Oh, my stars. Here is the latest Frontiers column from my Darling Gusband, Miss Jackie Beat — where she once again takes names, kicks ass, and, this time out, gives MAJOR LOVE to all the funny broads in her glittering world…and even sweetly includes a certain scoundrelous, foulmouthed, diminutive Sicilian hooker from the provinces amongst their astonishing names. Knock my fatass over with a feather! Thank you, Jinxie! I LOVE YOU!
“The worst thing that can happen for people who don’t want women to be strong is that we help each other and become a force.” – Sarah Silverman
My children are obsessed with the 80s.
OBSESSED.
Recently, one of my daughters came to me, lamenting the fact that she was born too late to have experienced the utter magnificence that was my lost and awesome youth. She asked me, “What were the 80s really like, Mommy? What did the 80s feel like?”
I smiled, and told her to sit down and close her eyes.
“This. THIS is what the 80s felt like, little sister.”
“Remember that you own what happened to you. If your childhood was less than ideal, you may have been raised thinking that if you told the truth about what really went on in your family, a long bony white finger would emerge from a cloud and point to you, while a chilling voice thundered, ‘We *told* you not to tell.’ But that was then. Just put down on paper everything you can remember now about your parents and siblings and relatives and neighbors, and we will deal with libel later on. [Just change their height and hair color. No one ever once has recognized him or herself in my fiction. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better.]” — Anne Lamott
The best part about living in Los Angeles?
The interesting, eclectic people and cultures in which you are constantly soaking. The perpetual, electric, neverending flow of creativity and collaboration. The awesome, bonding, “WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER” attitude that pervades the entire place. The notion of supporting each other, helping each other, building community, building family, and getting your foot in the fucking door SO THAT ALL YOUR BRILLIANT FRIENDS CAN BUM-RUSH IN RIGHT ALONGSIDE YOU.
The WORST part about living in Los Angeles?
The fact that your TALENTED, LUMINOUS, HILARIOUS, DROP-DREAD GORGEOUS, PLATINUM & PURPLE-HAIRED HIPSTER CHILD KEEPS GETTING FUCKING HIT ON HARD BY A BESOTTED, ENCHANTED [insert name of VERY famous 90s rock musician who is old enough to be her goddamned father here] AT NEARLY EVERY EVENT THAT SHE ATTENDS. You better BACK THE FUCK OFF, son.
MAMA DON’T PLAY.
I just this second hit “send” and placed the order for the high school graduation announcements of my last child. We will take him in tomorrow to be fitted for a classic black tux for his Senior Prom, to which he will go in two weeks. As I type this, I can hear his handsome, lanky self in the other room, sprawled out on the couch, playing a loud, fuzzy, awesome “Godzilla” by Blue Oyster Cult on his Gibson electric guitar. It was just five seconds ago that I held his 4 pound, premature self for the very first time in the ICU at Valley Children’s Hospital in Fresno, California, he and I sitting in a rocking chair together, rocking and watching live as OJ slowly made his way down the 405 in his white Bronco. True crime. True love. I was in utter and complete bliss.
Now that serious little cerebral bean in my arms drives, devours science fiction, argues politics (AND HOW), has a gorgeous ballerina girlfriend, and wants to make films. My first and only son. My last baby. The beautiful boy that I love above all others. Now he is a man.
Goddamn, it doesn’t take long to live a life.
And now…his truly begins.
I am a slut.
In fact, I come from a long line of sluts — USO dance hostesses, carnival gypsies, gangster’s molls, and straight-up trollops — broads who would cut your throat just as soon as look at your fucking face. With each beat, my heart pumps their scoundrelous, scandalous blood through my veins every moment of every day of my life, fueling my every thought, desire, and action, and in so many ways defining who and what I am. I move through this world like a man — and I don’t waste time apologizing for it. I take what I want…because it’s all mine. Women like us live life on our own terms, and we can’t be bothered with the petty minutiae of those who would dare attempt to subdue us. We are the Boudicas and the Betty Rizzos of the world, forged in the fierce, felonious fires of discord and want. Tell us we can’t do something, have something, be something…and you got a war on your hands, brother. You cross broads like me and my ancestors and my sisters and my friends at your own peril.
DON’T FUCK WITH US, BITCHES.
WE VOTE.
