Friday, March 31, 2006

thank god i keep an extra beret in my car...

One would think I’d use a little forethought, having spent 45 minutes on perfecting my hair this morning, and when walking the 10 blocks to lunch, brought an umbrella.
Mais non.
I emerged with my curry wrap to a monsoon and immediately began to run. Anyone who knows me knows that I won’t run for my life much less for my health. But goddamn it, I ran for my hair.
Black after block, I booked it, pretending that I could outrun the dreaded downpour. I can only imagine what I looked like; handbag swinging, curry wrap over my head, screaming obscenities as I leapt over puddles and aimed for awnings.
I made it back to my office, huffing, puffing and dripping and dried myself off in the ladies. I looked at the reflection staring back at me in the paper towel dispenser and accepted my fate.
No matter how much expensive product and delicate blow drying I subject my coif to, God will always get the last laugh. Or cry, as the case may be…

faith, a faith, a faith-a!

One of my greatest pleasures in life is singing in my car. Today’s Top 5 is the Top 5 Songs to Sing on your Way to Work, all of which I busted out this morning:

5: Faith – George Michael
4: Murder on the Dance floor – Sophie Ellis
3: The Promise – When in Rome
2: Mr. Brightside – The Killers
1: I Keep Forgettin’ (We’re not in love anymore) – Michael McDonald

Thank you Energy and KOIT. That woke my shit up…

Thursday, March 30, 2006

namaste...

My mother, fabulous as she is, invited me to join her at her yoga class last night, offering to pay my drop in fee and introduce me to her crew. Mom’s decided to encourage my recent foray into health (quitting smoking, going to the doctor, etc.) by bribing me with spa treatments and access into her treasured yoga class. I met her after work yesterday in my yoga duds and pigtails, slightly wary but willing to try anything for free.
The yoga class takes place at the Community Center, in a jazzercise room next to the gym. The lights are dimmed, the dance-bars are covered in Christmas lights and weirdo Tibetan music is played softly in the background.
My mother instructs me to remove my shoes and grab a mat as our little, bra-less, middle-aged yogi teacher comes over to greet her.
“Joanne!”
“Hi Stephanie. This is my daughter, Beth.”
“Oh my god! This is so exciting! A mommy and daughter! This is wonderful. Welcome, Beth!” She then hugs me, overwhelming my senses with patchouli and conditioner-less hair. “Have you practiced yoga before?”
“Not in a very long time. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Not to worry. This is all about breathing and connection.”
Uh, okay.
No one is allowed to hide out in the back. We’ve all got to put our mats in a semi-circle around Stephanie and immediately begin focusing on our breathing. I actually enjoyed the yoga. Most of it was easy, although balancing on one knee with my right arm holding my left foot over my arched back was a little challenging. How the hell is one supposed to focus on both breathing and not toppling over? Also, there’s a huge mirror on one wall so I became fascinated with watching not only myself twist and contort, but everyone else.
My mother, apparently just back from studying yoga at a third world ashram, had no problems and seemed surprisingly familiar with every move and breath. We elongated our backs, opened up our lungs and cleansed our chakras. Over the CD of gong sounds and chanting, Stephanie whispered to the room, “Focus on your chakra. Place your index and middle finger on your third eye and cover your right nostril with your thumb. Inhale through your left nostril and hold. Place your pinkie over your left nostril and remove your thumb from your right nostril, exhaling through it. Continue this until you see your chakra color.”
What?
Following these complicated and bizarre directions, conscious of any booger activity or weird sounds, I saw the color red.
Um, okay?
Finally, we lay on our mats and Stephanie covered us with optional blankets. According to Deepak Chopra, every cell in our body is eavesdropping on our brain. Each and every negative and positive thought has negative and positive physical ramifications. Visualizing “sparkly beautiful energy” protecting our bodies, I floated above myself as per Stephanie’s instructions. We were supposed to be watching ourselves lying on our mats, protected by sparkly energy and thinking positive thoughts. I actually could visualize myself lying there, feet akimbo, palms facing up. I don’t know what everyone else was thinking, but I was thinking, “Cute pigtails.”
We finished the class, returned to the lotus pose and Stephanie, ironically, brought us back to earth.
“And now, as we re-enter our lives with peace, love, light and positive energy, let us end with the chant we always end with.”
What? No one said anything about a chant. I don’t know the chant. All of a sudden, my mother on the mat next to me starts to chant with the class. “Oooommmmm. Shaaaan-ti, shaaaan-ti, shaaaan-Tiiiiiii.”
Oh my god, who are you?
Class ended and people started to get up, but Stephanie wasn’t done.
“Joanne, would you like to introduce us to your daughter?”
“Sure. This is Beth.”
“Welcome Beth. It was wonderful to have you.”
“Thank you. It was lovely to be here.”
Stephanie hugged me goodbye, we gathered our things and I headed to my car. As I drove through Mill Valley, on my way to meet my folks for dinner, I smelled something.
Patchouli. All over me.
Positive thoughts, Beth. Positive thoughts.
Actually, I liked the class. And my mother generously offered to comp me whenever I want to go. Hmmmm. I wonder what I’ll get for going to the dentist…

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

frightening the friends...

Another Tuesday, another Pub Quiz. I met Mikey for dinner first and by 7:30, the entire team had convened at a big round table for name selection. Mikey, Big Chris, Leslie, Berkeleyist, Kate, Armando, Jason, Jenny and yours truly once again submitted names and anonymously voted. It came down to a tie between “My ass still hurts from last night, Gavin” or “Jesus hates condoms, and so do I.”
We settled on the latter.
Over fried zucchini and disgusting fish, we immediately took the lead. In fact, I’d hasten to say we were on a serious roll, sneaking away to call dad and Kate’s mom, but otherwise fully knowledgeable about needless trivia. Then, they announced the night’s special round.
Serial Killers.
Kate looked across the table at me. “We just won.”
Having known me since the Carter Administration, Kate knows there’s one single solitary subject that I overwhelmingly excel in. Serial killers. Folks, to put it mildly, I am a serious expert at serial killer history. My main area of expertise is late 20th century, but I could easily teach a class on this fascinating subject.
By the 5th question, as I just spewed answers into Kate’s ear, I noticed that the rest of the table sat in stunned silence, staring at me.
“Beth, you’re scaring me.”
“Seriously, Spots. Why do you know these things?”
“Um, I don’t know. I just do. This is just the tip of the ice berg.”
“Yeah.” Kate piped up. “She’s always been into serial killers. This is nothing. Don’t get her started on Jack the Ripper. She’s loves the British ones.”
I got a solid 9 out of 10, ironically not knowing that the Hall and Oates classic, “Rich Girl” inspired David “Son of Sam” Berkowitz to begin his rampage. Crazy me. I thought it was the talking dog.
We swept the music round and with great celebration, went nuts when “Jesus hates condoms and so do I” was announced as the winner. We won a pitcher of beer and $50. Guess what we spent the $50 on? Yeah. Pitchers of beer and a Chardonnay for me.
I’ve got to say, I love my team. I LOVE my team.
Everyone takes it seriously, everyone shows up, everyone is now totally afraid of me. I mean, how many of your friends know 27 ways to dispose of a body…

for karen...

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

that's nuthin' lady...

