muffy bolding

Use the first letter of your first name and make a list of ten things that start with that letter — all to do with YOU (I did 12 because I’m a REBEL BITCH):

This entry brought to you by…the letter “M”

Miniatures: I am obsessed with all things small — and always have been. The vast majority of my dreams and daydreams before the age of about 13 involved something to do with me being 2 inches tall. You cannot drag me out of a dollhouse shop to save my life (just ask Gregory) and at flea markets and thrift stores, I can go through bins of little plastic dudes for hours. For hours.

Mommy: As in me…not mine. It’s what I do.

Mel Brooks: Along with Buck Henry, he is one of my greatest professional influences. Another is…

Madeline Kahn: Two words: Eunice Burns. That is all.

Mary Magdalene: This is the broad I pray to when I pray. A mother AND a whore. My kinda dame.

Mammaries: After a lifetime of suffering under their insidious weight, as of 2005, they are gone, baby, gone. And I don’t miss them one little bit. Goodbye, Beavertails.

Mirth: It’s what else I do.

Mafia: “The Godfather” — My obsession. My joy. My inspiration. My family.

Mary Poppins: My most favoritest Disney movie of all.

Mandarins: As in oranges. My favorite scent.

Monocle: I want to wear one, strut about, and act a pretentious prick.

Monkeyface: My friends and I have been doing the Monkeyface since the very beginning — with several variations on it emerging as time has passed (i.e., “Monkey looks to heaven and sees god.”) Whenever I am on location, I make every single person I work with take a Monkeyface picture for me. I show them the face and then make them do it — I don’t give a shit how big a fucking movie star they are. As a matter of fact, the bigger the star, the more I am determined to get my shot. Lance Henriksen’s is especially funny — he and I took this stacked Monkeyface totem pole pic together in Romania and it COMPLETELY rules. Maybe someday I shall publish a Monkeyface coffeetable book.

Apparently, the Charlie Band movie we shot in a genuinely haunted Italian castle earlier this year — ‘DEMONIC TOYS 2: PERSONAL DEMONS”, directed by the amazing William Butler — is now available on iTunes to buy or rent! Get your fatasses a clickin’, motherfuckers!

This is the seance scene — starring the stunning Miss… Selene Luna, whom I worship and adore. And yes, the EVIL, TWISTED, HIDEOUS, BELLOWING DEMONIC BELLY LAUGHTER YOU HEAR IS MY VERY OWN. I’m like a poor man’s Ursula. Also in the film are the awesome actors Alli Kinzel, Elizabeth Bell, Leslie Jordan, William Marquart, and Michael Citriniti, with Miss Jane Wiedlin as the delightfully demented voice of Baby Whoopsie. Yet another BRILLIANT casting extravaganza by that industry legend, Miss Frances Rhyne. God bless her.

Sometime last year, I happened upon a story about the Discovery Channel reality show <a href="
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deadliest_Catch”>Deadliest Catch, which just recently aired its 5th season series premiere. Gregory and the babies and I LIVE for dragging out some cozy blankets, poppin’ up some cone, and gathering around the ol’ telly together to watch the latest exploits of those rough and tumble fisherdudes who run straight outta Dutch Harbor on their dangerous, neverending quest for crabbies. We have been riveted since episode one — and judging by the unimaginably high ratings the show consistently delivers up, we aren’t alone. Though I’m sure no one could have predicted it from its likely initial pitch to network executives (“Okay, so check it: we put cameras on crab fishing boats — and, then…well…we watch them fish.“) the show is an unquestionable cultural phenomenon.

Anyway, the story is that there was apparently some creative editing going on during one episode of the show — from what I can gather, editing for continuity’s sake — and now there are a few puny voices whining in the wilderness that this fact somehow undermines the integrity of the show. To this I say: FUCK OFF, ladies. If the producers made the decision to re-shoot a particular sequence for the sake of the overall flow of the story, that does not take away from the fact that these guys are still out there earning a living by performing one of the most dangerous jobs on the planet — all so my privileged fatass can plop down in a nice, warm seaside restaurant and proceed to get elbow deep into the yummy, four pound carcass of an Opilio Queen crab. This show is so awesome, so amazing, so riveting, so charming, so exciting, and so…ummm…HOT.

Yeah.

Allow me to explain. As regular readers know, despite the impeccably groomed (okay, bathed) and unincarcerated dame you see standing before you, I come from deep, hardscrabble, working class roots — families headed up by industrious men who perform grueling physical labor while exposed to the grinding elements, drink cheap beer after the whistle blows, and smoke pack after pack of non-filtered cigarettes with rough hands that are never quite clean, no matter how many times they hit ’em with the ‘ol bar o’ Lava.

This is the archetype of a man that was branded onto my soul. This is what raised me. This is what I had babies with and promised to love and obey when I was little more than a child myself. This is where I come from. This is what I know. This is what I am. And despite the fact that I am now blissfully (and permanently!) married to an extraordinary fellow who wears Brooks Brothers khakis to work, appreciates Woody Allen films, and has softer hands than mine, there is still something alluring for me about a man with a blue collar, a hearty smoker’s laugh, and a union card; I guess you could say it’s in my ears and in my eyes. There is no escaping it for me.

So, that’s my logical, intellectual explanation for my draw to this program and the men who people it. Now here’s my primitive, visceral one:

I really, really, really want Captain Sig Hansen to pull my hair, slap my face, call me a dirty whore, lash me to the bow of the Northwestern, and drive my fatass to Cleveland. He and his brother Edgar are HOT, BRUTISH, SEXY working class, middle-aged, modern-day Viking motherfuckers and I’ll walk their planks any old time.

In the meantime, stow yer weapons and welcome aboard the good ship Electra Complex!

