truth

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mole

Inane Muff Fact #719:

When I was little, I used to watch The Waltons every Thursday night without fail. I was OBSESSED. But, regardless of what dire, Depression-era tragedy happened to be unfolding on Walton’s Mountain on any given week, I still could NOT take my fucking eyes off John Boy’s mole. I was transfixed by it. It controlled my every thought and move. It altered me on a cellular level. It changed my view of the Universe itself and my minuscule place in it. That mole was EVERYTHING to me.

NOTHING ELSE MATTERED.

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dingbat

Inane HORRIFYING Muff Realization #272:

On this day, October 20th, 2014…I am FUCKING OLDER than motherloving ALL-TALENT old lady Jean Stapleton was as Edith Bunker on, “All In The Family.”

Holy shit.

YOU GOTTA BE FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS.

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d-to-the-gaf

See, here’s the deal. The harder this fucking society attempts to civilize and bowdlerize my fatass…the HARDER and FIERCER I will push back. Trust me, Mein Haters…there is SO MUCH MORE COMING.

Count on it.

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kids

Yeah. Mama has fucking HAD IT with all this annoying, precious, fetishized, commodified, overblown, HORSESHIT, 21st Century parenting.

Children who are a COMPLETE imposition on the lives of their TERRIFIED, FECKLESS parents.

Children who are pushed and stressed and over-scheduled and NEVER allowed nor encouraged to just SIT and THINK and FEEL and BE.

Children who are never taught the RICH FULFILLMENT and VELVETY BLISS that is simple solitude…nor the awareness or appreciation of the MULTITUDES THAT JUST THEY THEMSELVES CONTAIN.

Children who will wake up one day when they are 40 to find that they are EXPERT fugitives from THEMSELVES.

Children who are NEVER allowed to lose or fail and thusly NEVER learn how to do either with grace and dignity…and who will NEVER learn that losing and failing can be the GREATEST GODDAMNED GIFT you will ever receive.

Children who are raised with kid gloves like PRIZE VEAL.

ENOUGH.

For chrissake…JUST LET A MOTHERFUCKER CLIMB A TREE.

Me, I subscribe to the Roseanne Barr school of raising children…and my larvae turned out JUST FINE:

“If those kids are still alive when my husband gets home from work…I DONE MY FUCKIN’ JOB.”

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winds

“Santa Ana winds blowin’ hot from the north…and we was born to ride.”

Despite it being MOTHERLOVING NOVEMBER and just a few weeks away from THANKSGIVING — a time when it should be COLD, BLUSTERY, and LOVELY — due to this unseasonable, unreasonable heat, the current suffering of myself, my children, my husband, my friends, my colleagues, and very nearly ALL of my fellow Angelenos is nothing short of EPIC.

Way back when I lived in Fresno, I used to think the whole notoriousmythology surrounding The MIGHTY Santa Ana Winds of Los Angeles was STRICTLY HORSESHIT. I thought it was overblown nonsense, that is…UNTIL MY FATASS ACTUALLY MOVED HERE. To experience this weather phenomenon is UNBELIEVABLE.

I am talking HOT, DRY, RUTHLESS WINDS OF BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS.

The constant threat of fires wild in the earthy hills and mounts that watch over us all like fierce, silent, timeless mothers.

Skin SO parched I look and feel like a TUBBY, DUSTY MUMMY.

The full moon crooning lunatic tunes above our parched bones, a dry siren song beckoning us to the very edge of reason and ruin. She is difficult to resist.

The sparking ions savage, thrashing, and alive in which we currently swim — an atmospheric moshpit making A City of Angels CRAZY…..ER.

The air billowing against your skin so warm, soft, alluring, and menacing — like a beautiful lover above you, with one hand stroking your cheek and the other reaching under your pillow…for a knife with which to cut your throat.

The MIGHTY Winds de la Santa Ana are not coming.

THEY’RE HERE.

“There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.” — Raymond Chandler

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framily

Those who read me around here and are at least quasi-familiar with my usual garbled warblings have most likely heard me make mention of something I refer to as “Framily.”

FRAMILY is a concept, a construct, a core group of people with whom you don’t necessarily share DNA (well, “share DNA” in the relatively relative sense — but with whom you may have, in a drunken rampage, certainly swapped spit or other bodily fluids…but of this, I shall SPEAK NO MORE), but to whom you may as well be biologically related. 

Friends, hand picked, whittled down to a tight loyal unit, us against the world, friends that you trust with your life, your children, your dogs, your house, your clothing, your money, your humor, your loyalty, your writing, your secrets, your devotion, your heart. When you need to belly laugh, when you need to belly cry, when you need a thrift shop wing man, a good fight, a new vintage brooch, an ending for your essay, a ride home, rent money, yummy lunch, yummy love, an opinion, the truth, a lie, a reminder of why you do what you do and love who you love, someone to help you dispose of the body, you call upon one of these motherfuckers and IT IS DONE. When this improbable cabal of writers, performers, actors, and activists convene over delicious food and even more delicious conversation, it’s like a goddamned event, it is. It’s rather like being part of a single organism — a bitchy, hilarious, groovy, glittery, brilliant organism that constantly shimmers and shifts and shit-talks. Friends who are Family.

FRAMILY.

These are the people who carry my secrets, who carry my truths, who carry ME — and believe me, don’t think I don’t know that my trashy Fresno self is the luckiest girl in the world to be accepted by them, embraced by them, celebrated by them, and loved by them.

There are MANY Framilies in the world — including, no doubt, your very own — but THIS ONE IS MINE.

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home

Sitting here in the place of my birth, on the couch next to my brilliant, beautiful father, Tom — listening to him regale me with both sad and delightful memories of his life and his childhood while I take copious notes for the book…both of us BELLY LAUGHING and BELLY CRYING every five…and then looking out the window and seeing this serene, gorgeous sight.

Peace. Contentment. Love.

My ebullience is complete.

Even when it’s difficult, even when it’s treacherous and terrifying, but especially when it is this amazing and transcendent…I love my goddamned life SO VERY, VERY MUCH.

‪#‎youCANgohome‬ ‪#‎tomisagod‬ ‪#‎iamtheluckiestslut‬

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muff

When she was five.

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booch

I just cracked open a delicious bottle of my new favorite beverage sensation and gave my 76 year old father his very first taste of Kombucha. His straight-faced, DEAD-serious response?

“Kombucha tastes like OLD COOCHA.”

‪#‎SCREAMINGWITHBELLYLAUGHTER‬ ‪#‎myfatherrules‬

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