When dining at my grandmother’s retirement home, we typically enjoy cocktails in her apartment and then head down to the formal dining room for dinner. This means, should one need to powder one’s nose during dinner, you’ve got to use the lobby ladies room.
One Easter, when I was about 15 or 16, I excused myself from dinner and wandered down the hallway of a huge retirement home to the three-stalled lobby bathroom.
For reasons most will mock and I can’t explain, I don’t want people to know that I pee. Or at least if I do, that it makes no sound. Now, of course, I pee. Everyone does, right? And the laws of sound apply to me just as much as they do to everyone else. But seriously. I go through life attempting to imply that whenever I hit the ladies, I’m just touching up my hair. Ridiculous, yes. But true.
So when I found myself in the retirement home lobby ladies in a stall next to a blue-haired geriatric, I attempted to kill time by digging around my purse and readjusting my pantyhose, waiting for Mrs. Doubtfire to finish up and get the hell out of there so I could pee. Needless to say, she was taking her time.
Finally, I gave up my bizarre restraint and peed.
All of a sudden, from within the stall next to me, I hear an enthusiastic, “My, what a HEALTHY flow!”
Oh. My. God…

Monday, March 27, 2006

urban adventures...

Having had such a hardcore night on Friday, Mikey and I decided we'd explore Chinatown with Chuck and Jon before they headed back home Saturday evening. Of all the restaurants we could've chosen in all of Chinatown, we picked the once place that truly and profoundly sucked. Not only did we wait an eternity to be seated, it took another 45 minutes to order. Conveniently, it was right across the street from my favorite dive bakery/dim sum joint and I was able to obtain the coveted, incredibly good and cheap mini-almond cookies, which barely made up for our shitty dining experience.
Jon and Chuck left for Tahoe and Mikey and I settled in front of the TV to recover from our lack of sleep. By 8 o’clock, we were bored and decided to head over to Green Apple Books and wander amidst the shelves of used books and intellectual hipsters.
In the interest of full disclosure, I needed to spend money on something interesting this Saturday night. Zoe’s working on a magazine article in which she follows the spending habits of 4 women over the course of a weekend. And while my dear friends Dani (NY), Sara (Nashville) and Jesse (Reading, PA) are all fascinating shoppers, I’m hyper-conscious that anything I buy might be in a friggin’ magazine.
Forget tampons. I’m buying torn and tattered used cookbooks and donating money to orphans.
“So this is why we’re in a bookstore in the middle of the night? So you can look cool?”
“Hey Michael, you’re the one that didn’t want to go to a movie. We’re exploring. This is good for you.”
Also, I got a fabulous cookbook, purchased entirely for one butternut squash, pear and gorgonzola tart recipe.
We split a late night pizza and headed home, to be greeted the next morning by Zoe, fresh off a plane from New York. Zoe’s once again in town to take a test in completion of her Master’s Degree and we had a whole Sunday to kill together. That means one thing.
Target.
Mikey’s getting a interesting inside look into the relationship of Zoe and Spots. Before her arrival, Mikey and I were sitting around watching “A Perfect Murder.”
“Uh, look at Gwyneth’s clothes. Heaven.”
“Yeah. She’s hot.”
“But her clothes are incredible. And her closet. Look at that closet.”
“Okay. If you say so.”
With that, Zoe arrived, dumped her bags in the hallway, and flopped next to me on the couch.
“Oh my god, I love her clothes in this movie. And that closet. My god.”
She then picked up my new cookbook and flipped through it as we watched.
“Hello? Look at this butternut squash, pear and gorgonzola tart. We HAVE to make this.”
Zoe Nicole Stagg.
I love you.
Mikey unwittingly agreed to join us at Target, soon learning that when we shop Target, we SHOP Target.
“Are you guys ready to go?”
“We’re still on clothes.”
“Okay?”
“We haven’t hit food, beauty supplies or house wares yet.”
“But I’m done.”
“Okay?”
We rewarded ourselves with a late lunch at the Colma Fresh Choice, ghetto salad bar. Fresh Choice is fabulous, in my opinion, because of the baked goods. I’m also a fan of the soft serve, the only acceptable item at the dessert bar. Zoe and I created our ice-milk sundaes and debated our dessert bar skills as Mikey went to check it out. He returned with a bowl of tapioca and chocolate pudding.
“What the hell is that?”
“Stop looking at me!”
Zoe couldn’t stop laughing. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. No one’s picked the tapioca since 1953.”
Michael bowed his head in shame. “Well I like it. I always get this.”
“There’s a hierarchy of dessert bar choices, Mikey. Cool kids never get tapioca.”
“Yet ironically, cool kids hang out at Fresh Choice.”
Too exhausted to actually cook anything, much less the highly anticipated tart, we returned home and agreed on going out. We’d invited Big Chris over for dinner, but he just as easily agreed on Park Chow and after drinking some “free booze” at home, headed out to Irving for dinner.
I enthusiastically endorse a lot of places, but god damnit, I love Chow. Park Chow’s their version by Golden Gate Park, but we tend to frequent the Chow in the Castro, aptly dubbed Gay Chow.
I regard Chow’s menu as wonderful, not only because they serve basic American comfort food, but you can order every salad, including the funky ones, in small, medium or large. Zoe and I regard this as the pinnacle menu options.
The boys didn’t really care, as long as we could grab a drink afterwards. We walked into The Little Shamrock, took one look at the drunk passed out next to the weathered hooker, and walked right out. We ended up meeting Jason at another divey Irish joint, and I spent my last $5 for Zoe’s magazine article on the weekend’s final glass of wine. I looked for a hobo on the way home, but Park Chow’s in too classy a neighborhood. Otherwise, I’d delight in having my final spending entry be “$1 to bag lady. Beat that Dani…”

Saturday, March 25, 2006

do you know swany river...














