalized me in plays.
I want to run around the house reciting poetry, wearing every costume from that movie all at once.
I forgot how wonderful this movie is. I forgot that when we saw it in college, Jesse and I would open the windows of her dorn and scream onto campus, "Anon, good nurse! Anon!" I forgot how it made me convinced I'd fall madly in love one day, and probably with Joseph Finnes. I forgot, that at the time, I was so obsessed with that film, Katherine made me a New Year's Eve date, in the form of a stick, with Joseph Finnes face attached. In fact, I think I still have it around here somewhere.
At the end, of course, I cried. I forgot that I always cry at the same line. I know it's coming. And still, I lose it every time. They know, madly in love as they are, they'll never see each other again. And they must say goodbye in 3 minutes; 3 minutes of cinema that breaks my heart.

Isn't it amazing? Aren't films the most incredble things? God, I love movies so much, I can barely stand it.

Friday, September 24, 2004

i'm against picketing, but I don't know how to show it...

I've been on the Mitch Hedberg bandwagon for some time. He's performing tomorrow night at the Warfield, and I can't go. While devestated, I'm attending a toga party that I really can't miss. Thus, if any of you are going, please sneak in a tape recorder and burn me some funny. I love this guy.
If you're unfamiliar...www.mitchhedberg.net

In similar and sad news, the Sister Sissors concert sold our in 2 hours, before I could get tickets. I never had a chance. Jason e-mailed me in China, alerting me to their impending arrival. I assumed I was the only psycho obsessed with them and I could pick up our tickets whenever. Not so much. I am one of many psychos, and those freakshows beat me to the punch. Too bad. I've been looking for an excuse to wear that red Chinese dress again. Never fear. That night, I'm having my own personal listening party, in the dress, dancing away. Although, that's pretty much me every day anyway...

The song, "I Keep Forgetting (We're Not in Love Anymore)" is stuck in my head. I hadn't heard that since I was a kid. That song rocks. Seriously. Re-listen to it. It's hardcore primo.

dead top 5...

I have to be in Rohnert Park at 10am this morning, to convince the staff at KRCB that I'm qualified to produce their election night show. (I'm not, but why should that stop me? This place is held together with duct tape and Civil War tote bags. I asked them to send me a copy of last year's show. The sent the wrong tape to the wrong address. Nice.)
I attempted to hit the hay early last night, and it was lights out immediately after The Apprentice. Of course, I couldn't sleep. I was wide awake, my mind racing with the joy of getting the hot Irish guy at work on the Primo bandwagon. When I left last night, he told me to have a primo weekend. Score! I figured I needed a task to make me fall asleep. Thus, I came up with the following.

My Dead Celebrity Top 5....

5. Elvis
4. River Pheonix
3. Cary Grant
2. Steve McQueen
1. John F. Kennedy Jr.

orange flavored poo...

This week, to my dismay, I discovered that someone had placed an aerosol can of orange and vanilla scented room spray in the bathroom at work. People seem to be enthusiastically testing it out, and I'm disturbed. I can't decide which is worse. The smell of poo. Or the smell of orange and vanilla flavored poo.

I think it's the latter. Orange and vanilla don't even go together, much less with poo.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

killing time with midgets...

I’m loving my job. I really am. But like any task that requires one sit at a computer for most of the day, I find I must e-mail my friends throughout the day for entertainment value. Today, I think I reached a low point, as Chris and I found our e-mail conversation take a turn for the bizarre. That’s right. We made a list of our Top 5 Favorite Midgets. Here is the (relatively) unedited version of our actual conversation.

To: Chris@xerox
From: Beth@film
Subject: Beth’s dad has a coin purse
I live for dessert. The whole point of entrees are to get to dessert. I loathe Lindsey Lohan. I despise her. I want her dead. Last night, I watched the Amazing Race with Andy, but it's no fun since the midget got kicked off. I love midgets. If Lindsey Lohan was a midget, I'd love her.

