muffy bolding

Here I am a few weeks ago — The Sassy, Assy Librarian — mugging with the adorable trio of young actors, Hutch Dano, Adam Hicks, and Dan Curtis Lee, for Disney XDs new show, “Zeke and Luther”. I must say, it was an absolute pleasure working with them. Those boys are HILARIOUS and were making me belly laugh out loud every five. Their sheer energy is astonishing.

We spent the day shooting in the library at Santa Monica High School, and it went just swimmingly. I played a large-and-in-charge, harassed, BUTCH librarian — a real shitkicker to these boys who dared raise a ruckus in my beloved sanctuary of books. At the end of the day, with the dudes all done and wrapped, I still had most of my close-ups and reaction shots left to do. The director put me behind the huge check-out desk and directed me to act annoyed and exasperated — you know, grimace, roll my eyes, flare my nostrils ala Willie Wonka dealing with Mike Teavee and Violet Beauregarde…just your basic over-the-top, cartoony, mugatronic sort of acting, at which, I assure you, my fatass excels. These were close-ups, mind you…that, as we shot, kept getting closer and closer and closer — the darling director telling me exactly what he wanted, and me mugging within an inch of my life trying to give it to him.

As we were doing this, I kept hearing the script supervisor, who was watching me on the monitor, SCREAMING WITH BELLY LAUGHTER at my on-screen ridiculousness. She finally had to clamp her hand over her mouth to stifle the noise. And then, the DP — the guy actually running the camera — had to keep stopping and starting over because, as he told us, “I’m sorry…I’m laughing so hard, the camera is shaking.” Afterward, the director pulled me aside to talk to me, and of course, when you’re descended from shitkickers and thieves like I am, the first thing you always assume is bad news — “Well, that’s it. The jig is up. I’m out on my fatass. They figured out that I’m a NO-talent meathook.” Instead, this wonderful man smiled at me, put his arm around my shoulder and said, “I hope you know you just stole this shoot. I definitely wanna work with you again.”

For a trashy, scandalous, old hooker from Fresno — who should probably be dead by now, or, at the very least, actually hooking — I’d call that a good day.

What a lucky girl I am.

The Los Angeles County Fair just closed its gates for another year, after graciously receiving my fatass for a record number of visits — with a personal best of four. It was glorious in every goddamned conceivable way:

THE MONEY SHOT: Myself — the proud descendant of carnies, shitkickers, and thieves — on the midway at the AWESOME Los Angeles County Fair, 2009…enjoying the intimate companionship of a corndog.

So, by special request — and in honor of this year’s really bitchin’ Fair Season — I have unearthed this previously published post from October, 2007. I had just been through a quite arduous medical ordeal and was a few dreaded days away from surgery to remove what at that point looked like possible ovarian cancer. Thankfully, everything turned out as swimmingly as possible and my cooter, she is fine. And now, onto the show!:

Gosh, I feel like a fucking make-a-wish kid!

Early Saturday morning, after a treacherous month of being in and out of hospitals, doctor’s offices, imaging labs, and drug stores, Gregory asked what I wanted to do and told me to choose anything…anything at all. So, being the carny trash that I am, I of course chose The Los Angeles County Fair! Longtime readers know my family has deep roots in the carnival circuit, and that I come from a long line of sideshow performers, midway artists, and carnival concessionaires, so consequently I feel right at home cavorting amongst the neon, the cheap stuffed animals, and my tweaking, toothless carny bretheren:

After a full day and night of thrilling fun and non-stop eating, allow me to say that I have been to many state fairs in my day, but LA’s extravaganza is the mightiest of them all — completely dazzling and spit-spot and filled with the loveliest unwashed masses I have seen in some time, which was a great treat for me, to be sure. You see, I live in an upscale suburban community (sidenote: if you live in LA and want to send your kids to public school, you gotta vampirically live where the money is, even if you don’t necessarily have it yourself, because, of course, the moneyed pricks don’t fuck around when it comes to their kids’ education.), so unfortunately, most of the faces I see on a daily basis are of the white, upper-middle-class, tennis skirt-wearing, Mercedes SUV-driving, Jesus-feet-groveling, Republican sort — but that is most definitely not where my fatass comes from.