One of the many wonderful benefits of adulthood is that you can share the perks of your job with friends, and reap the benefits of having pals with the hook-up. Kate and Jenny (for all intensive purposes, my cousins) both work at the swanky San Francisco eatery, Scala’s Bistro, and I hadn’t been since they’d started working there. As neither sister was working on Friday night, we decided to meet for dinner at 8:15, were promised a fabulous table and an attentive and generous staff. Sweet!
I made plans to meet up with Mikey and his friends from college later in the evening, and headed out into the monsoon to meet my girls. As per Jenny’s instructions, I parked at Stockton-Sutter Garage and headed down to Union Square, forgetting my umbrella. Block after block in gold jacquard flats, I hopped through puddles and aimed for awnings. Soon drenched and wandering around Maiden Lane without a clue which direction to turn, I ducked into a souvenir shop, bought an umbrella and called Jenny.
“I’m soaked! I look like a hobo! Help!”
Finally pointed in the right direction, I booked it 4 blocks up Powell Street and into the huge, gorgeous and perfectly lit Scala’s. An intimidating French woman looked up from the reservations book.
“Yes?”
“Hi!” I said a little too enthusiastically. “I’m here to see Kate and Jenny.”
“Oui! Elizabette? Yes, you come with me, you beautiful girl.”
Guided by Nathalie, I slid out of my coat and into a leather booth, grabbing Kate’s glass of wine before she could protest. We decided on appetizers and wine until Jenny’s boyfriend Mike showed up from some Model U.N. debate he’s working on, currently representing Australia. Our waiter approached and I looked up to find none other than Armando from Pub Quiz.
“Oh, no it isn’t Miss Beth!”
“Oh yes it is!”
“Honey, you’re drenched. You need a big ole glass of something fancy.”
Armando knows me so well. We enjoyed spectacular food and drinks and were soon joined by a dapper Mike. We had a wonderful time, getting the celebrity gossip from Nathalie and Joe the Manager, and feasting on amazing pasta. Done with dinner, we paid our generously little tab and headed back out into the rain.
Off to Grand Café, Kate and I decided to huddle under and umbrella and scream the Newsies Soundtrack the whole way there. I think we scared some tourists with our vocal stylings, but when trapped by the rain, I sing.
Once again soaked, we ran into Grand Café and found our friends. I’d called Mikey and Chris to gather their groupies and meet us there, and our collection of people, now including Joe the Manager, ended up sitting in a huge circle of leather chairs around a fireplace, sipping cocktails and chatting about Don Ho.
Mikey’s friends, John and Chuck, were in town to see Mikey’s new place and were anxious to go to a bar with, how shall I put this, less ornate floral arrangements. So, we finished our drinks, gathered our coats, said goodbye to the unwilling and walked down to Johnny Foley’s Irish House, which was packed and had a live band.
We found a table close to the bar and I bartered with some bikers for their candle. An extinguished candle on a table is an easily fixed instant ambiance boost, and truth be told, there were a ton of guys in there and I look much better by candelight. Who doesn’t?
Joe the manager selected my wine and Kate and I settled into one of our intense discussions. Soon, I noticed Mikey was missing.
Ah yes. My sweet, shy, aw shucks, adorable roommate is, in layman’s terms, a pimp. He’d met a girl named Kathleen and was “talking” with her on the sidewalk. Kathleen was in town from Ohio and, in addition to being perfectly attractive, was wearing a white dress shirt, brown and pink striped pants and a matching brown and pink striped vest, buttoned.
Mikey walked back to the table. I couldn’t help myself.
“Where’s your friend, the mime?”
“Yeah, did she make you any balloon animals?”
“I want my face painted.”
“What’s the name of her Barbershop Quartet?”
I should learn to shut up, because I’ve not only been that girl, but I needed Mikey as my wing man. Earlier, I’d peered my head around a pillar to see the band and was soon flirting with some cute guy from Maryland. The problem was, the bar was so loud, I’d asked him his name three times and could never hear the answer. I’d finally given up and pretended I understood, but there was no way I could bring him back to my table and introduce him to my friends with no name. I excused myself.
“Oh Mikey. Can I see you for a second.”
I briefly explained my situation, hid, and watched Mikey lean up to the bar next to Maryland. A minute later, Mikey walked by and whispered “Michael.”
Oh. Well, that’s easy to remember.
For those that are curious, Michael from Maryland’s exact celebrity equivalent is the lead singer from Cake. Mikey from Home disappeared with Kathleen once again, just as Armando was arriving fresh from finishing up at Scala’s.
“Armando, this is Michael. He’s from Maryland.”
Michael from Maryland leaned in to shake hands. “Boy, Armando. That’s one hell of a flashy shirt.”
Oh my god. Do not diss Armando’s shirt. I love Armando. And I love his shirt.
“Perhaps it’s not L.L. Bean, boring state man, but it’s fabulous.”
To Maryland’s credit, he quickly recovered, but I’ll pick the adorable gay who comes to Pub Quiz and comps my carpaccio over a goateed stranger in a canvas barn coat any day. Which is why I’m single.
Maryland’s moves were creeping me out and I wanted to chat with Mikey’s friends from college. I made vague plans to meet up with Maryland on Saturday and moved on. *
By this time, it was 1:30. We headed outside to find Mikey and Barbershop Quartet in an emotional goodbye embrace. Apparently, her friends nixed any further, um, interaction with Mikey, having a plane to catch the next morning, and she was dragged into a cab and out of our lives.
I was bummed. I mean, I wanted her to draw my charicature.
We said goodbye to Kate, Joe and Armando and began to walk back to the car. Suddenly, John announced, “I’m hungry. Can we get food?”
“Sure. Do you want disgusting Mexican food or disgusting diner food?”
“Um, disgusting diner food.”
“Lucky Penny, it is.”
The Lucky Penny was packed at 3am, cars overflowing from the tiny parking lot and groups of drunks crowding around the door. Mikey, John, Chuck and I settled into a booth and ordered grease. I think a fight may have broken out at some point. I can’t be sure, the place was so hoppin’.
It’s been awhile since I’ve stayed out till 4am, wandering around San Francisco is a metallic gold cardigan and ruined shoes, mascara running down my face and an onion ring hanging out of my mouth, but it was fabulous.
We sang all the way home, and as I crawled into my big cozy bed and glanced at my clock glowing “4:25” I made a mental note of two things: The first is where we parked the car. The second? When in doubt, a woman should never dress like she works in a 1920’s malt shoppe…

*Monday morning update: So I get to work this morning and there's a message on my work voicemail left at 2:35 am from Maryland...super drunk. I gathered the co-workers around for a listen and I think it's safe to say, the immense laughter began with the sentance "I'm staying at the Westin St. Francis in Room 527. Use this information as you see fit." Ewwww...

Friday, March 24, 2006

a day in the life of gavin:

6:30-7:30: Jog through Presidio in black Prada athletic apparel while listening to Gorillaz on his iPod.

7:30-8:15: Shower and grooming, selection on morning business ensemble.

8:15-8:30: Hair product application.

8:30-9:30: “hanging out” with Larry Page and Sergey Brin at The Grove.

9:30-9:45: anonymously picks up litter on sidewalk.

9:45-10:30: Passes out umbrellas to hobos.

10:30-12:00: Affects positive city-wide, national and global change at his office in City Hall.

12:00-12:15: Reviews his favorite posts from my blog archives.

12:15-12:30: Uncomfortable phone call with Sophia Milos, who’s not getting the hint.

12:30-2:00: Lunch at the One Market with political advisors. Fellow diners overhear the following snippets, “Yeah, but does it HAVE to be Oval? And why the tacky crest on the rug? That shit’s gotta be redesigned before I even consider running. Call Stanlee.”

2:00-2:45: Opening of affordable housing complex/former crack den. Stops to talk to tweaker street person and inspires them to get clean.

2:45-3:30: Attends recital of 4th Grade’s re-enactment of the Zodiac killings. Starts the standing ovation.

3:30-4:00: Conference call with Divorce lawyers.

4:00-5:00: Oprah

5:00-5:45: Cocktails at Bix with Rick and Vincent, a gay couple he married and befriended. Agrees to pose for sidewalk photo with their new terrier, Kelly Barkson.

5:45-6:30: Heads home for meditation and sauna.

6:30-7:30: Evening apparel selection.

7:30-8:15: General grooming, hair product application and fragrance spritz (Gucci, Envy for Men), while listening to Matisyahu.

8:15-10:45: Dinner at supperclub with winners of Alice radio’s “Have dinner with the Mayor” contest. Tells charming stories while subtly looking at his Breitling.

