Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Congratulations on running for Vice President! That's so exciting and I couldn't be more happy for you. I guess this means you'll finally be getting that haircut. Well, good for you. It did wonders for Lenny Kravitz.
I do have a few concerns, like what if you and King Ralph actually get elected and you try and hang your construction paper art in the Mural Room? (Oh yeah, I watched the West Wing. I know all about the various rooms.)
Or say you're tending to some important foreign policy meetings in, like, Siberia and you have to have dinner with a bunch of guys in fur hats who serve you nothing but processed meats? Christ, I bet they don't even recycle their vodka bottles. (Don't worry. I do.)
You know, the seats on Air Force One are probably leather. And I'm guessing they don't serve sustainable food when you're campaigning at Cletis'is House of Chick'n and Fixin's in the non-Green compliant Unadilla, Georgia.
But you can handle it, right? Sure you can! You're Gonzhottass!
I just hope you know what you're getting yourself into. I mean, Gavin is one thing. But Gene Amondson is entirely another.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
I wanna hear about wedding plans and hair gel and Peskin and falling off wagons and outfit selection and "black people voice." Not about the fucking Indigo Girls and where their co-parented kids are going to Montessori school.
Needless to say, I'll be tuning in...
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Guess what popped up?
Polygamist personal ads!
Folks, this is your lucky day. This is almost as good as the time I discovered PrisonPenPals.com.
In keeping with my recent theme of religious online dating, check out...wait for it...2wives.com!
Apparently, if you become a member, you can check out all kinds of fabulous profiles, but don't worry. A "brave few" have chosen to make their quest for love(s) public.
Like Chuck, aged 28.
"I am not very religious, but I was raised Christian. I like honesty and being honest. I do not want to marry someone who does not accept that I may marry more wives. Who wants to break someone's heart, you know what I mean? Not me. What I might not have in looks, I make up with heart."
Oh Chuck, I know what you mean.
Or ladies, how about Bohdan? He's 58 and I quote, "I worked 30 yrs to become a millionare , now financially independent I know what I want and how to achieve abundant and successful living. Our destiny awaits us."
We've got to get this guy in touch with Patti Stanger.
And then we have Patrick, who is married but looking for a sister wife for his current "Kathy is 5'3" and a tad heavy from the recent birth of fifth child." Kathy apparently " is a SAHM/housewife and earns a little cash on ebay. She is passive in nature, but less so than Patrick, and is learning quickly to fit the role of submissive wife. She enjoys spending time with the family and reading, writing, and researching."
I bet you 50 Bibles that Kathy is researching how to get the hell away from Patrick.
Anyway, happy hunting...
Monday, February 25, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Oh, and also, THIS IS GENIUS!!!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
I haven't read Kay's blog, and I should probably be more on top of it, but her comments on SFist have been forwarded to me. Like, this one in October:
How about you write your own article, and stop giving Spots undue publicity? She's an untalented hag who gets by solely on her sad obsession :) You are enabling her.
Brock's got by back: Kay, your spots jealousies amuse and tell us all we need to know about you. she'll be thrilled to read your backhanded insult.
But Kay wasn't done. Homegirl hates me:
Maybe if by some unfortunate circumstance I aspired to be a talentless, obsessed and unlucky journalist wannabe, you'd be correct. But I am just annoyed at the brown-nosing and what you're turning this place into. I come here for content, but I find... this. Please remember, as a good editor, that this is SFist. Not Brockist. Bring More Rita please. She continued: A lot of things you say suggest that you just really want to be a woman. This is nothing personal even if I make it sound personal. I just want the SFist that I knew and used to love back. I think a lot of people will agree.
Oh snap. I'm just glad it's not all me who's a talentless, obsessed and unlucky journalist wannabe. She called Brock a woman. Because, I guess being a woman is bad?
Eve couldn't take it anymore. She had to fire back.
Eve: Hey, Kay, thanks for all the tips on what SFist should be about. Hard to believe my co-founders and I managed to run the site for so long without your advice! Brock is so lucky to have you. If only we'd known what an untalented hag Beth was, when we began cross-linking with her personal blog back when we started the site in 2004! I certainly would have discouraged her from being an active commenter on the site for the 2 years I ran the joint. And I never, ever would have been so impressed with her work that I would have hired her to write for us at the Chronicle. At the risk of implying that Brock hasn't brought anything new to SFist, I'd suggest that your fears that Brock is following some horrible new direction might be alleviated by actually familiarizing yourself with the site. Because the SFist you claim you used to know and love, the one where there were no links to Beth or drug jokes? That site never existed, except in your imagination.
