Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Things they don't tell you on ESPN and how All-Star baseball players generally don't give a shit if your hand is stuck in an elevator - Part 1

I realize I'm a little delinquent in my posting lately.  It's summer.  I'm lazy.  Whatever.

That...and my hand was practically mauled in an near-death hotel elevator incident in Anaheim last week which makes typing painful and very, very difficult.

Actually my hand is fine.  My psyche, on the other hand, is traumatized.

And I will be suing the horrible negligent hotel chain responsible for this near-tragedy.

Actually, no I won't.  But only because it was a Marriott and not a Ritz-Carlton.  Suing the Ritz Carlton would be fun.  There's no joy in suing a Marriott.

Let me back up a bit.

So last week I went to the All-Star Game/Home Run Derby festivities in Anaheim.  The Boy was "working" so, as guests of Major League Baseball, we stayed in the official Marriott with the All-Stars, press, agents, entourages and a few hundred smart autograph hounds.  And while the Boy "worked", I generally did nothing and took stupid pictures.

 Case in point

Of course, George, my tranny lego, came with me.

Case in point #2

George with the Boy's Chilean Three-Legged Good Luck Pig - I really have no explanation

It was a surreal experience.  Walking through the hotel lobby was a bit like trying to walk past the Ivy on Robertson Avenue...head down, shoulders squared, hold out hotel key for three layers of security, brace for line of autograph seekers and the disappointment that radiates from them when they realize we're nobodies, slide past last layer of security before elevators, and then SCORE...collapse in your room.

I learned a few things at the All-Star game...things I never learned on ESPN.

No. 1... If you get your hand caught in an elevator, All-Star baseball players will look at you blankly and absolutely not help you.  

So since all the autographers tended to hang out in the lobby, the All-Stars tended to congregate and socialize in front of the elevator banks - two levels of security past the lobby.  It wasn't sexy, but it seemed to work for them.

On Sunday night as we were headed back to our room, the Boy and I ran into All-Star Pitcher and All-Star Outfielder in front of the elevators.  The Boy knows them both and struck up a boy-style conversation with lots of grunts and hand slaps while I stood nearby feigning interest in the conversation while really mentally piecing together the next day's outfit.  At some point I hear the Boy start to say things that would indicate the conversation is ending so I push the "Up" elevator button because it's midnight and I'm assuming that since we're all standing in front of the elevators, that everybody wants to...I don't know...GO UP TO THEIR ROOMS.

The elevator door opens and nobody but me moves towards the door.  So I hesitate and the elevator door closes.  I hit the "Up" button again.  I look at the Boy to make sure we are indeed still going up.  He's oblivious and still yapping but takes a step towards me.

The elevator door opens.  I make a move towards the door and as the door starts to close - yet again - I throw my arm in between the doors so that they will stay open.  Except they don't.  The door closes on my arm.  

I panic and look at the Boy.  And he just looks at me.  I look at All-Star Pitcher and All-Star Outfielder.  And they just look at me too.

In my head I'm screaming "What the fuck?!" and "Ouch, goddamn motherf***er" but, as I glare daggers at the Boy, I calmly throw all of my weight into prying the door open with my other hand and extricate my dented arm from the offending elevator.

"Now are you ready to go up?" I say, holding my dented arm and shattered ego.

The Boy looks sheepish and nods.  We all get on the elevator.  All-Star Pitcher looks up as the floor numbers light up one at a time and says "Did that just happen?".


More things I learned at the All-Star Game (Nos. 2 & 3) and more stupid pictures are coming soon.  Frankly, I started writing this and it got long and I ran out of wine, so I think a sequel is warranted.

And I'm lazy.  Whatever.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

How to find cute pants, practically run over an Olsen, and mow down the paparazzi in LA and only surrender part of your soul in the process...

I don't get LA.

I finished up my work type stuff early today, so I decided to drive up to Beverly Hills and see what all the fuss was about.

TMZ tells me on a daily basis that the best (non Rodeo Drive) shopping in the LA area is on Robertson Avenue, and I figured that if it was good enough for Lindsey, it was good enough for me, so I fired up the GPS and headed out for alien territory.

And alien indeed.

I parked in a garage on Roberston and headed out into the daylight...and almost crashed headfirst into an Olsen twin.  I don't know which one, but I saw her and she saw me and gave me a look as if to say "how dare you venture into this territory without permission or a Black American Express Card and why aren't you wearing anything from my clothing line, you bitch", but whatever.

I headed down the street in pursuit of good shopping.

Some places were great.  Some places treated me like I should forfeit my financial and any potential trust fund records before they would hand over a $58 dollar belt.

And then I got to the Ivy.

For those of you who aren't familiar, the Ivy is the famed LA hotspot....THE place to see and be seen.  And any celebrity who shows up there and claims that they don't want publicity is LYING through their shiny white veneers.

I approached the Ivy with curiosity.  It was, after all, the Ivy.  It was then that I deduced the challenge of being a mere pedestrian on this most famous of blocks.  In front of me, blocking my path, were at least 5 valet parking guys, 4 paparazzi, 3 people who were waiting for their car, and 4-5 random people milling about.

I had a choice.  Turn around and go back, or venture forward to the crosswalk and promises of Intermix and Vince.