10:45-12:00: Drinks with senior staff and groupies at Tosca. Makes fun of winners of Alice radio’s “Have dinner with the Mayor” contest.

12:00-12:30: Home for bubble bath and reading of Gandhi on NonViolence by Mohandas K. Gandhi.

12:30-1:00: Reads my blog and quietly chuckles.

1:00-1:15: Prayer.

1:15: Peaceful slumber, dreams of a better world for all of God’s children…and me.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

i'm gonna need some back-up...

I e-mailed Jason about my depressing and extremely ghetto car woes. His response was to invite me to a movie screening and after-party. This is why we love Jason. Apparently, as part of his GenArt membership, Jason attends artsy-fartsy openings and premieres, attending sponsored open bar after-parties following each event.
Last night, I met him at the Metreon for a screening of Brick, a new indie film that was apparently a smash at Sundance. The movie was great, a kind of present day film noir with hilarious dialogue and a brilliant performance by Lucas Haas.
“There are some cute people in here, J.”
“Yeah, I know. Maybe we’ll see them at Fluid after the movie.”
The credits rolled and we headed down the block to the bar, a sign-less glowing purple door guarded by beefy security and some velvet ropes.
“It looks empty.”
“Yeah, but it’ll crowd up. Let’s go get drinks.”
Sponsored by Ciroc vodka and Stella Artois, Jason ordered 2 plastic “glasses” of vodka and we settled onto a corner booth of velvet and votives. The place did start to pick up after a while, and Jason and I began to observe those around us. Soon, we were joined by a middle-aged woman with crazy bangs who sat right down next to us and started bopping to the music. Hmm. Might as well see what she has to say, right?
“Did you enjoy the movie?”
(Screaming over the Bel Biv Devoe) “I didn’t see the movie! I was attending Donald Trump University down that block.”
Okay. Then how the hell’d you get in?
She continued to scream incoherently, Jason and I straining to make out random words amidst the gibberish. Jason leaned in. “Oh my god, she’s a complete tweaker.”
The tweaker was delighted to have people to talk to.
“I’m Angelique!”
“I’m Beth and this is Jason.”
“Hey! So awesome to meet you. So Jason, what do you do? Are you an artist?”
“I’m an architect.”
“And Beth, what do you do?”
“I’m a cop.”
God bless him, Jason looked straight ahead and went with it.
“Oh my god. I have total respect for those that put their life on the line. Are you a uniform cop?”

I thought about that one for a second. “Yeah, I’m a uniform cop.”
“How long have you been a cop?”
“4 years.”
“Wahoo!” She grabbed my arm. “Good for you!” She motioned down the Stella server and grabbed another beer. “Don’t worry, officer. I’m not driving back to Vacaville. I’m taking BART, girl.”
“Hey sweetheart, I’m off duty. Do whatever you’ve got to do.”
“Yeah! Can I get you a drink?”
Not having the heart to tell her that drinks were free, I said sure and off she went.
Jason laughed. “So, you’re a cop.”
“I know. I feel so powerful.”
She returned with a drink she may well have actually unwittingly paid for and dove right back in, this time discussing her love of lima beans, which makes sense, because she loves Lime-a, Peru so much.
“Do you guys smoke?”
“No!” We answered in unison, thrilled she was excusing herself once again. Angelique was clearly tensing up talking to a cop while on street drugs. Jason and I resumed our visual judging of the crowd, watching people get their photos taken for the society pages and kinda sad Nob Hill guys hitting on a little bit drunk Marina girls.
It was fun. I love GenArt.
We walked back to the parking garage and to our respective cars. “That was so fun. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome. There’s another one next month.”
“I’m so in. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. But I’ve got to run.”
“Why?”
“I gotta put an APB out on Angelique…”

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

yeah, i'm just researching, um, sluts...

Once again, stealing from the files of Dear Abby, my burrito buddy, Big Chris and I will continue to solve the world's problems:

Dear Spots and Big Chris,
My heart is pounding and I'm at my wit's end. This situation is difficult to explain. I'm afraid that other readers may be facing the same horror that I'm dealing with, so please advise us on how to handle an extremely delicate situation.
My husband has it in his head to do genetic testing for "genealogy" purposes. It isn't cheap. One of the places he wants testing from charges a couple of hundred dollars. He has asked me to have it done, too. I told him I wasn't interested and I thought it was too expensive.
Now he wants to have our 17-year-old son tested. I have argued that our son should not have his DNA on record anywhere, that he really needs both parents to give consent for testing, and it costs too much.
The horror I really have is that, 18 years ago, I made an awful mistake. I don't know if my husband is the father of our son. I'm having panic attacks about his finding out how awful I was 18 years ago.
Can you issue advice that these DNA tests should not be used on minor children, and that there are powerful reasons why not? Can you think of any other reasons I can give for not having him tested so I can convince my husband to drop the idea? Please don't reveal where we live. You can say it's Minnesota.
IN A PANIC!

Chris' Response~

Dear Skank,
You could have saved a lot of time and basically written I don't want DNA testing done on my son because it will reveal what I already know; my husband is not his biological father.
Do you not watch one of my favorite TV shows: nip/tuck?
Julia McNamara knew her husband Dr. Sean McNamara was not the biological father of their son Matt. It was in fact Sean's best friend and business partner, Dr. Christian Troy. While things worked out between Sean, Christian, and Matt (because guys are cool like that) Julia was kicked outof her mansion, OD'd on pills, had a fling with a serial killer and now lives in a shitbox, one bedroom apartment.
My point being in the end this will work out badly for you as the female. Is your man a good husband and father? If the answer is yes, then you have to put your foot down and say DNA testing is ridiculous for your son especially if he's healthy. Also discuss how the expense of the testing could be better spent on your kid's college education, a new roof, family vacation, etc. The only thing you have to do pull your shit together and quit having panic attacks or your husband will get suspicious.
Lying can be healthy for a relationship and your case its essential.
Chris

My response~

Dear Jezebel McFloozy,
Get with it. No one does DNA testing for genealogy purposes. I’m guessing your sly husband knows you’re the town tramp and suspects that obnoxious kid he’s been clothing, feeding and barely tolerating looks suspiciously like the milkman. He’s on to you.
And let me just say, Einstein, that your genius plan of pre-suggesting our advice is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. “Hey honey. Beth and Chris say you shouldn’t do DNA testing on children. Deal with that!”
Yeah. That’s gonna work. First of all, as a minor forensic enthusiast, I couldn’t be more Pro-DNA. Second of all, the last thing I need is an adulterous slut telling me what to print.
My advice is to skip town. Your husband hates you anyway (rightfully so) and your son is no-doubt blossoming into a pre-rampage serial killer due to all the mother issues you’ve dumped upon him. He’s most likely already mutilating small animals in a wooded area right now. Cut your losses and next time, consider a condom.
You're probably going to hell,
Spots

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

thank god for basic cable...