Despite the fact that I have the epidermic pallor of Wednesday Addams, I come from a fierce tribe with brown faces and spicy tongues. My people are ethnic mongrels, which is, of course, precisely what makes us such relentless, hearty, stalwart bastards — we don’t stop for anyone or anything. We are like scrappy, robust pound puppies who push on through to the other side, come what fucking may. My husband — who comes from highly educated, upper-middle-class, fragile porcelain mouse stock — is continuously mystified at the conditions under which I will continue to trudge on. My ability (and desire) to continue working when I should probably be hospitalized is stupefying to him — and also quite maddening. It is one of the very few issues on which we disagree — but coming from the working class, for me there is nothing to understand: you work, sick or not, or your babies don’t eat. Period. So, understandably, it’s always amusing to me that the world has its own notions about the nature of true Angelenos. Well, please allow me to share with you a little secret: For every shallow, worthless, piece-of-shit Paris Hilton here in The City of Angels, there are a million beautiful, decent, hard working brown faces, as well. This is Los Angeles, my friends:

As for the fair itself, it was just tremendous and I highly recommend attending if you are ever in the area. Coming from a carnival background, I just couldn’t believe how tidy and well-maintained the whole shindig was. Even the midway was gorgeous!

And some of it was just exactly, precisely, wonderfully what you expect when you haul your fatass down the midway:

Along with the usual fair attractions, there were special delights around every corner — like an entire miniature world, complete with several running trains, floating boats, and friendly family motels:

There was even a miniature Randy’s Donuts, surrounded by lazy, racist cops…just like the original!:

Strolling the midway with Gregory, I was reminded of my own youth in Fresno spent on rickety, nauseating thrill rides…and even caught sight of the humble Zipper, which was the undisputed Granddaddy of Terror when I was a kid:

Of course, poor thing looks almost downright provincial now, standing next to some of the flailing, neon monsters these kids dare to ride today:

Ah! And the food! What would a trip to the fair be without copious amounts of chow? The assault on your senses is epic, even in hell. Never in my life have I seen such a glorious and varied assortment of vittles in one place. The smell alone is sinful:

And sweet treats served up in kitschy pink huts to women with thick-waisted, diabetic body-types (myself included, of course):

And the livestock! Adorable mama pigs:

And adorable papa pigs, as well:

And the music was just amazing. This trio played us some tunes from various locales around Latin America:

While these mesmerizing young maidens spontaneously stepped forward from the crowd and beguiled us with their dancing. Watching them, I, of course, began to weep at their beauty, their youth, and their passion for the moment — and at the profound realization that it is always the young women, just coming into their power, who most embody the heart of a people:

From my perch in the skyway up above, I could see the entire expanse of midway humanity stretched out before me — and it was breathtaking:

But the best part was not the corn dogs (although they were yummy!) or the miniature world (though it thrilled me to my very core!). It was spending the day with my greatest friend in the world. When all is said and done, no matter what happens to me in this life, I have had the distinct privilege of loving and being loved by this amazing person:

And as carny kids to the very end, we shall wipe the mustard from our faces and rise up and rule the world:

This little shart (because I just can’t seem to muster an entire shit for this one) is for those of you verily trembling with anticipation for the upcoming Bob Dylan Christmas album.

My best friend, Billy, and I saw Dylan here in LA about three years ago and you CANNOT EVEN IMAGINE how terrible it was. It was FUCKING TERRIBLE. I’m talking TERRIBLE WITH RAISINS. He was inexplicably in whiteface and wearing a black Stetson and he never made eye contact with either band nor audience once during the entire show. It was like watching a completely insane, socially-anxious, kabuki cowboy croak and warble at the ground for an hour. NEVER. AGAIN. You just gotta trust me on this one, kids. The genius who wrote “Gates of Eden” and “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleedin’) no longer exists.

But goddamnit, listening to the samples of these holiday songs on Amazon (Dylan condescendingly smirking his way through “Here Comes Santa Claus”? HA!), I will say this: The wise man may be dead, but THE HOLY FOOL LIVES ON. It’s SO NO-talent, that it does a double-helix, Greg Louganis reverse back around upon itself and becomes ALL-talent again. This album is both a complete BELLY LAUGH and an absolute OUTRAGE — sort of like me structuring my precious days to accommodate my Nancy Grace habit. Yes, she, like Bob Dylan, is completely out of her fucking mind — but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Recently, some friends and I were discussing the whole “Sexy Costume” obsession that has descended upon our culture over the past decade or two. It seems that anytime a person with a poontang dresses up for Halloween, it absolutely MUST be of the “sexy” variety…i.e., a sexy Raggedy Ann, a sexy Dorothy Gayle, or even a sexy Zombie. It can’t just be Alice in Wonderland — no, that’s just not good enough. It’s got to be Alice in Wonderland…in a Wonderbra, garters, stockings, and 6 inch bitch heels — with a tattoo of the White Rabbit peeking out from the edge of ruffled panties.