What's up? Yeah, that's my boss bitches. Okay, so since this tette-a-tette in the famous SFist comments section, I've been keeping my eyes peeled for this Kay, ready to dive under a table lest I see hear and face her wrath of journalistic integrity.
And last night, there she was!
Eve and I pretended to examine a potted plant as I reminded her about the infamous Kay. "Well, let's go introduce ourselves."
I have found in the time that I've been friends with Eve that she is pretty much afraid of nothing. And will be glad to prove it. We marched ourselves over and I introduced myself.
"Oh, uh. Hi. I'm Beth Spotswood." We shook hands. "And this is my editor, Eve Batey."
"Hi" announced Eve. "You're a regular commenter on SFist. And I believe I've responded to some of your comments."
I was too terrified to remember exactly what Kay said, but it was something along the lines of enjoying stirring shit up. Oh, okay.
I call all kinds of people all kinds of horrible things all kinds of times. So, you know, I guess this is part of the territory. Carole Migden probably wants me dead. But I've found in the realm of bloggers, we tend to stick together. We go to the same events. We know the same people. We're all pretty much friends. In this world of internet nerd-dom, shitting on each other isn't cool.
Migden, yes. A fellow blogger, not so much.
Anyway, we stood there awkwardly for a minute and then Eve goes, "Well, I'm going to the bar!" And marches off. I literally ran after her into the lobby as Brock emerged from the elevator.
"Oh my god, Brock. Guess who we just met?"
Once we filled him in on our Kay encounter, Brock looked over at her and declared, "She's the one that called me a tranny."
Say whatever you want about me (or don't. That'd be good too.) But don't call Brockstar a tranny. That shit is uncalled for...
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Ah yes. I totally agree with this theory.
Cut to Friday night, both Joe and I are getting ready to go out. The brass ring that holds up the shower curtain in my bathroom has been falling apart for some time. It's held up by three brass poles attached to the ceiling which keep coming unhinged from the ring. My lazy ass' answer to this problem was to duct tape it whenever it started to fall apart.
I really am surprisingly ghetto.
After my shower and helping Joe pick out his date outfit, I go back into the bathroom to find that two of the three poles had become detatched and the entire shower curtain ring thing was hanging sideways, clutching onto that last pole for dear life.
"Oh my god, Joe! Help!"
He grabs the tape as we agree we really need to get this shit fixed. I mean, I need to be out the door in 15 minutes and I'm standing, soaking wet in the bathrobe holding up a shower curtain and trying to duct tape it to the wall. I'm 30 years old. This can't be normal.
I finally think I've got one of the poles reattached and rest my arms, looking at Joe as we both start laughing. All of a sudden, the WHOLE thing comes crashing down.
On my head.
The neighbors must have thought two 11 year old girls were being stabbed by the screams Joe and I let out. It was really quite something.
The next day, with Joe at work and unshowered, Connected Melissa had me go on YellowPages.com, where I found my new favorite handman, Mr. Green.
We love Mr. Green.
Anyway, as I waited for Mr. Green to show up, I plopped down on my bed with a serial killer book and rubbed last night's bump on my head.
Wait a second.
Wait one serial killing second.
Head injury? Shitty week? Lifelong interest in sex crimes?
San Francisco better watch out...
Saturday, February 16, 2008
First of all, Brian Devine is the best catch in town. This guy makes pizza and pasta from scratch. It's Divine. Literally. I was the only non-lawyer at the table and we ended up having a discussion about women's rights. It was kinda like the dinner table in my childhood home.
Second of all, I brought JAV's bottle of Pinot he gave me for my birthday. Nothing like getting two Leno supporters to drink JAV's wine. Brian described it as, "A lot more Veronese than Alioto."
Finally, Melissa and I left at midnight and as I drove her to the Castro to find a cab, we found a parking place right in front of the Midnight Sun. Oh, we SO have to go in. I mean, it's midnight right now!
At like, 1:30, we decided she'd just come to my place and I would introduce her to the cocktail of the house, vodka and Crystal Light (Sunrise flavor.) As we walk in the door, we find Joe standing there in his underwear. "Oh my god, a guest!" He jumped in his bed and under the covers. We pleaded for him to join us. "No, no. I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed."