So, apparently I’ve been living a lie. We all have, actually. My hookup at CNN gave me the early scoop and I’ve been reading about it ever since.
Dog, Bounty Hunter will be marrying Beth this coming season.
Pardon me? One more time, please. Uh, what?
Anyone who’s watched Bounty Hunter assumed that Beth and Dog were married. My god, in the opening credits, each person is introduced by their relationship to Dog, ie; “Leland, Dog’s son.”
You know what it says for Beth? “Beth, Dog’s WIFE.”
Hello? What the hell is going on, people?
One would think that Dog, die-hard Christian ex-con that he is, would have long ago made an honest woman out of the mother of 2 of his 12 children. Mais non.
Let’s go to the man himself for a quote.
"I'm marrying my common-law wife, Beth, the Christian way, with a preacher and all that.”
Oh, but wait. It gets better. The guest list for the May 20th nuptials will include Danny Bonaduce, Wynonna Judd, and Hulk Hogan.
How do you say fabulous in Hawaiian? And I do I get an invite? Mother of God, I could die a happy woman. The wedding of Dog and Beth? Are you kidding me? I can’t even begin to imagine the armbands, the hair-dos, the ceremonial tattoos.
Seriously. I’m crashing this wedding. And I’m taking Big Chris. This is one of the rare occasions where I would need to look to him for white trash etiquette and protocol…

Oh, and PS. We all know what premiere’s tonight at 9, right? I’ll give you a hint.
“It doesn’t say Tina on the bottle. It says Jonathan on the bottle. For a reason.”
He’s ba-ack…

Monday, March 20, 2006

keep it golden...

I’ve often wondered, and who hasn’t really, which Golden Girl I most identify with and why? I’m clearly not a Rose, and I’m obviously no Blanche. But I’m torn between Sophia and Dorothy. Truth be told, as much as I’d like to fancy myself the bad ass Sophia, I’m a Dorothy through and through.
I had to be sure. So I took “The Test.”
After answering a series of questions pertaining to Mister Burt Reynolds, caftans and cheesecake, the computer agreed with me. I’m a Dorothy.
The more I think about it, the easier it become to find the “Spots” in the sitcom.
I was going to take the Designing Women Test, sure I just had to be a Julia, but after several questions I became too afraid my results would brand me an Anthony and I nervously quit.
While not a sitcom, were I a Steel Magnolia, I’d be Miss Clairee Belcher. No question.
Sadly, and I have a sinking feeling this personal assessment is dead on, had I attended Easton as one of the gals from the Facts of Life, I’d be an eerie and unexpected cross between Natalie and Blair.
Ugh. The shame overwhelms me.
But hey. At least I’m not a Jo…

sometimes, when I have too much to write about, I write nothing at all...

I'm working a new celebrity interview. Just guess who??? Check out Berkeleyist's blog for a hint and recaps of our Friday night. Saturday night, that's another story...

Sunday, March 19, 2006

why a feret?

You really haven’t lived until you’ve seen a transsexual cabaret singer play a tuba and then had dinner with her afterwards. Michael, you’re welcome.
That was pretty much the highlight of my weekend. That and watching Kindergarten Cop today. I really have a true appreciation of the random weekend TBS offering. Last weekend, I mentioned to Mike that if I could do anything, I’d watch the genius Johnny Depp film, Blow.
“Oh, that movie is awesome.”
“I know. And it’s always good, no matter what part you tune in to. That’s exactly what I want to watch. It’d be awesome if it was starting in like, 15 minutes, so I could make fabulous snacks and watch the whole thing.”
Lo and behold, guess what was scheduled to start in 35 minutes?
Blow!
Yesterday, I had the same inclination.
“You know what I wish was on today?”
“What? Blow again?”
“No. Kindergarten Cop.”
“Yes! I love Kindergarten Cop. But that’d never be on.”
“Yeah, I know.”
And he was right. Kindergarten Cop wasn’t on yesterday. We settled on Back to the Future.
After a harrowing evening last night, Mike got up this morning and made scrabbled eggs as I selected a Donner Party documentary. As the documentary wound to a close, I scanned the digital cable channel information for our next viewing.
“OH MY GOD! LOOK WHAT’S ABOUT TO START!”
Um, I don’t know if I’d classify it as an American Movie Classic, but thank god AMC does.
“I cannot believe you called Kindergarten Cop. That is amazing.”
“Seriously. I have some kind of bizarre, weekend, daytime movie gift. It’s the only thing I’m able to predict.”
“What’ll it be next weekend.”
“Beats me.” I said. “I can’t force it. It has to happen naturally.”
“Well, “Mike sighed. “I’m rooting for A League of Their Own…”

Friday, March 17, 2006

blogger spice...

As per Chris' recent Spice Girl comment, Berkeleyist and I have come up with our potential Spice Girl Names:

Berkeleyist:
East Bay Spice
Wino Spice
Spend-thrift Spice
Wasted Potential Spice
Heavenly Spice

Spots:
Emotionally Unavailable Spice
Fabulous Spice
Barrio Spice
Spinster Spice
Bridge and Tunnel Spice

Big Chris:
Slutty Spice
Tecate Spice
Burrito Spice
Stripper Tipper Spice

mikey likes it...

I’m really into cooking right now. I’ve instructed Mikey to go through the cookbooks and fold down the recipes he wants to try. We share a love of the Food Channel and Top Chef and as long as he keeps bringing home random bottles of wine, I’ll keep cooking. Poor Mikey is my guinea pig, and as he claims to eat “anything,” I’ll shove a plate of African beef stew in front of him and wait for a reaction.
Last night, I made “You Won’t Be Single for Long” Vodka Cream Pasta. According to Rachel Ray and Oprah, if you feed this pasta to any man, he’ll fall madly in love with you. So before I make this pasta for some kind of romantic dinner date, I’m testing it out on Mike.
I wanted an honest reaction, so I didn’t tell Mikey the actual name of the dish. I simply made him play music and pour wine while I minced shallots and reduced cheap liquor.
“Okay, Sunshine. Go turn on the West Wing. We’re just about ready.”
I handed him a steaming bowl of pasta, complete with a smattering of flat leaf parsley and grilled rosemary bread, waiting for a reaction. Totally oblivious to the importance of his response, Mikey casually took a huge bite.
Silence.
All of a sudden, he looked over at me, mouth full. “God Bless You.”
Yes!
Tonight, as per Andy’s request, we’re having Turkey Meatloaf and Scalloped Potatoes, the standard pre-show menu for a transexual’s one woman show

Thursday, March 16, 2006

this one's for the children...