To: Beth@film
From: Chris@xerox
Subject: The Midget Top 5
I've heard the best part of going out to dinner is drinks, appetizers, and desert. The entree is what comes in-between. What the fuck is wrong with you ? How do you hate Lindsey Lohan. So what if she can't act and is now trying sing, she looks good. I am also a huge fan of midgets. Excuse me, little people. Let me list my top 5 midgets of all time:
5. willow
4. marcus the midget from bad santa
3. gary coleman
1. ( tie ) yoda & herve villechaize

To: Chris@xerox
From: Beth@film
Subject: My midget Top 5
5. Kramer's black midget friend from Seinfeld (Also portrayed Marcus in Bad Santa, but I prefer him in this less exploitative role)
4. Charla from the Amazing Race
3. any porn midget
2. Danny DeVito
1. WEBSTER, obviously

To: Beth@film
From: Chris@xerox
Subject: Midgets who didn’t make the list:
1. tina ( the hot little blonde w/ huge cans I used to date )
2. webster
3. bushwick bill
4. any of the umpa lumpas
5. bridget the midget ( porn star )
6. frodo baggins

Yeah. This is pretty much what I did all day. Oh, well I also stole about a case of Nutella, as they donated 3000lbs of it to the film festival. It was Nutella madness. Thank god Bonnie loves Nutella, as I've never been a huge fan. However, it was free. Thus, I took as much as my arms could carry.

Monday, September 20, 2004

meeting mr. and mrs. spots...

Yesterday, Bonnie, Gert, Andy, Big Chris, and I sat around the house doing nothing but eating, drinking, and watching movies on TNT. By 7, we were hungry and decided to call my parents and see what they were having for dinner. Alarmed at the prospect of 5 univited guests for dinner, my mother thought she could get away with inviting us to dinner the next night, fully expecting no one to show. To her hidden dismay, this afternoon I called to tell her that 3 of us would partake of her generous offer for free flank steak.
Most of my friends have dined at Casa Spots and enjoyed the never-ending bar that is my parent's home. My parents are pretty laid back and easy to hang out with, but I still view them as parents. Friends come over all the time, and end up doing shots of Hungarian vodka with my dad or get roped into playing pranks on my 90 year old grandma by my mom. In fact, it's hard to be friends with me, and not have partied at the Spotswood estate and grounds. Chris, however, has never been there, and I must admit, I was a tad nervous. Chris calls my brother Gary because he can never remeber his name. Chris loves to regale crowds with the tale of the time we made out while his pants were removed by a third party. Chris will gladly describe for anyone, willing or not, a sex act called "The Shocker."
To his credit, he behaved admirably. Bonnie, on the other hand, resumed her role of shouting explatives across the dinner table and wrestling with my brother. She, however, is half Spots anyway, and has learned how to survive dinner at my folks. Chris is a slower learner. At one point, in an attempt to get a word in edgewise, he actually raised his hand. Nice try, rookie.
I learned in pre-school, to speak at the Spotswood table, you've got to yell, slam things, swear, and to get anyone to even listen, say something genius or hilarious. Hand raising is for babies. Throw a roll if you need to make a point. But, no one will respect you if you don't dive in. It's verbal sinking and swimming, and god bless him, Chris swam.
Actually, I love having friends for dinner with my parents. I regard them as incredibly easy to chill with, and to their credit, they never let your glass get empty. I pointed this out to Bonnie once, and she said, "Yeah. Your family parties are awesome and everyone has fun...if they're willing to perform a fucking skit."

Thursday, September 16, 2004

definitely, definitely going to meet him...

Yeah. I think I just peed my pants. Dustin Hoffman is coming to the Film Festival. And everyone around here is trying to play it all cool, and I'm the big nerd that actually screamed out loud when I found out. Fuck that. It's Hook. It's Raymond. It's the Graduate. It's Mumbles. It's Dustin Hoffman, people. I mean, Dustin Hoffman blows Dr. Jang right out of the water...

dr. jang and associates...