So Melissa and I sat in the kitchen and chatted until Joe whined, "You guys, come in here."
10 minutes later, Joe is in jeans and dancing in the kitchen, unable to lay still while anyone might be up for some Mary J.
I'm 30 and I just had a slumber party. We went to bed at 3 and spent all morning talking about girl shit. We might as well done each other's hair and crank called Clemens.
Which brings me to my point. I'm adding "Slumber party" the Joe's list of themed parties we'll be throwing. I'm talking sleeping bags, pillow fights, cookie dough, etc.
We'll watch Friday the 13th and like, totally freak out.
Only girls and gays are allowed.
So that brings the list of themed parties to four:
1980's Upper West Side wine and cheese party.
Goodfellas with meatballs and Spumanti.
Fried green tomatoes with a screening of Fried Green Tomotoes.
And old school slumber party!
I'm open to new ideas, but we need to start checking this shit off the list...
Friday, February 15, 2008
Mark Leno, why are you doing this to me? WHY? Have I not been good to you? Have I not single-handedly reminded the world on a weekly basis that your challenger is the Anti-Christ in a bad outfit? I....I feel so betrayed.
Is LPS farting on Swiss Miss?
To dare but to dream.
You've got to be kidding me. I mean, seriously. You've got to be kidding me.
You better not go to her birthday party.
I wonder if it's possible for this group of people to look more awkward? Everyone's thinking, "Oh god, I don't know where to put my hands."
And did they not list the appropriate attire on the invite? Or is everyone really confused by "smart casual." They just need one guy in a tux and another guy in board shorts and an ironc t and this photo would be complete...
VD is over. (Yeah, I called it VD.)
It's a 3 day weekend.
And I said to Joe this morning, "You have 2 dates. And my foot's getting better. Feb. 15th rocks."
Oh, Mary J. My life's just fine...
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
This is kind of a gross blog post, but bear with me.
I’ve had this thing on the side of my right foot. It’s like this weird infected patch right under my ankle and is probably the result of wearing ghetto ass ballet flats with no socks.
How they failed to mention this in my Most Eligibles listing is beyond me.
I was raised under the medical theory that if you ignore something, it’ll go away. For 30 years, this tactic has worked. But weird foot thing wasn’t going away. It’s been getting worse. Joe made me promise that if it wasn’t healed in a week, I’d go to the doctor. It’s been over a week, so I told my mom about it and the other night, announced over dinner, “Oh, mom and dad. You’ve got to look at my foot!”
My mother, who once famously sent me to school with chicken pox and told me it was fleas from our new cat was expected to say, “Oh, that’s nothing. I had that once. Throw some Neosporin on it and it’ll go away.”
“Oh Bethy. You should get that checked out.”
What? Who are you? Shit.
So at this point, my heart starts beating rapidly. What the fuck is this on my foot!?!?
At work yesterday, theories abounded, really because I had to call up Kaiser and detail my malady to the “advice nurse.”
Barbara, the advice nurse sent me into a further tizzy. “Well dear, I don’t know what to tell you. It could be a staph infection. It could be a fungus. It could be ringworm.”
My voice may have cracked as I made the appointment for this morning. Oh god, they’re going to amputate, I know it.
The gals in the office were like, “Wait, lemme see.”
So I plopped my disgusting limb up on the conference table.
“I think it’s a staph infection.”
“Are you nuts? That could kill me.”
“Just go to the doctor. You’ll live.”
“Maybe I should go to the Emergency Room?”
“What if I’m dying!”
I drove myself home last night, convinced me and my foot were the most disgusting creatures alive. This is the shittiest week ever and it will culminate with a wooden leg.
I was convinced.
Joe brought home wine and we spent the evening commiserating in the kitchen. He even offered to come to the doctor with me for moral support and to help me mock Ghetto Permanente. But my appointment was early and I can do this shit by myself, I guess.
I got up and showered, doing all I could to convince this new man doctor I was not as gross as my foot might lead him to believe.
I go to the Kaiser on Geary at Divis, a gigantic 7 story box that apparently houses the doctor for every geriatric Chinese person in San Francisco and the glamorous Sugarbowl Bakery and Café.