Because I live in the ghetto, and because I’m appallingly lazy, I chose to park on the west side of Harrison last night, meaning I’d have to get up before 6 and move my car. It seemed like a reasonable idea at the time, as I parked in the rain after a 14 hour day. I mean, I was in no mood to drive around for ages fighting with stolen hatchbacks for questionable spaces next to shanty towns. I was parking, no matter what time I had to rise and move dear Rhonda the Honda.
Needless to say, I was singing a different tune at 5:45am. Cursing all that’s holy, I stomped to my car in the pre-dawn drizzle, re-parked her in one of the dozen legal spaces on my block and crawled back in bed, freezing and wide awake.
When I was a little girl, I could dream myself back to sleep by tuning into my bizarre fantasy world. My most favorite fantasy, popular during the first Bush Administration, was that I was hired as the sixth New Kid on the Block. I could happily drift off to sleep with a smile on my face by the mere thought of being included in NKOTB’s pre-show prayer huddle. I’d really worked out this scenario: the emotional, high pressure auditions, the female fans slowly accepting me, the acknowledgment of my immense talent and sweet moves, the subtle backstage flirting with Joe McIntyre – I really had quite a plan for myself. Drifting off to sleep, it all seemed possible. If I wished for it hard enough, there’s no way I COULDN’T be the only girl member of New Kids.
Folks, I discovered that this doesn’t work so much for me anymore. This morning, curled up in a ball, cursing adulthood and shitty parking, I tried to imagine what kind of magical moment could transport me to the unconscious bliss the New Kids gave me. Other some kind of filthy scenario involving George Clooney and the rooftop of the Paris Ritz or the fabulous task of being a regular judge on Project Runway, I merely worried about my taxes. As I finally fell asleep, forcing myself to dream of Hugh Grant and I riding thoroughbreds around our rural English country manor in traditional equestrian apparel, I vowed to never park on the west side of Harrison Street on a Wednesday again.
And with that, the perfect fantasy popped into my head and I fell into a peaceful slumber:
A god damned parking space…

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

get your hand off my shoulder, tard...

You know I’m in trouble when the “President” and I cry at the same heart-warming story. Everyone except my roommate has seen J-Mac shoot 20 points in the season closer of Rochester, New York’s Greece Athena High School basketball game, right?
Well, just for Mikey, here’s the scoop from your favorite high sports reporter. Jason “J-Mac” McElwain, a 16 year old autistic kid who’d spent 3 seasons as his team’s manager, warming the bench and refilling water bottles, was put in for the last 4 minutes of the last game of the season. The crowd apparently anticipated this thoughtful gesture, suddenly producing photo-masks of his face and cheering him on, half expecting him to aim for the wrong basket or forget to dribble. Turns out, the whole time they’d been patting sweet, slow Jason on the top of the head as he collected the balls after practice, they neglected to notice J-Mac can fucking shoot.
The kid hit six 3-pointers in 3 minutes, people.
You’ve got to watch ESPN’s version of this video, because there’s no way you CAN’T cry.
J-Mac’s apparently fielding 37 movie offers, although if you ask me, Radio pretty much covers the jist.
Anyway, I was watching Good Morning America today and threw coffee at the television watching our commander and chief making J-Mac look like a rocket scientist. There’s no way I can respect a president that exploits a 16 year old autistic kid for a photo-shoot during war-time. Or one that giggles…

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

i'd like to request la bamaba...

I thought I’d seen it all, observing my fellow motorists driving around the Bay Area. I’ve seen men shaving with soap and a straight razor, couples and singles engaged in various sex acts, fist fights while speeding down freeways. Alex and I even saw some dude driving a truck with a leashed iguana on his shoulder. But what I witnessed on E. Blithedale yesterday morning takes the charming cake.
As I pulled up alongside a beat-up Isuzu Trooper, watching a ratty old dog jumping around the backseat and popping its head out of a broken window, I rolled my eyes. Jesus Christ. Another smelly, unoriginal hippy on his way to catch some gnarly waves. Why do these people still exist?
But when I looked at the driver, I was delighted by the unexpected scene. Behind the wheel sat a quirky looking character driving his funky Trooper and playing his funky trumpet. He was blowing on that trumpet like there was no tomorrow, pausing occasionally to, you know, look at the road. I stopped next to him at a red light and watched the show. Dizzy Gillespie looked over and caught me smiling, suddenly waving and turning his trumpet towards me. Rapidly becoming more attractive, he played and played the whole red light long. It was fabulous.
The light turned green and I pulled ahead of him, watching Dizzy continue his concert in my rear view mirror. I turned into my office and watched him drive away, trumpet still at his lips, dog still dancing out his broken window. I was almost tempted to follow him and track him down. I mean, this is the kinda guy I want at my parties.
But I didn’t. I simply parked my car, slumped into my desk and wondered about the mysterious musician who’d made my morning.
Golly, folks. I think I’m in love…

Monday, March 13, 2006

slice me off another slab of beef, boys...

After my Nonie died, my grandfather (Da) reconnected with an old lady friend who happened to be widowed herself. For 10 years, they were “together.” I don’t really know the parameters of their relationship, but Joanne O. became a big part of our family and like a second grandmother to me. Joanne’s grandson, Man on the Inside, felt the same way about Da, possessing an intense appreciation for my incredibly wonderful and quirky grandfather. Both Joanne O. and Da have since passed away, and MOI and I have maintained a tradition of celebrating them with family dinners every few months. These dinners can only take place at restaurants Da and Joanne frequented and MOI always orders Da’s drink, a Bourbon and Seven.
After Da passed away, I was going through his things and found a fabulous Polaroid of him and Joanne, neatly fit in a House of Prime Rib paper frame. I treasured this Polaroid and kept it taped to my fridge. When MOI was shipped off to war in the Middle East, I gave him the Polaroid for good luck. The Polaroid has, needless to say, disappeared, and while MOI claims to have it “somewhere,” I’ve been desperate for a present day replacement.
Normally, our Da and Joanne dinners take place at Liverpool Lil’s, however MOI refuses to dine there after an unfortunate run-in with some bad Beef Wellington. This was my chance for a Polaroid. “Hey, what about the House of Prime Rib?”
“Reservations for 6. I’m on it.”
I was slightly worried the free Polaroid in the paper frame was a thing of the past, and I mentioned my concern to the family as we sat in the bar waiting to be seated. “Well just ask.”
“I don’t want to ask.” I whined. “That’s dorky.”
What if the Polaroid costs a fortune? What if they don’t make the frames anymore? What if I die without my House of Prime Rib Polaroid?
An adorable man in a suit came over to seat us, asking for MOI and his party. Suddenly, he exclaimed, “Spotswoods?!?”
“Um, oh my god. Evan from kindergarten is the maitre’d at The House of Prime Rib.”
Screams, hugs, handshakes.
I silently thought to myself, “Yes! Polaroid, here I come.”
Evan put us at a fabulous table and introduced us to our server, Becky, who was hilarious. MOI leaned over, in all seriousness. “You think I’m a Man on the Inside? That Evan guy’s running the front of the House of Prime Rib. Talk about Man on the Inside.”
“Really?”
“Uh, yeah Beth. That guy’s connected.”
I think MOI has an unhealthy reverence for old time San Francisco, red-meat mafia joints, but I’m delighted to have such an in. I spotted Becky out of the corner of my eye, Polaroid camera in hand.
“The Polaroid!” I screamed. I called Becky over and explained the long history of Da and Joanne O.
“Oh my god, that’s the cutest story I’ve ever heard. I love it. We’re doing a photo shoot.”
“Folks.” I announced. “Fix your hair. My dream is becoming a reality…”

Sunday, March 12, 2006

totally sappy...




Honey-baked Ham: $60
15 bottles of wine: $200
Fabulous cheese course: $50
Hairspray for bouffant: $3
Having a fabulous dinner party for your brother's last night in town: Priceless.

You guys rock. I love you...

Friday, March 10, 2006

toilet seat DOWN!

