muffy bolding

I’ve been tagged on this fabulous book meme by just about everyone I know, so do it if you want — and if not?

FUCK OFF, LADY.

Rules: Don’t take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you’ve read that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Tag 15 friends, including me because I’m interested in seeing what books my friends choose.

1) The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
2) The Crusades by Zoe Oldenbourg
3) Capote by Gerald Clarke
4) Dorothy Parker: What Fresh Hell Is This? by Marion Meade
5) The Chronicles of Narnia by CS Lewis
6) If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits by Erma Bombeck
7) A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving
8) Europe by Norman Davies
9) Everybody Was So Young; Gerald and Sara Murphy: A Lost Generation Love Story by Amanda Vaill
10) Bitter Fame: A Life of Sylvia Plath by Anne Stevenson
11) Collected Poems of Ted Hughes by Ted Hughes
12) The Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath
13) The Complete Poems: Anne Sexton by Anne Sexton
14) Anne Sexton: A Biography by Diane Middlebrook
15) The Hundred Dresses by Eleanor Estes

And speaking about hair…every bastard in this country with thinning hair and a receding hairline needs to get down on his knees and thank the baby jesus for the ONE MAN who made it not only okay to lose your hair…but made it so that it’s BUTCH to go bald: Bruce Motherfucking Willis. Because of him, men no longer gotta sport nasty comb-overs. When it starts to go, YOU JUST SHAVE THAT SHIT OFF. Acknowledge, boys!

And for those who have suggested various other names…Yul Brynner and Sean Connery don’t count. I’m not sure Yul actually shaved his because he was losing his hair — or just because he thought it made him look like a BOSS MOTHERFUCKIN’ GENIE.

WHICH IT DID.

Sean is ol’ school — all those boys back then had short hair, so his wasn’t necessarily a statement, just de rigueur for the times. Vin Diesel came MUCH later. He could actually be counted among those who benefited from Willis’ hairless aplomb. And you know, I might actually be talked into giving ol’ Eddie Harris some props in the matter but mainly because I SHO WOULD LIKE HIM TO SLAP MY FACE, PULL MY HAIR, AND CALL ME A DIRTY WHORE. But then, that’s just me.

My Husband Discovers Poetry

Because my husband would not read my poems,
I wrote one about how I did not love him.
In lines of strict iambic pentameter,
I detailed his coldness, his lack of humor.
It felt good to do this.

Stanza by stanza, I grew bolder and bolder.
Towards the end, struck by inspiration,
I wrote about my old boyfriend,
a boy I had not loved enough to marry
but who could make me laugh and laugh.
I wrote about a night years after we parted
when my husband’s coldness drove me from the house
and back to my old boyfriend.
I even included the name of a seedy motel
well-known for hosting quickies.
I have a talent for verisimilitude.

In sensuous images, I described
how my boyfriend and I stripped off our clothes,
got into bed, and kissed and kissed,
then spent half the night telling jokes,
many of them about my husband.
I left the ending deliberately ambiguous,
then hid the poem away
in an old trunk in the basement.

You know how this story ends,
how my husband one day loses something,
goes into the basement,
and rummages through the old trunk,
and he uncovers the hidden poem
and sits down to read it.

But do you hear the strange sounds
that floated up the stairs that day,
the sounds of an animal, its paw caught
in one of those traps with teeth of steel?
Do you see the wounded creature
at the bottom of the stairs,
his shoulders hunched over and shaking,
fist in his mouth and choking back sobs?
It was my husband paying tribute to my art.

— Diane Lockward

“Because we don’t know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that is so deeply part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it. Perhaps four or five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.”
— Paul Bowles

From July, 2009:

My brilliant, beautiful teenage daughter returned from a month-long backpacking trip through Europe yesterday — the same day that Los Angeles writer Greg Burk and attorney Deborah Drooz were notified that the body of their brilliant, beautiful teenage daughter and only child, Lily Burk, was found in her car in LA’s Skid Row area, dead at the hands of a 50 year old man with a violent past who had kidnapped her during an errand she was running for her mother in the Downtown area. As a woman, it is incomprehensible to me that females in our society still need fear for their safety and their lives — and as a mother, my heart breaks into a million pieces for this family…and I RAGE.

This murder, which took place 15 minutes from my home, has served as a tragic reminder that even now, in 2009, women are still not safe from the violence of either strangers on the street or from domestic violence in their own homes, for that matter. Tragic incidents like this should serve to remind us all that we need to step up our efforts to fight violence against women and girls not only in this country, but all over the world. We need to make this a priority NOW. Women and girls should be able to live their lives without fear — that is our right.

I write this having been touched by such an incident firsthand. Three summers ago, our then 15 year old daughter was attacked one evening in a public place and, by sheer ferocity — and lots of luck — fought her attacker and escaped. I wrote about it after the fact and here is that essay as it was originally published in July of 2006:

One evening this past week, I got a phone call that brought me to my knees. Literally.