Are you jealous of my awesome life, yet? Just wait.
So I march myself up to the 4th Floor, where I check in with a lovely woman who was wearing the same jacket as me.
“Oh my god, I love the Gap. Don’t you love the Gap?”
Lady, I’m probably dying and it’s 8am. Can we not talk about the Gap?
So pay my co-pay and take a seat, pulling out my Willie Brown book and trying to convince myself that maybe someone on an internet chat room for single disabled people might one day find me and my inevitable prosthetic foot mildly attractive.
All of a sudden, a tiny woman shouted across the empty waiting room, “Erisabette Spaaswoo!”
Yep. Right here.
The first thing they do at Kaiser is weigh you. It’s the rudest possible welcome. Then they take your blood pressure. Well, uh, my heart was racing like crazy and I just had to stand on a gigantic digital scale where the size of my ass was projected onto a screen. I might be a little high on the BP today, bitch.
With brisk silence, she showed a thermometer in my ear and hissed, “Forrow me!”
In the little examining room, I took a seat on the table.
“You heah for reason?”
“Yeah, I’ve got this weird thing on my foot and it’s not going away and it’s starting to freak me out and…”
“Oh, well really only socially or in my car and I shouldn’t I know and I’m trying to…”
“You wait heah!”
Alone in the examining room, I scanned the walls covered with fliers detailing all of the possible things that are probably wrong with me. Oh god, does HIV or cervical cancer show up on your foot? Probably.
In a surprisingly short time, a middle aged man walked in and introduced himself. We chatted for a bit and turns out, he’s from Mill Valley and reads my favorite political columnist. With a calm foreign to me, he examines my foot.
“It’s not a staph infection. So you can relax about that. I’m pretty sure it’s an infected rash. What shoes are you wearing?”
“Cheap ballet flats that are gross.”
“Yeah, you need to wear socks.”
He prescribed me some anti-inflamatory cream, told me it’d start getting better in a few days and would be gone in a couple of weeks and drove home the whole socks argument.
“So I’m not dying?”
“Beth, you are not dying. It’s excema. We have drugs. And it will go away.”
“Awesome. Let the healing begin.”
He sent my prescription down to the pharmacy and told me it’d be ready in 15 minutes.
“Great, I’ll go to the Sugarbowl Café and get coffee.”
He patted me on my shoulder and sent me on my way.
Hazzaa! Oh, glorious life! Isn’t every day on this earth a blessing! My foot will heal! And I won’t have to troll disabled singles websites!
Down at the Sugarbowl, the place was hopping. Apparently, every single elderly Asian wanted a taste of the old country and was lining up for dim sum. I ordered a coffee and a toasted bagel. I was handed a cup of coffee and told to wait for my bagel.
So I waited. And waited. And fucking waited.
Finally, this woman behind the counter doing nothing screams at me, “Why you wait?”
“I ordered a bagel like, 10 minutes ago.”
Cue screaming in the kitchen. She grabs a bag of bagels, throws it in the toaster and then at me. “Solly about bagel!”
I should have ordered a pork bun.
I made my way over to the pharmacy, where I was horrified to find “Spotswood, E” on display in big, bold glowing letters. I guess my prescription gross foot medicine is ready, everyone within a block.
Standing in line, I wonder what medicine everyone else is picking up. You can pretty much tell by looking at them, I think. And they all looked a hell of a lot worse than me. A patch on my foot might be totally disgusting, but at least it’s contained to one tiny area. Unlike these freaks.
It took longer to get a goddamn bagel than it did to get my Triamcinolone Acetonide, and I hightailed it out of there before I came into contact with something infections from the carnie folk surrounding me.
I really hope this hit works because getting pretty fucking sick of having the grossest right foot in the free word.
I hope I’ve sufficiently grossed you out this morning. I refuse to suffer alone…
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Last night, I threw on my jammies and headed up to the cleverly named 'TV Room.' Anyone that's ever been to the Spotswood Estate and Grounds knows that everyone ends up in the TV Room at some point. There's 5 million channels, comfy seating and relative solitude.
Immediately I headed for HBO where I discovered the Justin Timberlake Concert had JUST begun.
I simply couldn't help myself. The man has talent.
Right away, Justin's doing shots of what I assume to be Tequila onstage. "Y'all like to drink? I like to drink, y'all! Fuck it, this is HBO!"