I sent an e-mail to Laura this morning entitled, “I live in a fucking frat house.” Allow me to count the ways:
Not only do I live with a straight man AND possess a moral-free, burrito buddy/platonic life partner, but when my brother is in town, suddenly my world is an episode of Home Improvement. There’s way too much testosterone at 916A. Last night, I made those bitches (fabulous) dinner, cleaned up, and listened to them discuss how to avoid women. I also learned that any guy I express any interest in is a “fag” and that no matter how much I express a need for respect and consistency, I will be instantly abandoned for remote possibilities of sex.
I was actually physically restrained while they took over my computer and sassed my friends online. When I requested that someone take the recycling out, the phrase “Later, woman!” echoed through the halls. Oh, and belching at the dinner table? Standard.
I love these three like nothing else. Love isn’t even a big enough word. These men mean the world to me.
But right now, I’m outnumbered. And I’m planning a revolt…

Thursday, March 09, 2006

yo shorty, it's your birthday...

Between my brother and me, Alex is the mellow laid back one and I’m more, how shall we say, fiery. I’m still holding a grudge from the mid-80’s. So, it baffles me that when confronted with road rage yesterday, my brother went ballistic.
Sniffly and exhausted, I asked Alex to drive from my place in the Mission back to Mill Valley. As we headed down Van Ness, we noticed a red Pontiac jerking forward and stopping, skipping along the road driven by someone who obviously didn’t know how to drive a stick shift. This continued for a couple of blocks, as the Pontiac weaved in and out of lanes, confusing everyone around and stalling at every green light along the way. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “This dude needs to fucking go.”
I reached over and honked the horn, hoping that shitty driver would step it up and get his act together. The Pontiac came to a screeching halt in the middle of the intersection and a shorter, far less attractive 50 Cent angrily emerged, arms outstretched.
I mean it, folks. We’re now stuck in the middle of an intersection, behind a manual transmission Pontiac and a seriously angry Crip, screaming obscenities and challenging my baby brother to fisticuffs. Traffic is backing up, people are staring, horns are honking and I am freaking out.
“Lock the doors! Lock the doors!”
“Look at this jackass. He’s all pissed and insecure.”
“He’s freaking me out, Lex!”
“He’s just pissed that he can’t drive that car. He’s all frustrated, look at him. He’s all little and over-compensating. He’d shit his pants if I got out of the car.”
My brother’s 6’5” and rarely needs to actually fight. He merely stands and people retreat.
We stared back at 50 Cent, as Alex remained calm and simply said over and over, “Get back in your car, dude. Just get back in your car.”
50 Cent finally realized he was stopping lanes and lanes of traffic and got back in his car, moving into a far right lane and waiting for us to drive up along side him.
“Stay back, Lex. I don’t want to drive next to him.”
“Relax. He’s so riled up, though.”
As we neared his car, he suddenly swerved into our lane in a shitty and ungentlemanly attempt to scare us. It was a cocky, chicken-shit move and while it freaked me out, I did not share my brother’s reaction.
“FUCK YOU!” His middle finger flew past my face as he screamed across me at 50 Cent. “Jesus mother fucking Christ. Holy shit. Oh my god! What a fucking asshole! Fuck you, dude!”
Alex was livid, screaming and yelling. “That is fucking insane, it’s so unsafe. Oh my god, nice fucking Nascar move, dipshit.”
“Jeez, Lex. Calm down.”
“Do you know how dangerous that shit was? Precious cargo! Precious cargo!”
50 Cent in his domestic vehicle he doesn’t know how to drive turned down a side street, but Alex was still fuming as we pulled onto Lombard.
“I can’t believe how mad you’re getting about this. 50’s the one freaking out. Don’t let him rile you.”
“Oh my god, I’m so mad. That's small dick syndrome, Beth.”
“Really?”
“Definitely. We gave him a mini-honk and that’s how he responds? God, I’m pissed.”
“All because he can’t drive a stick.”
“Yeah, maybe it’s because it’s shoved too far up his ass…”

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

bjorn borg, people. no question...

You know what yesterday was? That’s right. Tuesday.
You know what that means? Aw yeah. Pub Quiz.
My brother’s in town from college and was looking forward to a good Edinburgh throw down. I rallied the Usual Suspects and our team of 12 convened early to drink, eat and secure the biggest table.
Turns out, there’s some Spots history at Edinburgh Castle. My folks used to go on dates there, back in the day, and dad and his cronies once held their Democratic Club meetings in the room upstairs. So, it was easy to talk the Spots patriarch into joining us and dominating the U.S. History/Foreign Policy category.
Once again, the subject of our team name kicked off the conversation and we settled on Alex’s offering, “Jesus is coming. Look busy.”
We’d previously rejected “Chris’s Unwarranted Ego.”
It’s tough having a team of twelve, especially when everyone thinks they’re right. For most of the game, both ends of the table scribbled down answers, comparing notes when it was time to turn ‘em in. This got heated.
Jason screamed at me across the table, “You’re losing control, Beth!”
No shit. These bitches are playing to win.
At one point, even dear old dad turned on me. “Can I join another team?”
Nice, daddy. That’s really nice.
By Round 5, Pa was exhausted. “But, Dad!” Alex screamed. “You’ve only been here for 3 hours!” He left anyway, perhaps worried about his precious car in such a dicey neighborhood. Dad graciously made the rounds and departed as we started the next set of questions, entitled “Bridges and Tunnels.”
What? Dad come back!
Literally, my father could be considered a national expert on this very subject. And at the only moment in the history of my life that his expertise could be of any personal use, he bounces. Alex whipped out his cell, desperate to catch dad. But it was too late. Our secret weapon split just when we needed him most.
Well, that’s not true. He did buy beer.
True to form, Big Chris dominated in his standard categories: Sports films and has-been Playmates. If only there was a Question Round pertaining to Tecate beer can art and randomly screwing nameless co-eds. Maybe next time.
After a while, Pub Quiz takes it out of you. Well, that and about 8 Dixie cups of Chardonnay. I mean, really. Some of us have jobs.
Mikey couldn’t take it anymore. He headed home, and left us to fend for ourselves.
We finished with a respectable 44. I think we may have been beaten by team “Fresno: The only place where a Puerto Rican can be considered white trash.”
Our team broke up, I kissed Kate and Armando goodbye, and Jason, Alex and I headed out for midnight pizza and gossip.
“So that’s Pub Quiz.” Alex said, chomping on GhettoPizza.
“Yep.” responded Jason. “Next time we’re going to Harvey’s in the Castro.”
Gay Pub Quiz? Um, yeah. Leave it to Metro to know about that one.
So, Mom. How about it?

*I'm sure Berkeleyist will have her version of events...

seriously. who said i was cute?

Jason: That's guy's not as hot as me right?
Beth: Oh, you're way hotter, J.

Beth: Please. I love Jason. But that guy's a stone cold fox.


Tuesday, March 07, 2006

maybe it was magic...