I have become obsessed with Dr. Jang of the Jang and Associates commercials. If you live in San Francisco, you must have seen them. He's this Asian dentist, with an apparent huge staff that speaks a multitude of languages, and a sea of thrilled patients, all of whom are delighted to appear on teleision, proclaiming the genius of Dr. Jang. Dr. Jang is such a rockstar, he has an extensive series of commercials, constantly changing and providing me with never-ending entertainment.
The best thing about Dr. Jang, other than his fabulous butchering of the English language, is the huge forced smile he manages after every sentance. Watch him. Everytime he finishes his little schtick, he looks right at you and chomps those pearly whites right at the camera.
For a while, he forced his poor, assimilated, dentist daughter, Kathryn, to appear alondside him, her embarassment palpable through the television. Now, my favorite moment of his commercials, other than his smile, is when he lists in rapid succession the languages his staff speaks, in those very languages. There's nothing like hearing an Chinese dentist enthusiastically scream into the camera, "Je parlez Francais!" then bare his teeth at you. Priceless.
I wonder waht it would be like to be personal friends with Dr. Jang. In addition to getting to see that smile up close, you'd also get to call him by his glorious first name, Calvert. Imagine Dr. Jang showing up at one of my parties. People would go nuts. "Yo Calvert. Do a Jell-O shot!" or better, "Holy Shit. Calvert's hooking up with Bonnie!"
He's a real life local celebrity, and I'm going to track him down. In fact, I say this to you today. Dr. Calvert Jang will indeed be at my next party.
And I call dibs on him...

http://www.jangassociates.citysearch.com/

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

rides with strangers...

I'm currently dog sitting for my good friend Judy. Many of you know Judy's dog, Emma, the greatest dog in the world. This is the first time I'm staying at Judy's new house in Sausalito, a gorgeous place with a ridiculously complete view of the entire Bay Area. Judy should rent this place out as a movie location. Last night, I fell asleep while gazing across the bay at the glittering lights of downtown San Francisco. I cannot describe how fabulous it is. Anyway, Judy, of course, lives in a swanky neighborhood, and twice a day, I get to walk Emma and spy on all the fancy houses.
Judy used to live in Sea Cliff, where my main goal was getting Emma to run onto Robin Williams' property, half a block away. Over time, I got so close to RW, I actually befriended his uber-gay chef. But alas, there are no Oscar winners in Sausalito, at least that I know of. Last night, after a highly productive and fun day at work, Emma and I set off down the street, where I was admiring a massive, Spanish tile estate, with huge bronze scultpures of naked ladies around the exterior.
I'm not normally one to peek in garages, as I leave the gear head crap to my roommate. Obviously, I like fancy things, and the streets here are lines with BMW X5's, which I've decided will be my next car. But, usually, I don't give a shit about engines, horse power, and suspension. Really, had I my druthers, I'd have a car and driver anyway.
But there is one car I adore, a piece of artwork so beautiful and arousing, I've been in it's presence only once before and found it difficult to leave. And there it was before me, in a million dollar garage, and the garage door was opening. The man inside looked up and smiled at Emma and I. I couldn't help myself. I had to speak.
"That's a Vanquish, isn't it?"
He was instantly delighted to discuss his car. "Yes! You have great taste. She's my new baby."
"YOU have great taste." I piped up. "My god, I'm obsessed with the Vanquish. I love that car."
He laughed. "Well, you should get one."
"Yeah. Well, my good taste is wasted on my bad bank account." I kept talking, this poor polite billionaire forced to listen. "I already know what I'll be wearing when I drive my Vanquish around, and I'm delighted to tell you, it involves fur." I ramble on about my fashionista fantasy of speeding around the city in my perfect Vanquish, and Daddy Warbuck's is laughing away. Were he not old, married, and wearing one of those dreadful yachting captain's hats, we'd be engaged by now. Finally, he says, "Well, it's a crime you've never ridden in one. Let's go for a spin."
Stop. Wait a second. Back it up.
Are you shitting me? Go for a spin in the Vanquish? THE Vanquish? Oh my god. Hells yeah. Although, with a stranger? He could be a billionaire serial killer, who speeds away from his body dump sites in the most perfect car ever made. Am I willing to risk life and limb for a joy ride in a car I know I'll own one day anyway? What kind of person offers a stranger a ride in their "baby"? We've been talking for a mere 3 minutes. As usual, I begin to find him exceedingly creepy. Why doesn't he watch Emma, while I take to Vanquish for a little spin...to Tiajuana.
Years of the DARE program are pumping through my veins. I cannot get in a car with a stranger. Even into a Vanquish. Some kids are lured by candy. Some by puppies. As a child, you coulda kidnapped me by offering me an hour with the Bergdorf Goodman Christmas catalog. But no longer. I'm now a highly paranoid gal who watches way too many episodes of Forensic Files.
"You have no idea how much I'd love to go for a spin, but we're about a mile from home and Emma and I should get back."
"Fair enough" he says. "Anytime, though. Swing on by. I love to show her off."
"I bet. Seriously. That's a beautiful car."
He shakes my hand, tells me he'll see me at the film festival, and reiterates his offer for a ride anytime. Then, he goes back to arranging his garage, filled by the way, with hundereds of boxes of wine. This is my kinda guy.
So today, I'm going to go plant myself in front of this guy's place, and wait for him to show. I'll sit there all day if I have to. I cannot believe I was so paranoid as to turn down a spin in a Vanquish. Even if he killed me, at least I'd die in style. My god, what a way to go out.