But the best sexy costume that I’ve heard of so far? This year, one of my daughter’s friends is actually dressing up as a SEXY OOMPA-LOOMPA. That’s right, my poppets…orange skin, white booty-short overalls, and a green wig teased up to look like the headliner at Jumbo’s Clown Room.

Christ, I love this goddamned country of mine.

So, The Daily Beast recently named Fresno the 55th smartest large city in the United States.

That’s 55th out of … 55.

To which I say, FUCK RIGHT ON OFF, HATERS…because aside from all the intolerant, misguided, Right Wing Conservative Christian bastards who people the place — oh, and trust me, PLENTY OF THEM MOTHERFUCKERS DO PEOPLE IT — Fresno is an awesome place to have grown up…and I wouldn’t trade my time there for anything in the world. You might be surprised to hear that those things you may perhaps see in my character or in my work that you find in any way interesting or entertaining, were absolutely informed by a youth spent in the Land of The Dancing Raisins, Klein’s Mighty Truck Stop, Lesterburger, Oberti Olive commercials with spokesman Al Fucking Radka acting the fool, and toothless hookers named Aquanetta, Rayleen, and Lupe sashaying Blackstone Avenue in tube tops and tube socks whilst oblivious local families frolicked in the original Me n’ Eds Pizza Parlor right alongside them (BEST PIZZA EVER.) Rest assured, Fresno WILL be immortalized in my writing — of that, have NO DOUBT.

To shamelessly steal from another artist who also dearly loved the hardscrabble place in which he grew up …allow me to say that Fresno is in my ears and in my eyes. There is no escaping that for me…EVER — nor would I want to. For better or for worse, Fresno is at the very heart of who and what I am — and I would be nothing at all without it.

So, anyone who fucks with Fresno has got to come through ME first. This little working class Metseecan girl will take off these gottdamned hoops right now and GO FULL CHOLA on your ass.

BRING IT.

Back in the glory days of 14-hole Doc Martens and Riot Grrrl, my darling husband, Gregory, lived in Olympia, Washington and attended that hotbed of radical political activism and DIY music, art, and zine-publishing, The Evergreen State College. Like all of his comrades at that time, he organized punk shows and played in various bands…including a one-off line-up that included him, and his friends, Amy Moon, and Josh Moon. They called themselves “Evil, Malice, and Spite” — and even better than the fact that they only played one show is the fact that THEY ONLY PLAYED ONE SONG…and that one song was this one. SO GODDAMNED GOOD:

Why, yes…of course that is my hilarious and then 10 year old daughter, Anne, in this commercial for the awesome Pimp doll from the notorious Charles Band film, “Blood Dolls.”

Of course, it is.

As originally posted on hipmama.com:

Armistice Day
by Muffy Bolding

Though it is now officially known as Veteran’s Day, I prefer to call this day of remembrance by its original and much more poetic title: Armistice Day.

This morning I woke, made some good, strong coffee and sat in front of the television with my husband, both of us too young to have ever feared a draft. We watched C-SPAN while an endless parade of senators (all Republicans, for reasons I still haven’t figured out) made four-minute speeches honoring the veterans and war dead of this, arguably the greatest nation on earth.

They stepped solemnly to the podium — many wearing red poppies of remembrance on the lapels of their dark, finely tailored suits — and spoke with great awe and reverence of the veterans of World Wars I and II. They spoke with gratitude and respect of the veterans of the conflict in Korea. And they spoke with a sense of renewed pride and profound regret regarding the treatment of the veterans of the war in Vietnam.

The manner in which we sent those young men to the jungles of southeast Asia to fight and die for supposed American ideals — and then mercilessly turned our backs on them when they returned home — is perhaps one of the most shameful chapters in this country’s history. We offered them nothing, except our contempt. We broke first their bodies, then their minds, and finally, their spirits. Today is a day set aside to perhaps try and begin to reverse and heal the unspeakable damage that has been done. As has been said and written before — by writers far greater than I — there is a time for every purpose under heaven.