The call was from my hilarious and beautiful 15 year old daughter — who is spending the summer with family friends on our former home, Coronado Island. She was crying and hysterical and I could barely understand what she was saying. When I finally got her to calm down, she told me what had happened not 10 minutes before:

She had been walking with her best girlfriends on the beach at the gorgeous, old Hotel Del Coronado — the grand, wooden Victorian hotel that is one of the premiere upscale vacation resorts in the country — when she told her girls that she really, really needed to use the public restroom to pee and that she would catch up with them at the park two blocks away, where they were all headed to meet up with some other friends.

She was separated from them and alone for no more than two or three minutes. In that amount of time, our joyful, hilarious baby was grabbed and dragged and thrown on the ground between two parked cars by a stranger in his late 30’s…who very clearly had plans to rape her.

Fortunately, my fierce and tiny Baby Goat had other plans for the gutless bastard who dared lay his hands on her: she did exactly what I had always taught her to do if she was ever grabbed in a public place; all 98 pounds of her kicked and bit and punched and scratched and screamed and gouged and thrashed…until he realized that she wasn’t going down without a fight. She was too much trouble. He stood up and threatened her and told her to stay there and wait for him…that he was going to get some of his friends and come back — and then he took off.

My daughter, who is by far the funniest person I know (and I know some FUNNY motherfuckers, let me tell you), said “FUCK ALL THAT” — and got herself up and ran screaming for help. That is when she called me.

It was 10:30 at night and we got in the car and flew down the 5 to be with her. By the time we got there, she had already spent an hour and a half being interviewed at the police station and was at home in her jammies. Never in my 19 years as a parent have I ever been so relieved to wrap my arms around one of my babies. As I held her tightly, all I could think about was how lucky we were, how some women, even though they fight back with all their spirit and all their might, do not escape; that night, though horrific, could have ended very, very differently.

The next day a detective from the Coronado Police Department called and asked if my girl would agree to come down and help a sketch artist put together a composite drawing of the suspect because they were releasing the story to the wider media…and then he told me why — and it chilled me to my fucking soul. It seems that the night before my daughter was attacked, another young woman had actually been raped in the business district of that small, charming, upscale seaside town, which is famous for having almost zero violent crime. The night before.

I called my daughter — who really just wanted to put the whole thing behind her and move on — to tell her what had happened to the other young woman and to ask whether she would be willing to help put a face on their possibly mutual attacker — and perhaps even save other women from the same fate. After discussing the notion of civic responsibility and owing something back to the society in which you live — as well as the idea that all women need to stand up for each other whenever and wherever they are able — she readily agreed to do it. The next day, she spent her afternoon dredging up the horror and trauma of precisely that which she really just wanted to forget; piecing together the face of her worst nightmares.

Of my worst nightmares.

In the end, being “too much trouble” certainly saved my daughter from being raped, and quite possibly saved her life — so that’s my new mantra for myself and for all women: Don’t be a good girl. Be bold. Be fierce. Don’t take the abuse. Don’t be afraid to kick some fucking ass. Be too much trouble.

I am so proud of my girl; she is so courageous and mighty and brave — and not even the lunatic actions of some dickless cocksucker can ever change that.

Okay…do you all know that song, “Drops of Jupiter” by Train? Yeah, the one where those guys try their asses off to approximate the sound and soul of The Black Crowes — which isn’t really saying much, if you think about it. It was popular like ten years ago, or something.

Well, anyway — there is a line in that song that apparently goes:

“Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded
And that heaven is overrated?”

Well, for the LONGEST GODDAMNED TIME, I honest to christ thought that that line was instead the following (and would sing it out LOUD AND PROUD because it just amused me no end):

“Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded
and Van Halen is overrated?”

AND VAN HALEN IS OVERRATED

Yeah, yeah, yeah…I am WELL aware that I am a ridiculous jackass, and when my husband heard me singing along one day in the car — singing along MY WAY, that is — he nearly busted a fucking cute jew-boy gut laughing at me.

But you know what? My reasoning was this: If a song contains the UTTERLY ludicrous, NO-talent, 21st century, BAD pop culture phrases:

“She checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo…”

“Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken…”

“The best soy latte that you ever had and me…”

Then I see ZERO fucking outrageousness in it also containing the phrase, “Van Halen is overrated…”

And, yes…when I first heard it (or misheard it, rather), I must admit to having felt just AWFUL for poor ol’ Van Halen. To be publicly humiliated by Kurt Cobain the way they were was one thing — because there was almost a cool veneer to being on the receiving end of the infamous Cobain Disdain.

But to be MOLDED by those fucking NO-talent meathooks in Train, for chrissake?

Why, it’s almost too much to bear.

I do believe I shall be forced to seek solace in the best soy latte that I’ll ever have…and thee.

I was walking across a bridge one day, and I saw a man standing on the edge, about to jump off. So, I ran over and said, “Stop! Don’t do it!”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he said.

I said, “Well, there’s so much to live for!”

He said, “Like what?”

I said, “Well…are you Religious or Atheist?”

He said, “Religious.”

I said, “Me, too! Are you Christian or Buddhist?”