I'm going to name my kid Aston Martin Spotswood, I love that car so much.

Saturday, September 11, 2004

brunch...

Bonnie, Gertrude (name has been changed by request. I think we all know who Gertrude is...) and I went to brunch at The Pork Store. We've been hanging there a lot lately. I guess we like pork. Anyway, we decided to sit outside, and claimed the only open table on the sidewalk. To our dismay, a man with a hunting knife affixed to his belt also wanted to sit there. Um, 'scuse me, Yosemite Sam, we've already called dibs on that there table. We immediately pushed him out of the way and sat down, only to discover he was seated at the suddenly open table right next to us. Oddly enough, he ordered English breakfast tea and attempted to stare us down while pretending to read the funnies in the Chronicle.
The cast of characters at the Mission Pork Store isn't that diverse. One would think, down in the ghetto, you'd have all kinds. Nope. I was the biggest wierdo down there, dressed like a J. Crew ad from 1984. Everyone else had huge tattoos and babies, like one big alternative play date. I guess it's good that these kids are being raised by Ramones fans, but you look like a tool, with a faux hawk and a Baby Bjorn.
My chicken apple sausage scramble kicked ass, although Bonnie's paying the price for her "Eggs in a Tasty Nest", and egg, veggie, and hashbrown creation famous at 916A.
My weekend has already been peppered by bizarre dining experiences, as last night I dined at a fabulous Pakistani place in the Fillmore, where we befriended the waiter who discussed his delicately cultivated moustache at length. The na'an however, made it all worth it.
Bon and Gertrude saw "Garden State" whilst I was scarfing my curry, and proclaim it be incredible. I think I'm going to see it tonight with Kelsey, but we should probably keep in mind that Bon and Gert split a pint of Jack during their film, so perhaps that added to their enjoyment.
My brother, god bless him, is in Chicago with my dad. Why? Because they wanted to go to a Cub's game. Seriously. That's why they went. Oh, to be a Spotswood man. When my father accompanied me to purchase my car, he spied some SUV's and said, "You know who'd look good driving that? Alex." He then went over to inspect the sticker. I shouldn't complain. Mom and I are planning a trip to Chicago just to sit in the audience of Oprah. If you ask me, provided we get a good episode, that's far more worthy of needless travel than a stupid baseball game.

purse strings correction...

In reference to the purse strings entry, Andy had this to say...

"I'd like to point out, you stupid girl tech, that the fishing line was not purloined from Beach Blanket. It's from my days of freebasing crystal meth when I made mobiles all day long."

Oh, my bad. Yeah, my beloved Andy used to be a methedone freak and apparent Claes Oldenburg fan. (Yeah. I made a Claes Oldenburg reference. Look it up, you art hating yokle.)

Friday, September 10, 2004

my arraignment...