Today is a time for embracing.

And, of course, the fact that our country is currently at war was perhaps the main focus of most of their speeches, many of them quite eloquent and moving. One after the other, they invoked the spirit of the current generation of brave, young Americans stationed in the Middle East — who are courageously defending the security and honor of our people. These elder statesman spoke graciously of sacrifices made and liberty upheld. They told of a new generation of Americans who — without a moment’s hesitation — are following in the honorable footsteps of their military forebearers by answering the call of a grateful nation. These modern-day warriors of freedom were offered up the highest honors and accolades that these men of great power could muster — they were called heroes.

However moving as it all may have been, while I listened to genteel men like Senator John Warner from Virginia waxing poetic about patriotism and duty and honor and the sacrifices being made by these young men and women…all I could think about was one thing — and it had nothing at all to do with freedom, liberty, or a war being waged a half a world away.

My one thought was this:

Visit the homes, apartments, and base housing of many of those soldiers that you spoke of today, Senator Warner — those who are stationed over there right now, risking their lives for us all — and open their refrigerators, cabinets, cupboards, and pantries…and tell me what you see.

Or, rather, tell me what you don’t see.

Carefully examine the check registers, bank statements, pocketbooks, piggybanks, and wallets of their remaining spouses. Grasp the reality of the concept “hand to mouth” — and sometimes not even that. See — perhaps for the very first time — what food stamps look like.

Note the year and condition of their vehicles.

Look at the shoes on their children’s feet, Sir. Feel the chill in the air of their playrooms, bedrooms, and nurseries. As you and the current administration surely know firsthand, oil can be quite costly — in more ways than one.

Though it is far from the glamour and triumph of military victory, for most, this is where the truest sacrifice lies. Not on some bloody, glorious battlefield in Iraq — but back at home…in a simple bottle of twice-cut, watered-down baby formula being fed to an infant son by a young mother who is doing her best to keep the home fires burning, while desperately trying to make ends meet on an enlisted man’s salary that is certainly at or below poverty-level.

Let us talk about courage in the face of insurmountable odds, shall we?

You say you sincerely desire to honor our nation’s courageous armed forces on this Armistice Day 2003, Senator Warner? Then start by better providing for the families that they have left behind. Introduce bold and insistent legislation that will immediately ensure that while these men and women are away risking their lives to provide us with security and to preserve the freedoms we hold so dear — that there is generous providence and preservation of what they hold so dear, too. See to it that while they are gone — fighting the Good Fight for us all — that we are here, fighting it for them, as well. Failing to do so is a profound betrayal of everything that they are supposedly fighting for.

As a truly grateful nation, we should now answer their call — and without a moment’s hesitation.

They should never have needed to ask in the first place, Sir.

Do it now.

For my amazing, hilarious father-in-law, Bernard, who left this world five years ago…but whose influence, brilliance, and undying love live on and on. Happy Birthday, Dad. We miss you.

From Jun. 29th, 2004:

And I have been crying non-stop.

Though I have not spoken of this before, my beloved father-in-law has been quite ill. He was diagnosed with prostate cancer ten years ago, but due to a highly experimental treatment he was receiving, it had been kept at bay until about a month ago when he was hospitalized for a stubborn and inexplicable fever — which has now been explained. The cancer had spread to both his spine and that magnificent brain of his. With nothing more that could be done, he was sent home.

Gregory and I spent all day Sunday with him — laughing and joking and me promising to return the next day to read him some PG Wodehouse (his favorite) in the appropriate English accent, of course. That evening, when he turned down a serving of really good vanilla ice cream (also his favorite) we knew that something was dreadfully amiss. We were correct, and unfortunately, on Monday morning, his state worsened, and he became, for the most part, non-responsive — but for these small, wonderful flashes of recognition every so often. It was as though he were floating underwater and would occasionally rise to meet us.

Needless to say, we hadn’t expected it all to deteriorate so quickly, so we took the children to visit him yesterday — where they each said their good-byes in their own way; the girls were beside themselves with grief, and wept inconsolably…but the boy stood bravely by his grandfather’s bed and held his hand and insisted on talking to him about the big upcoming Yankees/Red Sox rivalry game on Wednesday. The boy even wore a Boston cap for his grandfather, The Hahvahd Man — even though he himself worships at the altar of Yankdom. This small, meaningful gesture spoke volumnes about our son and the man he will one day become.