Cue screams of joy, including my own.
Then Justin breaks into his songs and dance moves, which are complex to say the least. I mean, he doesn't just dance. He does really complicated, choreographed moves with kicks and thrusts and twirling of his fedora.
Oh, and he plays the piano. Very simply. I bet he's had like, 3 hours of lessons, but it works. I just ended up thinking over and over, "This is both retarded and heavenly. Well done, Timberlake."
He has this marvelous morbidly obsese gentleman back-up singer who was wearing a zoot suit and sweating like he was about to have a heart attack.
Justin kept saying over and over, "I got sexy ladies!" to the audience and I could almost hear every desperate gay in the crowd holla back like there was no tomorrow. By the time JT instructed everyone to raise their hands in the air and I actually followed suit, I realized it was time to call it a pathetic night and get the fuck to bed...
Monday, February 11, 2008
Also, word to the wise, stay away from Corriander in the Food Court. 15 minutes after our lunch, Alex and I both looked at each other and said, "That Thai food isn't sitting so well." Although, Southeast Asian cuisine in a mall probably wasn't the wisest choice...
And a bottle of something strong.
We're going to eat KFC and watch lesbian movies and defile photographs.
Our plan is to gain a pound.
Then we're going to take photos of ourselves with cole slaw and vodka running down our shirts and stick biscuits on top of our heads and place personal ads on eHarmony.
Friday, February 08, 2008
It's embarassing but true.
I mean, my pays-the-bills job is musical theater.
I'm like, a full fledged homo.
This past summer, my mother took me to New York to see, among other shows, Grey Gardens and I (we) cried for weeks.
I sobbed through the entire second act.
Grey Gardens, you guys.
And by you guys, I mean, you gays.
My folks are moving to the Village (Greenwich) for a bit, subletting a celeb's apartment (I'm not allowed to tell who) for 4 months to live out Mom's dream of being...well, Woody Allen.
Anyway, the last time mom and I were together in "her town", we saw Grey Gardens. If you ask either of us to discuss, we'll cry. Beware.
And SO moved was I by that performance, I planned to contact Chirstine Ebersole and woo her into friendship via drinks and gushing.
Um, turns out, she's a right wing extremist!
Are you kidding me? You're one step away from Liza. You're pulling this shit now?
Nooooooo, Mrs. Rich!
Fuck. Who the hell am I supposed to befriend now?
-Joe, this morning
So me and my new hair were ready to hit the town when Joe got home from work and turns out, Joe had some friend dying to meet up in the Castro.
"The Castro?" I whined. "I don't want to go to the Castro. This hair and this outfit cannot be wasted on the gays."
Actually, they're probably the ones most likely to appreciate it. Joe agreed to one drink in the Castro and then promised we'd move on.
We cabbed it over to Homoville and before we could even enter Badlands, Joe grabbed my arm. "Oh my god, it's the Harvey Milk movie! We have to go!"
Half a block away, Gus Van Sant was shooting his biopic starring Sean Penn. We headed up the sidewalk, but as soon as we got close enough to scope out anything of interest, sweatshirt clad hipsters with some air of authority asked us to cross the street. We begrudgingly oblidged and joined the 20 or so nerds huddled up across the street, desperate for a glimpse of Emile Hirsch.
I kept inching closer and closer to the shoot, hoping to see Gus take a swig from his flask and yell, "Action!"
Joe was convinced Sean Penn was right in front of us. "He has different hair!"
I was convinced it was the Assistant DP.
All of a sudden, a security guard with a gherri curl came up. "You guys need to be on the sidewalk."
Ugh. "Who is that?" I asked.
"That guy standing right there in the middle of the crowd. Is that anyone famous?"
"I'm not telling."
Jesus Christ. Then gherri curl starts in with, "You have a great smile. And beautiful eyes. I like you in those glasses."
Joe is cracking up as I wonder how far I'll have to take this to get inside Sean's trailer. Finally, gherri curl confesses that everyone's waiting for Sean to arrive and Emile Hirsch and James Franco are standing right there.
But by that time, we were bored. We headed for Badlands, where the bouncer pretended to look at my ID but clearly was unconcerned about my legality. Joe knew a group of gays there and when he excused himself to go smoke a cigarette, he asked if I would be fine alone.
"Of course, Joe. I'm in a gay bar."
