muffy bolding

We have crossed the Rubicon on this sort of thing, methinks. Now that we’ve all seen the thousands of FlashMob videos that proliferate YouTube, for me, something like this can never really be spontaneous, organic, or genuine ever again. It all just feels so forced, contrived, and self-conscious, you know? So turned inside-out on itself — and that’s a pity. We are far too aware of ourselves now — we are SELF-CONSCIOUS in a whole new way…and there is no going back. Ever.

Want proof? Notice that a large majority of the people gathered round this guitar-playing musician aren’t necessarily participating in his feelgood sing-a-long — but they ARE taking photos and videos with iphones and cameras, twittering wildly, and updating the status on their Facebook pages to spread the word about and the images of this damned charming, sing-songy lovefest…where, in fact, some people are singing, yes — but many more are just documenting the event with an eye towards later posting and uploading…a picture or video…of other people…taking pictures and videos…of others.

Christ, how many new fathers have experienced their child’s first birthday party or very birth, for that matter…from behind the lens of a camera — so as to CAPTURE THE MOMENT…as opposed to just being present in it in the first goddamned place.

Ah, fuck it. We’re done. I’m done.

Josh Wilson, Newark Passengers Sing “Hey Jude” While Stuck in Airport

How is it that my children tell me absolutely EVERYTHING — but I only just now learned that when my 18 year old daughter, Anne, was at her first day of kindergarten…she couldn’t find the bathroom at recess, so she snuck back into the classroom alone AND PULLED DOWN HER CUTE LITTLE LITTLE MERMAID PANTIES, SQUATTED DOWN, AND TOOK A GODDAMNED DUMP IN HER CUBBY HOLE.

SO AWESOME!

Despite taking complete responsibility for my own reproductive health by using birth control, I became unexpectedly pregnant at the age of 18. Because the time was not right for me to become a mother, with the support of my partner, I made the decision to seek an abortion — a decision that I have not regretted for a single moment since. I now have three beautiful children and the life I always dreamed of. Today is the 37th Anniversary of Roe vs. Wade, the landmark Supreme Court ruling establishing a woman’s constitutional right to control of her own reproductive destiny. What is YOUR story?

It’s official: Gregory and I will be on a grand and glorious adventure in New York City next week. Christmas lights, festive department store windows, Central Park in Fall, shiftily hanging around for hours in front of The Dakota reading “The Catcher in the Rye”, playing squat-hop-in-the-asparagus-patch with my ol’ man, “Needles and Nancy Wednesday” knitfest on CJ’s couch, and STALKING AYUN HALLIDAY AT THE BUST HOLIDAY CRAFTACULAR 2009. How lucky can one girl get?

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 is also a gentle reminder that even though children and families are certainly welcome, that 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 strongly 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 some people in that restaurant who have set aside or saved up their hard-earned (perhaps even scarce) money for that meal and PAID A 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

Have you ever noticed that convicts, outlaws, bikers, and old stoners ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS claim to be “part Cherokee on my mother’s side”? What’s up with that?

Restauranteur Elaine Kaufman of Elaine’s Restaurant in NYC, surrounded by some of her distinguished clientele from amongst the creme de la creme of the New York literati.

A friend recently told me they saw a picture of Elaine Kaufman in Vanity Fair, and that looking at it, they immediately thought of me — me in the future. And having been obsessed, from about the 6th grade on, with Elaine’s and the whole decadent, hilarious, brilliant, literary mist that swirls about the place, I must say that I was intrigued by her comparison. So, I googled Elaine — who by all accounts has a reputation for being a well-read, whip-smart, bawdy, rollicking, belly laugher of a broad — and sure as shit…it is DEAD-ON like looking in a mirror into the future.

Accompanying one of the pictures I found of her was an interview she did with The New York Times where, when asked how she finds the energy to keep doing it after all these years, she pursed her lips and answered, “If you slow down, you fuckin’ die, honey!”

By the way, in case you hadn’t already guessed it, despite her quick and erudite mind, and the esteemed company she keeps (up until his death in 2003, the writer George Plimpton was one of her closest friends and is pictured here above her right shoulder), “fuck” is apparently her favorite word, and she feels free to pepper her language with it quite liberally. If you google “Elaine Kaufman” and “fuck”, the results are positively breathtaking.

There’s a story about Elaine, told by New York journalist Bob Drury, that pretty much sums her up. I shall let him tell it:

And, of course, there was Elaine’s—Elaine Kaufman, she loved reporters and cops. I had met her back when I was a kid sportswriter, maybe seven or eight years earlier. A literary agent owed me 11k—a lordly sum at the time for me; even today now that I think about it—and he was hosting an afternoon party at Elaine’s for another one of his clients. When I arrived at the door he was greeting people and handed me the check. I didn’t know anybody so I slinked over to a corner of the bar and ordered a beer. When I went to pay, and the bartender told me it was an open bar, I jacked him a two-spot tip. Three or four more beers later, three or four more $2 tips later, I notice that there’s this, er, zaftig women giving me the voodoo eye from a couple of bar stools down.

“I know who the fuck you are. I saw Jay give you that check for eleven grand when you walked in and I’ve been watching you tip my bartender with every drink. My name’s Elaine, and you’re welcome in my place any fuckin’ time.”

It seems she and I have a lot more in common than just a hair-do, funny glasses, a zest for living, and a fondness for black dresses and smart men.

Some parents tease their daughter’s hair into complicated, lacquered bouffants, dress them up in frilly frocks, and force them to strut the runways of childhood beauty pageants — still others cheer theirs on at rough and tumble sporting events, providing encouragement, Gatorade, and regular mullet maintenance at the neighborhood Supercuts.

But me? When you are born a child of mine…THIS is how you bring a proud tear to your mother’s eye, goddamnit. My hilarious and amazing daughter, Anne (who is now a senior in high school), when she was 8, in a commercial written and directed by the absolutely brilliant Billy Butler:

When was the last time you saw a commercial and the very first question you wanted answered was, “Ummm…who the fuck made that??”

Well, for me, the answer is never. Never, not a single time, have I ever seen a commercial and immediately wanted to know, “Who on earth created that?”

Until now.

For whatever whines or gripes you might have about crass consumerism, gender stereotyping, and the like, do me a small favor and pull the calcified stick outcha humorless ass for just a moment and watch what is perhaps the most clever and entertaining advertisement I have seen in a long, long time. Watching it, I found myself, more than once, actually belly laughing out loud. The writing, acting, and directing in this bit is purely brilliant — and whoever it was at Saatchi & Saatchi that created this compelling piece of WIN needs to get their fatass out of the advertising bidness and into making films. Why? Not because advertising isn’t a noble and worthwhile cause — given the right project and visionary approach (oh, and THE RIGHT PRICE, as well), it certainly can be…particularly from the viewpoint of a writer/whore like myself.

No, I want them to make films because I want to watch them, goddamnit — and since I am the reigning QueenSize SizeQueen of the Universe, that makes me The Boss of You and that means my fatass makes the rules. So mote it be, motherfuckers.

Now…FOLD!

The latest meme that all the cool kids are doing:

If you saw me in the back of a police car, what would you think I got arrested for?