“Chewbacca Buffet” is my new stripper name.

I have now gotten more than a few requests asking me if I might re-post this blog entry that I originally made elsewhere on February 25, 2007 — on what was honestly one of the darkest, most painful, most horrific days of my life. Because I never, ever get tired of talking about my awesome little sister, here it is in its unedited entirety…written exactly as it came out that awful, awful day:

My younger sister, Julia, is one of the most kind-hearted people I know. She is the sort of person who will give you anything she has, without a moment’s hesitation — even when she has nothing. Her heart is strong and true.

Although she was married once (to guitarist George Lynch) she has never had any children — instead choosing to lavish all her abundant love and affection onto her four cats. These kitties are so well loved that when their mother is away from home for any amount of time over just a few hours, she lets them know they’re adored via a method that always makes me belly laugh out loud whenever I think of it: She leaves the volume on her home answering machine turned all the way on blast and she calls and talks to them…calls them over by name to tell them hello and that mama is coming home soon. This practice amuses me no end, as I always imagine those fucking cats hauling fat ass to the kitchen counter and mewing and rubbing up against the answering machine when they hear her sweet, dulcet voice echoing throughout the house.

As my regular readers know, I have several sisters (5 or 6, I always answer when asked. I never can remember exactly) all lovely — but none so lovely as Julia. Not a week goes by that someone doesn’t comment that she looks like either Phoebe Cates or Talisa Soto. She also has big, gorgeous jugs and an exquisite body — all covered with smooth bronze skin. She is as beautiful outside as she is inside.

Along with those looks, she has also been blessed with a voice like an angel; in fact, in her late 20’s, she spent several years singing in various nightclubs in Tokyo. She used to send me funny letters and postcards documenting her journey — and was always accommodating when I would make ridiculous requests of her, asking to see pictures of the all-talent pink plastic Japanese appliances in which she washed her clothes and dishes, as well as the interesting assortment of wacky foodstuff peppering the shelves of her local grocer.

Lest you think that Julia has a life of ease and perfection, I need to tell you that along with her many virtues and gifts, she was also cursed with a very perilous, incurable condition: Bi-polar Disorder (Type I). This means that along with all of the joy and love in her life come many trials and difficulties. In her quest for respite from the relentless onslaught of her mental illness, she has spent the past few years self-medicating with alcohol. This has led to episodes of depression so deafening that, in the past, she has attempted suicide on five separate occasions.

But, last year, after her doctor told her that although she is only 34, the alcohol was starting to take its toll on her body, she went to an AA meeting and hasn’t looked back. She has been sober for over eight months, gotten on the necessary medication to control her condition, and has been successfully working hard to get her life back on track. We are all so proud of her.

My sweet little sister’s body was found this morning. She is dead.

I am dead.

I’m sorry to gloat here, but I just really, really feel the need to say the following:

Just exactly how awesome is it that the sexiest bastard on the entire planet — Clive Owen — is married to a broad who looks exactly like me?

Yeah.

This picture just made my gottdamned day.

I love you, Clivey. Call me, baby.

Use the 1st letter of your name to answer each of the following. They have to be real places, names, things…nothing made up! Try to use different answers if the person you ganked this from had the same first initial. You CAN’T use your name for the boy/girl name question.

—————
Famous Artist/Band/Musician:
Mother Maybelle Carter
—————
4 letter word:
Minx
—————
Vehicle:
Mini-Cooper
—————
TV Show:
Muppet Show
—————
City:
Marrakech
—————
Boy Name:
Malcolm
—————
Girl Name:
Mary
—————
Alcoholic Drink:
Martini
—————
Occupation:
Muckraker
—————
Something you wear:
Muff
—————
Celebrity:
Mirren, Helen
—————
Food:
Meatloaf
—————
Something found in a kitchen:
Maraschino cherries
—————
Reason for being late:
Menstruation
—————
Cartoon Character:
Marvin the Martian
—————
Film Title:
Mermaids
—————
Book:
Mists of Avalon
—————
Song:
My Maria
—————
Animal:
Magpie
—————
Character in a movie:
Mary Poppins!

My, my, my…it looks like those good ol’ fashioned Republican Family Values shall triumph once again. The interesting part about this announcement that he and his wife are divorcing is that all this time…I thought Karl Rove was a dirty cocksucker. No, not a political and behavioral cocksucker, because we all know he’s definitely that. I’m talking about AN ACTUAL CHOKIN’ THE POPE COCKSUCKER.

From August, 2007:

It was announced today that one of my favorite living poets, Charles Simic, was named the 15th poet laureate of the United States by the Librarian of Congress. Speaking as a writer and a poetry fanatic, I find this news both delightful and heartening, as Mr. Simic penned what I consider to be the seven greatest lines in all of literature.

An excerpt from his poem, Breasts:

I insist that a girl
Stripped to the waist
Is the first and last miracle,

That the old janitor on his deathbed
Who demands to see the breasts of his wife
For the one last time
Is the greatest poet who ever lived.

It doesn’t get any better than that, kids. That poem is not some passionless, academic, Boomer piece-o’-shit about an old red barn, amber waves of grain, or the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill. That poem is about what it fucking means to be alive.

Congratulations, Charlie. Trust me, right now, more than ever before, the world of American letters needs an O.G. pimp like you to show us the way.

Well done, Old Sport.

My fave movies of the past decade? “Little Miss Sunshine” and “Slumdog Millionaire” — 2 films that felt “small”…and yet both made my spirit soar. As I sat in a dark theatre watching them, I recall looking at the delighted, rapturous faces all around me and thinking, “THIS is why I come to movies — and THIS is what movie…s CAN and SHOULD be: extraordinary characters, extraordinary story.”

Optimus Prime can suck my dick.