Because sometimes God hates me, I was forced to appear in court this morning. My infraction, you see, was for running a stop sign on my way to jury duty, and then having out of date registration and insurance. I’m sure you’re asking yourself, what kind of asshole can’t register and get insurance. Well, the kind that let’s her dad run her life. And apparently, sometimes dad’s fuck up paperwork. The thing is, my father moves heaven and earth to make me happy hourly, so I can’t really give him shit about my registration and insurance, particularly as he funds it. He immediately remedied the problem, and sadly put everything in my name, but not before I got assigned my court date. And that day was today. I actually had to attend Traffic Court, with all the criminals and hookers and transients. Back at my old haunt, the Hall of Justice, I found myself in a room filled with an eclectic mix of immigrants, white trash, and supermodels. I like to think I’m a combo of all three. Anyway, I quickly befriended Ylena, a 23 year old Russian who was so breathtaking, I instantly hated her. Ylena was pulled over for running a stop sign as well, although she maintained she was pulled over because she was a 23 year old in a BMW, whatever that means. Ylena had a fabulous Marc Jacobs bag, Seven jeans, a glorious off the shoulder top, black wedge heels, and diamond encrusted sunglasses. I decided she was a mail order bride who got both very lucky, and a subscription to Vogue.
We’re all standing and sitting in this big empty room, Ylena and I chatting away in the corner, when suddenly, this Chinese dude with his parents in tow asks aloud, “If your name isn’t on the list outside, where do you go?”
There’s a list? Half the room runs into the hall, and Ylena and I quickly found our names. Next to mine, I found the word, “arraignment.” Holy Shit. I watch enough A&E to be well aware of that word, and pretty much equate guaranteed jail time with it. I was relieved to find that Ylena was also being arraigned, and perhaps her rich American husband could come bail us both out. She kept walking in circles, asking, “What mean arraignment? I do not know this word”
Soon, the courtroom was opened and we were instructed to sit down. Obviously, Ylena and I sat together and immediately began chatting. Suddenly, the bailiff practically yells, “No talking in the courtroom.”
Ylena pipes up, “Fuck you, policeman.” I scoot one chair over.
We’re called by name and given our paperwork, mine being hand scrawled by Officer Jackass, complete with a gallon of white-out and doodles. I’m delighted he’s taken my arraignment so seriously.
We’re instructed that we have 3 options; confess, plead not guilty which means you have to come back to trial in 45 days, or go to traffic court. I chose the obvious traffic court. The traffic court people get to go first anyway, and while waiting in line, I discovered another woman who had both registration issues and a traffic violation. This made me feel better. I approached the desk, and requested traffic school, as well as provided my current and up to date registration and insurance. Because I was the retard who didn’t have insurance, I have to pay $100. Because I was the retard who ignored the stop sign, I have to pay $74. And because I’m the retard who seems to feel a subconscious need to provide the City and County of San Francisco with all of my money, I have to pay a $10 filing fee.
Thus, my total for cost for running a stop-sign on my way to Jury Duty is $184. Add to that parking and traffic school fees, and we’re at $250. For running a stop sign.
I didn’t stick around to find out what happened to Ylena. I wanted to get the hell out of there. I crossed the street, handed over the 47 billion dollars it costs to park, and waited for 7 Amish women to board a minivan before I could speed away, running stop signs, throwing litter, and causing general mayhem.
I have been to the Hall of Justice 6 (six) times this year. That’s obscene. They actually know me at the parking lot. This has got to stop. From now on, I’m going to try harder to abide by the laws of the land. I swear. Although, I’m going over to Andy’s now. You never know. I could easily be in jail by this evening.

purse strings...

As per Andy's comments on Hospitaliano, I've got another story for you...