I glanced up at the patio in front of the Ivy and happened to notice that the people in these privileged spots were mostly interested in what was happening on the sidewalk.  Who was arriving...who was leaving...who was getting their picture taken.

It was through all of this that I needed to pass.

So I squared my shoulders, angled my head down, positioned my shopping bags in front of me...and charged.

In the process, I'm pretty sure that I sliced up a paparazzi with my shopping bag.  I also have a very clear recollection of an SUV pulling up to the valet, containing people who were clearly "somebody", and saw the self-imposed look of distaste on their faces at being forced to expose themselves to the waiting cameras.  Even though NOBODY goes to the Ivy unless THEY WANT TO BE SEEN and PHOTOGRAPHED.  The food can't be that fucking magical, people.

Regardless, I made it through the gauntlet and survived.

(Note:  turns out nobody took a picture of the people in the SUV...they looked disappointed.)

Interesting place, Robertson Avenue, but I won't be going back.

I made some friends at Splendid, LF and Surly Girl.  The attitudes that I encountered at the rest of the boutiques on that street (with the exception of Lisa Kline) left me with a bad taste in my mouth.

This is definitely not a confidence issue.  I can walk into Prada or Sears with the same level of attitude.  I can only guess that business is off the charts for these places, right?  If they can afford to drive away paying customers with disinterest and attitude.

And the famed Kitson?  Ugh.  Like Claire's Boutique on steroids.

I went to Beverly Hills out of curiosity and a need for cute pants.

I found cute pants, but I feel like I kind of surrendered a piece of my soul in exchange.

And if you see a cameraman on TMZ with a gigantic paper cut?  All me!

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Boys are basically useless

Real boys, that is.  Tranny lego boys are totally useful.

George and I are in Southern California doing business type things before the fun All-Star Game type things commence.

George taking in the view from our balcony

This is George's entire role here...to take in the scenery.  And to be my bodyguard.  But bodyguards don't seem to be in high demand here so he's resting.

Packing for this trip was a nightmare.  I have 3 days of business type things and then 2 days of All-Star festivities.  What the hell am I supposed to bring and how much shit can I stuff into one suitcase?

I can handle packing for the business stuff.  This generally includes things that are not ripped, stained or navel-baring.  Although, truth be told, this is California and stripper shoes might be the only real deal-breaker in business out here.  Most of the time.

But the All-Star Game is a whole different, um, game.  

This is easy, you say...it's a baseball game.  Dress for a baseball game.

OK...I GOT that part.

So I just decided to ask the Boy what I should bring for the full 2 days of activities.  Bad idea.

Me:  Any thoughts on how I should pack for the All-Star stuff?
Boy:  Well, there will be a gala and a brunch.
Me:  Are we going to the gala or the brunch?
Boy:  Maybe.
Me:  So I should bring a dress for the gala?
Boy:  Nah.
Me: ???????
Boy:  I don't know...how does one dress for a gala?
Me:  ??????
Boy:  It's in California.  I'm sure jeans are ok.
Me:  ??????

Useless.  I should have known.

So I packed everything.  I'll let you know if I was right.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Why I now have a tranny Lego but still, surprisingly, need a life

I've been lazy...I admit it.

There's something about summer that makes me want to, well, NOT sit in front of a computer during the 4 hours of the day that I'm not working.

I've been lulled into non-blogging complacency.  I work, I come home, I eat/read/watch Real Housewives of (insert city/state/region here), I make phone calls, I sleep.  The Princess is in Portland with her father for the summer, and the lack of "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy" in the apartment has contributed to my sense of comatose.

But all of this has changed.

I have a new pet.

Busted Kate (who should officially consider me a fan) held a give-away to raise money for the JD fund a few weeks ago, and that's when I saw him.  And I knew I had to have him.

Meet George, my new tranny Lego.

George is what I call him because when I opened the package from Kate, I could hear in my head the lines from the Bugs Bunny Abominable Snow Monster episode and/or John Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men" (same thing, really) - "I will name him George and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him and pat him and pet him and rub him..."

George was donated to the JD cause by The Bloggess, who, of course, is the only one in the world who would have shit like this to begin with.

The Bloggess is actually the one who brought the logic of tranny lego fabulousness to light.  You see, I am a huge Eddie Izzard fan - who is, in his own words, an Executive Transvestite.  The Bloggess pointed out on her site that another Eddie Izzard fan had transferred Eddie Izzard bits into Lego stop-action shorts on YouTube.

Behold the genius!

"Why the Spanish Inquisition would never have worked with the Church of England" or "Cake or Death?"...

And "Building empires through the cunning use of flags"...

In short, the logic behind this acquisition goes as follows...

I love Eddie Izzard.
Eddie Izzard is a transvestite.
There are Lego stop-action shorts of Eddie Izzard bits on YouTube.
There are - by accident of God and nature and the Bloggess - transvestite Legos.

Therefore...I must have a transvestite Lego.

Many thanks to both Kate and the Bloggess for helping me realize that the emptiness in my summer could be filled through the creative use of tranny Legos...and, more importantly, for contributing to an excellent cause.

George shall be accompanying me on some of my travels this summer.  Next stop - the All Star Game.

There will be pictures.

I seriously need a life...or a hobby...or sex...or something.

My tranny Lego will have to do for now.