I cannot tell you how grateful I am for having taken them over when we did. Death is a part of the package — we will all have to face it someday — and I think that in years to come, this experience will help them accept what our culture so readily denies and turns away from: that death is very much a part of life. It comes to us all.

I adored Bernard from the very first time we met — but fell head-over-heels in love with the man when he told me the story of his trip years before to South America to watch and photograph a total eclipse of the sun from a beach in Peru, apparently the best vantage point on the globe for that particular celestial event. He told me that he stood on the sand with thousands of other people from all over the world — all silent, all riveted, all standing there at the same time, faces all reverently turned upwards towards the heavens, gazing amazed at the dance they saw there, like human beings must have done since the dawn of time. This brilliant, accomplished man — who in his career made contributions to medicine and science so profound that he was twice nominated for the Nobel Prize in medicine — told me that in that moment, on that beach in a faraway land, face upturned, standing among the awestruck masses, he never, ever felt more a part of humanity in his life. He felt a oneness that he had never experienced before or since. I was completely smitten, and I wept at his story and at the very deep and real privilege I felt at being a part of this very wise, very amazing man’s family.

My darling father-in-law — MD, world famous scientist, esteemed member of the National Academy of Sciences, lover and patron of the arts, jolly ol’ chap, and all around extraordinary human being — died early this morning in his sleep, in his own bed…his death every bit as peaceful as his life. He lived well and he died well and I was truly privileged to have known him. This highly credentialed, Harvard-educated research scientist accepted me fully and in every way — an uncredentialed, degreeless, working class high school drop-out from Fresno with a passion for the word — from the very first moment we met. He held my hand in the dark at my very first opera, Tosca, which I now worship. He bought me my very first bite of Beluga caviar, which I loathed then and still do. My greatest regret is that I ruined for him his life-long love of persimmons by alerting him to the fact that they taste and smell exactly like load (which they do). He knew I was right. He never, ever ate another.

He and I shared a love of Ulysses, Wagnerian operas, ubiquitous profanity, and his precious son. He was my father, he was my friend, he was the one with whom I would weep as we sat silently together and listened to the powerful, mythic strains of Gotterdammerung…or discussed the blissful soliloquy of Molly Bloom.

I am inconsolable.

Having moved away from FresNO a decade ago, I haven’t yet been to their awesome new seafood restaurant, Pismo’s, but I just came across this blog on CentralValleyMoms.com that takes issue with a sign near the door that apparently has a picture of a crying baby along with the slogan, “NO CRYBABIES.” Apparently, some people are offended by this and vow to never return.

My opinion is it’s a sort of light-hearted attempt at humor that also serves as a gentle reminder that even though children and families are certainly welcome, it would be much appreciated — by staff and other patrons alike — that if your child is throwing a wild hissy (as children are wont to do), to take them outside for a bit to regroup. As you know, I have three children — 15, 18, and 22 now — and believe that children should absolutely be taken to public dining establishments, as it’s the only way for them to learn that dining out is a privilege, a luxury, and a responsibility of sorts — a responsibility as well as an opportunity to learn how to behave in public.

Growing up in the the working class, where simolians were often hard to come by, it is my opinion that those offended by this sign need to remember that there are people in that restaurant who have set aside or saved up their hard-earned (perhaps even scarce) money for that meal and PAID A GODDAMNED BABYSITTER so that they might have a peaceful, pleasant, relaxing dining experience AWAY from screaming children. They deserve to have their “investment” and their public dining experience respected.

With that said, sometimes children lose their goddamned minds and that’s just a fact of life. When that happens, their parents need to be courteous and handle it…and if that means going outside for a timeout — or LEAVING ALTOGETHER, even — then sometimes that is necessary. As a culture, we tend to be discourteous enough as it is — to reinforce that behavior by allowing an entire restaurant to be disturbed for an hour because little Madison or Tucker doesn’t want to eat their fucking green beans is not only a disservice to the child, the staff, and all of the other patrons, it is ultimately a disservice to the parents themselves who are setting a nightmarish precedent for FUTURE PARENTING HORROR OF BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS.

I say, just wait until they’re teenagers, my poppets! Getting them to eat their greens will seem like a Sunday stroll through the goddamned park. Can you say Beer Pong, T-backs, and Sexting?

NO CRYBABIES BEYOND THIS POINT