Back in the day, when Andy and I still both worked at Beach Blanket Babylon, we pretty much spent every waking minute together. (Not that it's that much different now...) One night, we both called in sick, and spent the evening getting stoned and watching TV. Soon bored out of our minds and itching for mischeif, we decided we felt like pulling some pranks. After a search of Andy's flat, we found the following: an old leather purse and some clear fishing line, stolen from BBB where it's used backstage to hang shit. Anyway, Andy's old apartment was in the middle of the Castro, one floor up rom the street, and right on 18th. There was always tons of foot traffic in front of his place, and we decided to fuck with the gays, cruising for action.
We tied the fishing line to the purse, and then lowered the purse out the window, until it was jut resting on the sidewalk below. We realized, that with two bay windows sticking out over 18th, one of us could hold the purse line, and the other could go to the second window and watch for victims. When someone would approach the purse, I'd wait for the perfect moment, and then signal Andy, who'd give the line a hard pull, making the purse fly into the air. This typically resulted in a scream from our victim, and then they'd walk away muttering, "losers...".
Walter, Andy's then roommate, was rolling his eyes at us, calling us immature and nerdy. That is, until he heard our uncontrollable hysterics and decided to try. We got Walter hooked, so much so that he attempted to ammend and redevelop our trickery, creating more elaborate schemes. Really though, nothing was more hilarious than the purse on the string.
Now, obviously, Andy and I tend to laugh at things only we'd find funny, and really, the visual of two stoned and poverty-stricken 20-something's with nothing better to do than play tricks on people with lives is a sad sight indeed. But I must admit, we laughed so hard, I was sore for a week after. I think, half the time, we were laughing so much because we couldn't believe we had actually sunk so low. We kept our tricks up for hours, finding ways of pulling the purse that would result in more dramatic reactions from our victims. You don't play the purse trick on just anybody. You wait for the perfect person, someone you're sure will scream and curse and jump and holler. Then, and only then, does the true satasfaction come, from the mastering of the art that is practical jokery.

For an additional chuckle, and visual, check out Walter's website. www.thunderstormwitch.com

Sunday, September 05, 2004

are you okay...

So, this morning, in preparation for our party in 5 hours, Bonnie and I walked down to Atlas, the trendy, Mission-hipster cafĂ© a block away and got breakfast. We got our coffee and bagels, sat at a table and people watched for a while before heading home. Sipping our drinks and walking the block back, we spotted 2 relatively attractive and age appropriate gentlemen strolling towards us. Bonnie leans over and whispers, “One for you and one for me.”
Just as they begin to pass us, Bonnie has an unprovoked choking attack on her own saliva, and has to practically brace herself on an apartment wall while she coughs up the hairball or tapeworm or equally frightening mass within her lungs.
Our future husbands pick up their pace and get the fuck away from us, and I can’t say I blame them. I look over at my red-faced roommate, and lovingly say, “Jesus Bonnie. You’re such a cock block.”

Saturday, September 04, 2004

hospitaliano...