So Joe leaves and four gay "friends" of Joe stare awkwardly at each other before having an exclusive conversation with each other. Um, hi? Fags? I'm Beth Spotswood. Did you not get the memo? You're supposed to love me.
It was such a blatant snub, 4 men and 1 hag standing in a circle and no one's talking to the hag. So finally, as "Greg" stands 5 inches from me pretending to watch a Madonna video, I stick my face nose to nose and say, "So, what do you do?"
It was like pulling teeth.
I'm not saying every gay needs to treat me like Kathy Griffin, I'm just saying that's what I'm used to. And beyond that, if a friend abandons me for 5 minutes with people I don't know, it's customary to make the newcomer feel welcome, regardless of gender or orientation.
These gays are biggots! Hag haters! Discrimination! Someone call Margaret Cho!
I rememeber ages ago, when I was a blossoming hag and first venturing into Midnight Sun, downing my 2 for 1's with the boys, some bitchy ass queen came up to me and informed me that no one's really wild about women in gay bars and we're just taking up room and ruining the gay sex orgy he assumed would happen the minute me and the lone other over-accessorized chick left. Conveniently, I was with some bitchier ass queens who gave him a what for. But I've always been sensitive of the fact that I'm a guest in a gay bar, and thusly respectful.
Joe finally returns and saves me, and when I inform him that, "Uh, your friends suck." He responded with, "I don't even know their names."
Once Joe realized that Badlands was some slim pickin's, we found a table by the window and plotted where to go next. But not, of course, before Joe went out to have another cigarette.
So here I am at this table alone and sitting across from me at the bar is a beautifully dressed man in a suit and tie, sipping his drink alone and scanning the room. Oh yay. He'll talk to me.
He looked over and smiled.
I beamed back.
Nothing. He just sat there, looking at his drink.
He looked over again.
"Hi!" I screamed.
Nothing. He just sat there, looking at his cuff links.
What the fuck? Have I lost it? Where am I? Is today opposite day?
Joe finally returned and we gathered our things, but by this point, I was pissed. I made my way over to suit.
"Excuse me." He was suddenly delighted to see me. "The next time you see a woman sitting alone for a few minutes, it might be classy to say hello."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Is it too late?"
What the fuck do you think? Yes, it's too late. I grabbed Joe. "We gotta go. I just told that guy he was rude for not talking to me."
"Sweet Jesus, you're being dissed by the gays tonight."
Screw you, Castro. At least jherri curl like me.
We made our way to the W, where we tried to enter the front door at the same time as this older bearded guy. Joe held the door open for him and then rapidly excused himself to hit the bathroom. So older bearded guy, apparently sensing that starngers had been ignoring me all night, stood there and chatted with me. Apparently, he writes for Beyond Chron.
"Oh, you must know my friend Paul!"
I'm more used to seeing Paul and his cronies shove petitions in people's faces in front of Safeway rather than stand around the W, so I chatted with "Harrison" until Joe returned. Harrison was going to the upstairs bar, so Joe and I made the wise call to stay downstairs. We found two seats at the bar and began chatting with the gentleman to my right, who was having the sorbet.
Turns out, DeMonty spends 4 days a week living at the W. The rest of the week, he's in SoCal with his wife and twin daughters.
We were having a lovely chat when all of a sudden, someone taps my shoulder.
"Oh, hi Harrison."
"Turns out, all the cool kids are downstairs!"
No kidding. All night, I'd been desperate for some stranger, gay or straight, man or woman, old or young, to give me the goddamn time of day.
And for the next 45 minutes, I had Harrison from Beyond Chron...
Thursday, February 07, 2008
I needed cool hair fast.
So I headed over to Bella Union in the Lower Haight to see Amanda's hair guru, Caleb.
You guys, I have the cutest haircut ever.
It's a cross between the Katie Holmes and Tyra from Friday Night Lights. You know, the shorter in the back, longer in the front, Ellen Barkin in Oceans 13.
Dressed in my favorite color combo of red and magenta, I waltzed into work this morning.
The hair is a hit, folks. And as I said to the new roommate Joe, "Nothing like a new 'do, right?"
"My god." He gushed. "It's a new twist on an old classic. It's Beth."
So now that I have new hair, I'm ready for my Gavin interview.
Did you hear me, Brian #3? I'm fucking ready!
Seriously. Go get haircuts, everyone. It'll put you in a good mood...