The prodigal son has returned for a week and after joining the family for dinner last night, I made a much needed stop at a darkened Mill Valley gas station and refilled poor Rhonda the Honda. As I stood there, bundled up and cursing foreign oil policy, an older Jamaican gentleman emerged from the little cashier’s hut and wandered over to me.
“Ya want me pump your gas?”
“No, thanks. I’m cool.”
“A lady shouldn’t be fillin’ her own tank, now.”
“Oh, I’m fine. Thank you.” Go away, go away, go away. I’m in a deserted gas station and you’re freaking me out.
“Give it here to me.”
“Nope. I’m good. Thank. You.” What the hell is going on?
“I’m just tryin’ be nice, lady. You no want I pump your gas?”
Is this a metaphor for something disgusting? “NO. I am fine.”
I decided a half full tank was better than dealing with this guy any longer, and wrapped it up as he watched me.
“All done! Thanks for your help.” Ugh, get me the hell out of here.
“Hey lady, wait!” He hollered as I got back in my car. “I have something for you.”
He reached into his jumpsuit pocket and extracted a pack of gum, slowly removing one stick and handing it to me. “Dis for you, lady.”
Oh my god.
“Thank you!” I screamed, far too enthusiastically. I slammed my door shut and booked it out of there, hyper-conscious of the mysterious stick of voodoo gum sitting in the middle of the passenger seat.
It sits there still. Right this very minute. Call me paranoid. Call me a spaz. But I need some rubber gloves and a tweezers before I go near that shit again…

Monday, March 06, 2006

what about judi dench...

Call me a fag hag all you want, but oddly enough, I watched the Oscars with 4 straight guys and Kate. Much of the evening was spent debating which actresses Darren would sleep with. “Lauren Bacall? Yeah. I’d do her.”
“I wouldn’t.” Protested Jason. “But I’d fuck Elizabeth Taylor.”
This was not the high class Oscar viewing I was hoping for. In anticipation of the straights, I stocked the fridge with beer, made fabulous snacks and turned my living room into a candle-lit home theater. I even printed out Oscar ballots. Seriously, the Oscar Ceremony is the Superbowl of my year, the perfect symbiosis of film and fashion.
So here are my thoughts: First of all, what the hell was Charlize thinking? My god, she looked like a train wreck. Literally.
And Phillip Seymour Hoffman, whom I adore, looked like shit. Thank god he’s now an Oscar winner, because that crumpled mess can’t rely on his dashing looks. You know who can?
George Fine-ass Clooney.
Ding dong.
I’d be remiss if I failed to mention that Big Chris won the Oscar predictions, guessing 13 on the winners. Bizarrely, as the one who’d not only seen the most films, but cared more than anyone else on earth, I came in last with 7.
It was fun, though, watching the Oscars with my crazy-ass friends. We spilled wine, we broke plates, we howled at Jon Stewart. We even predicted which Oscar night trivia would end up at Tuesday’s Pub Quiz. I’m guessing, “Which Hollywood starlet looked like an extra from the prom scene in Back to the Future?”
Uh, Reese Witherspaz. No brainer…

Friday, March 03, 2006

how do you say, eh...skank?

I’m sure you’re all aware that my future spouse is currently cheating on me with a medication-hating, Amazonian, foreign Scientologist robot from a crappy TV show. Comparatively, I think I’m quite a catch and as soon as Gavin discovers that some women don’t have mechanical insides and weaves (yeah, I said it), he’s sure to dump Senora Eurotrash and return to his roots. I mean, seriously. What the hell happened in Gavin's childhood that makes him chase a collection of identical fembots, all of whom are, how do you say, not exactly Mensa material?
And now, because it’s so easy, a few quotes from Eurotrash’s website:

“Understanding and learn to express my self through the American sense of humor, having people find my accent "charming," appreciating a rootbeer float and marshmallows on yams for Thanksgiving or over hot chocolate, or watching the precision work that goes into putting it onto a stick and holding it over an open fire, and the wonders and variations of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, curly fries and drive through banking was my ticket to loving this country and all its freedoms.”

This is Gavin’s girlfriend, folks. Oh wait. It gets better.

“Some future day I will love to direct as well, to bring an imagination to Life and see a miracle of an artist blossom in front of me for the mere reason of having asked the right question and offered good guidance. That will be fun and very satisfying.”

You’ve got to be shitting me. More? Okay.

“I love representing and painting Women, because Women are smart and beautiful. Like a fascinating, resilient, never dying flower.Women never cease to amaze me as we have endless amounts of courage and potential, intelligence and strength not only for ourselves but also for all the men around us who seek our unpretentious strength through them. Women are men's greatest validation.”

And finally, because I almost didn’t hate her enough:

“Mostly I paint women and faces. I also used to freelance in Fashion design for women's clothing, which I started in my late teens while modeling for 10 years across the world for every top magazine you can name and designer you can think of. Hence my flair for clothes, though I would live in my birthdaysuit all day long if I could.”

Cue deportation proceedings…

Thursday, March 02, 2006

at least it wasn't a booger...

Apparently, some dreadful 12 year old with obviously neglectful and art-hating parents decided to remove the gum from his mouth and place it upon a $1.5 million painting while on a field trip to the Detroit Institute of Art. Turns out, if the museum spends a fortune and very carefully cleans the chemical residue and sour apple flavor from the canvas, the art will be fine. The 12 year old boy, however, will be chased down by hundreds of art lovers in horn rimmed glasses and black turtlenecks and strangled with a vintage Hermes scarf while being beaten with back issues of Elle Decor…

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

he gave me some jesus juice first, tho...

My beloved best friend and former roommate, Zoe has been in town to take some big fancy grad school test, and it seemed the perfect occasion to test out Edinburgh Castle’s Pub Quiz. I rallied the troops, including new living companion Michael, Big Chris, Berkeleyist and Jason (hdjfgzs) and we enjoyed some wine and tapenade at 916A before heading out.
Arriving an hour early, we were still relegated to the second floor and expressed concern that we wouldn’t be close enough to the quiz. But, after assigning both beer and quiz runners and finding that a simple shout of “WHAT?” could get a question repeated, we settled in and prepared to throw down.
Once again, Big Chris dominated the team name choices and we settled on the classy and intimidating “Michael Jackson gave me a reacharound.” We’d lost previous team member Man on the Inside to some shitty lecture, but I needn’t have worried. Let me tell you something, folks. Jason plays one hell of a pub quiz. Much like Zo and myself, J’s in it to win it and I have a new found respect for his staggering intellect and early 90’s indie rock knowledge.
Zo, on the other hand, exudes a confidence perhaps unwarranted. When asked what the biggest peninsula in the United States was, the team responded with the obvious “Florida.”
“Oh no. It’s Alaska! It’s Alaska! I’m positive. It’s got to be. Alaska! Write it down!”
This photo captures her reaction when the host revealed the answer to be, what else? Yeah, Zo. Florida.

Alaska. Jesus Christ.

A word to the wise regarding Edinburgh Castle Pub. Don’t order the onion rings. I can’t vouch for the fish and chips, featured here, but those onion rings were not worth the inch they added to my ass. You can, however, flirt with the host and get an occasional answer hook up.
New Chris eventually joined us, just in time for the announcement of the winners and best team name. I’ll admit it. That Jackson was right. Edinburgh Castle runs a better pub quiz than the Bitter End, and the competition can be pretty fierce. I mean, we’re fucking smart and clever people. And we didn’t win.
Well, we won something.

Best Team Name!

That comes with a free pitcher of beer, y’all.

I am now officially addicted to Pub Quiz. We’re thinking The Albatross in Berkeley might be next. Word is, those Ivy League rejects take that shit pretty seriously.
Bring it on, Poindexter…