Yesterday, I went over to Andy’s because, well, that’s what I do a lot. Andy and I could spend all day doing nothing and have the most bizarre adventures. Once, he took me on a Muni ride just for entertainment value. Along the same lines, we decided to dine at The Olive Garden, for a variety of reasons. When attempting to think of a place to go, we decided what we really wanted was a tacky chain restaurant with crap on the walls, the kind of place that would have an onion blossom or appetizer sampler. But alas, few things along those lines actually exist in our vicinity. Andy suggested The Olive Garden (TOG), relatively close by in Stonestown. While at first reluctant to eat “Eyetalian” food, I recalled a commercial proclaiming unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks for, like, 5 bucks, and that’s what I wanted. Thus, I agreed to go to TOG, but I would have to go incognito, because, really, I would have to kill myself if someone spotted me popping into TOG at 5pm on a Friday afternoon. I threw on a scarf and sunglasses, and we were off.
In retrospect, we probably looked like a F-list movie star and her stoned, gay assistant, ducking our way into the “restaurant” and refusing to make eye contact. I expected the place to be empty. But no. TOG at Stonestown is packed on a Friday afternoon. So packed, Andy and I were relegated to the handicapped table. That was fine by me, as the handicapped table was practically hidden by a huge pillar and off in a little nook that waiters apparently forget about. Immediately upon sitting down, our waiter tried to force us to taste some shitty wine. Really, the last thing you want when dining out is a fucking sales pitch. No thanks, dude. We want iced tea. It’s at this point that I lean over to Andy and whisper, “Some hospitaliano.” This set us off. We decided that if we were waiters at TOG, we’d say things like, “Let me just put this down on your tabletaliano.”
As my unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks for 5 bucks was only available at lunch (although, 5pm is still lunch time if you ask me), I had to order these items individually. Andy, perhaps because he’s never been there, chose the Tour of Italy.
After an eternity of playing with our chairs on wheels and eavesdropping on the suburban soccer moms in the booth next to us, our salad and breadsticks arrived. At TOG, you’re provided with no bread accoutrement, be it butter or oil. I don’t know why, but I chose to find this personally offensive. I thought the deal was, when you’re here, you’re family. In my family, we get shit to put on our bread.
Andy proclaimed the breadsticks to be rock hard after 10 minutes, and as there was one remaining breadstick in the brown plastic “basket”, he decided we had to hide said breadstick so they’d bring us fresh new ones. Sometimes, I laugh at stupid things. We all do, particularly when laughing is inappropriate and scene causing. And I have never laughed harder then when Andy and I tried to hide a breadstick at TOG. Eventually, it ended up propped behind the dessert and specialty drink menu, and it became our secretaliano.
There are several items on the TOG menu deemed “unlimited.” Unlimited pasta, unlimited breadsticks, unlimited shrimp… Andy and I devised an elaborate plan to test just how unlimited these items were, envisioning how we’d hide shrimp along the baseboards and stick breadsticks in our seat cushions. Our table would be covered in eyetalian food, as we tried to hide it with our elbows and handbags, and we’d order more and more. Why? Because it’s unlimited.
The soccer moms next door were starting to bother me, especially as one constantly started every sentence to her waiter with, “You know what?”
“You know what? I’m not done with that…”
“You know what? We’re going to split the cheesecake…”
“Oh, you know what? I think I do want coffee. Yeah, I do…”
You know what? You need to shut the fuck up until you’ve expanded your vocabulary.
Andy, being the gay that he is, can’t actually function for over 15 minutes without cruising some boy. He spotted the tall, Michael Phelps-esque busboy, and started to make inappropriate breadstick references. It was time to go. We paid for our horrible food and lack of hospitaliano and prepared to leave. Andy tried to stay back, watching the table to see if his busboy boyfriend would discover the poorly hidden breadstick. But still terrified I’d be spotted in TOG and late for Hannah’s party, I dragged him away and outside. In the waiting area, I’m disturbed to report, there were probably 25 people waiting for tables.
TOG was surprisingly fun, not because the food was dreadful, the service shitty, and the ambiance lacking. Sometimes, thing are just so wrong, they’re right. Or perhaps even, rightaliano.

Friday, September 03, 2004

in vino, veritas...

Last night, from 2-3am, I received 3 drunk dials. Now, sure. I'm certainly guilty of a drunk dial or two in my day. Typically, my drunk dials are professions of undying love or unbridled hate. But, it's been some time since I stumbled for the phone (months, sadly, not years) and quite frankly, I'd forgotten all about the drunk dial. There was a time in my life, and that time was about a year ago, when drunk dials were an every night occurrence. I expected my phone to ring by 3am nightly, and came to rather enjoy the security of knowing that my idiot friends, while tragically addicted to hooch, thought of me at their most belligerent. It seems this time has come again.
But 3? 3 different jackasses all thought to bother me in the middle of the night, screaming obscenities and talking nonsense...

Call #1: "Spots, get your high falutin' ass out here. Seriously. Don't be a bitch. Put on something sassy and get to my house ASAP."

Call #2: "I just don't understand... (unintelligible)... and men fucking suck, Beth. I mean, he fucking lied to me. He LIED!"

Call #3: "Oh my god. The hottest guy just walked by me. Hold on... 'Hey. What's up?'...(back to me) Asshole. Anyway, you will not fucking believe my night, but let me just announce, I lost my shoes. And everyone decided your celebrity equivalent was that girl on that show, you know. Who wears the unfortunate knee highs you would never wear. You know who I'm talking about? Anyway..."

So, now it's on. One would think I'd be disgusted, horrified, even offended. But no. I've grown nostalgic and I intend to drunk dial all kinds of people this weekend. Take me out, get me hammered, and hand me a phone. I've got some shit to say, people.