Jumping out of windows, setting oneself on fire, hari kari, etc.
I mean, if you're going to go out...
Rock on, Daddy! I can tell he's secretly loving it. I know that smirk...
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Word to the wise, if you head over to Jillian's for a little snack, steer clear of the cheese and chorizo dip.
Not that we didn't eat it.
Oh, another word to the wise, the last time Mikey and I were in there for pre-movie cocktails, our bartendress pulled my cocktail onions from the jar with her fingers.
Not that I didn't drink it.
Anyway, we're yucking it up at Jillian's, watching election returns on the myriad of flat screens placed around the back room. I wanted to get home by 9:30 to watch my father do is his favorite thing all year: host Election Night on KRCB Public Television. Because at 9:30, Dad would be interviewing State Senate District 3 Candidates Judge Judy on Crack, Mark "Loves Me" Leno and JAV.
Around 8pm, suffering through our cheese dip, Brian D. gasped gayer than he's ever gasped in his life.
"Oh my god! Carole's here!"
It's like you could feel the temperature change in the room, with a mixture of Crazy and White Diamonds wafting through and sitting itself down at a table with really old gays.
As Joe pointed out, "I thought this was supposed to be the YOUNG Democrats."
Now, this woman was due to be on live television with my father in an hour an a half and Brian was desperate for me to go up and introduce myself. Again.
But that loon scares me shitless.
"What's she going to do?" Brian asked. "She should be afraid of you!"
You know what? Here's why I won't go over to her. I make fun of a lot of kooky people. And most of them roll with it. But that bitch called my office and accused me of lying. Actually, she had her flunky Eric Potashithead do it. And when I provided video proof that she was the one full of shit, not I, nary a soul from her office said, "Oops, we still hate you, but we were wrong on that one."
I'm willing to guess even that Pesky Peskin could muster the balls to send a goddamn e-mail.
So screw you, Migden! And screw you Eric!
I'm not nervously walking up to that fruitcake and offering my hand, wondering if she'll figure out who the hell I am.
"Oh, you're about to go on TV with my dad. Please be nice to me."
I'm on the Gate, crackpot. Ever heard of it?
Anyway, Carole and her clown wig stayed for about 4 seconds, so I managed to avoid Brian's pleadings and get off scott free. But 5 minutes later, we spotted Carole out the window on the sidewalk, holding a take-out bag from Firewood and a Nantucket Nectars juice jar, staring into Jillian's and trying to watch CNN through the window.
She was no doubt racing off to be obnoxious to my dad, and I silently hoped she's spill that Nectar all over her bolero.
When she finally got on television, Carole was predictably insane, constantly calling Mark "Loves Me" Leno, "The Gentleman."
According to the Brians, my father looked "exasperated."
I've seen that look before.
Conveniently, Pops is moderating the debate on Leap Day and Brian and I will be front row center. I've already taken off of work, so if Carole's minions want to harass me, they can do so on my cell as I'll be out of the office...
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
The Brians are dragging me around their Super Tuesday shindigs tonight, provided I get my work and blogging done on time, so I'll be rubbing elbows with people who care way more about pretty much everything than I do. What does one wear to pretend like one cares, I wonder? Birkenstocks?
Monday, February 04, 2008
Friday, February 01, 2008
Not that I believe in procreation, but if I had to pick between wiping the snotty nose of some spawn or getting bitched out by a drunk politician...well, that's a touch one. No one made you take the call, MoMo. It's called boundaries.
Speedo also threatened Wade Crowfoot, that guy with the fake job about weather who all the gays think is hot. I guess Speedo wanted to get him fired out of spite, much like the time Jerry returned the blazer on Seinfeld.
Finally, in a fabulous twist, Speedy opposed some boring thing Speedo wanted to do, so Speedo opposed some boring thing Speedy wanted to do. When she sped over and confronted him about it, guess what he said? Just guess!!!
"Payback is a bitch."
Is that not the most fabulous thing ever. Aaron Peskin, eye to eye with Michela Alioto-Pier snarling "Payback is a bitch."
Someone at City Hall needs to hire me because I'm missing out on all the good stuff. Wouldn't it have been marvelous if Speedy had snarled back, "So am I, Napoleon complex" and rolled over his foot?
Anyway, I don't know when people in politics got so sensitive. It's only Speedo, folks...