He said, “Christian.”

I said, “Me, too! Are you Catholic or Protestant?”

He said, “Protestant.”

I said, “Me, too! Are you Episcopalian or Baptist?”

He said, “Baptist!”

I said, “Wow! Me, too! Are you Baptist Church of God, or Baptist Church of the Lord?”

He said, “Baptist Church of God!”

I said, “Me, too! Are you Original Baptist Church of God, or are you Reformed Baptist Church of God?”

He said, “Reformed Baptist Church of God!”

I said, “Me, too! Are you Reformed Baptist Church of God, Reformation of 1879, or Reformed Baptist Church of God, Reformation of 1915?”

He said, “Reformed Baptist Church of God, Reformation of 1915!”

I said, “Die, Heretic Scum!!!”, and pushed him off.

— Emo Phillips

PS) And yes, for those of you wondering…the above picture DOES hang in a place of great honor in my living room.

From September, 2009:

You cannot believe the raging, relentless fires that currently surround my little family, my little house, and my little community. This is the real deal, my poppets. In an area that reportedly hasn’t had a really kickin’ burn since the late 1950s, there is fire all around us, along with an endless supply of thick, bone-dry brush to fuel its fervor and feed its insatiable hunger. Over 10,000 homes are in peril and authorities were knocking on doors all night to alert people that it was time to flee on their donkeys. Many of our friends were told to pack up and leave as early as Thursday; they are all gone. Since it started on Wednesday, the blaze has more than quadrupled in size, with absolutely no signs of slowing and absolutely no signs of containment. School was scheduled to start on Monday morning, but according to district officials, that won’t be happening…as my son’s gymnasium is currently being used to house refugees from the fire. What you see in the horrifyingly beautiful photo above is just a few blocks up the street from La Canada High School; that, my friends, is JPL…The Jet Propulsion Lab. Yes, that means NASA, kids. Aside from the tens of thousands of homes currently in the line of fire (literally), you can clearly see that to say there is much at stake here is an understatement.

Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, who has already declared a state of emergency in the Los Angeles area, showed up at the local command post today to be briefed on the situation; Big Daddy was here to calmly reassure us that all that can humanly be done to help us…is being done. Having never received evacuation orders, we are still here, under dense red clouds of clotted smoke and ash — so much ash that, at times, it looks like it’s snowing outside…but the reality is that it was 105 degrees today. As of tomorrow, up in those hills there will be over 3,500 brave, BUTCH firefighters battling dangerous 100+ foot walls of fire in heat that is consistently hovering around the century mark. Make no mistake, these motherfuckers are HEROES. If this city survives this inferno, it will only be due to their extraordinarily superhuman efforts. When we get through this — and we WILL get through this — I will be writing an open letter to the newspaper thanking and praising these courageous men and women for all that they’ve done, and encouraging all residents whose lives and property were saved by their efforts, to make a generous donation to The California State Firefighters Association, whose purpose is to improve the benefits and working conditions of all those who risk their lives to keep the rest of us safe from peril. Unfortunately, like the two firefighters who were tragically killed today after their vehicle rolled sideways down an 800 foot mountainside, sometimes they pay the ultimate price…all so that we don’t have to. They are a rare breed and I thank them from the bottom of my further blackened heart.

Also, many thanks to all those who wrote, called, texted, and emailed with offers of help, shelter, support, and prayers. Your kindness, generosity, concern, and love will never be forgotten. As of this moment, we are all healthy, well, and out of danger — though if truth be told, after five days of sashaying about under a campfire mushroom cloud that reportedly can now be seen from space, we are all hickory smoked to perfection.

From September, 2009:

Despite sheltering under a mushroom cloud of biblical proportions for the entire past week — with 100 foot flames lapping at our fine asses every five — my little family and I are doing remarkably well. The babies finally went back to school, we bought the adorable Baby Goat her very first car, my FAB GIRL-CRUSH from high school friended me back on FB, we’ve giddily purchased tickets for a demolition derby at the LA County Fair, and I got cast in the title role in “The Ernest Borgnine Story.” Okay, so I didn’t really get cast as ol’ Ernie, but with my eyes all swollen and puffy from all this smoke and dust, I noticed this morning in the mirror that I do sort of look like him. Goddamnit, Ernest Borgnine is ALL. At any rate, even though we seemed to have dodged a red-hot, smoking bullet this time, there are many, many more of my fair countrymen who have not — and I sit here drinking coffee, writing a movie, kissing a sweet black 3 pound Chihuahua named Frances on the lips, and keeping one eye on the news…and the fires rage on and on…as my beloved city continues to burn.

“The Christian view that all intercourse outside marriage is immoral was, as we see in the passages of St. Paul, based upon the view that all sexual intercourse, even within marriage, is regrettable. A view of this sort, which goes against biological facts, can only be regarded by sane people as a morbid aberration. The fact that it is embedded in Christian ethics has made Christianity throughout its whole history a force tending towards mental disorders and unwholesome views of life.”

— Bertrand Russell