The quote I have printed up in a delightfully large font and scotch-taped to the front of our microwave for my children and all the world to see as they warm up their corndogs and Trader Joe’s frozen burritos — because I’m just that kind of dame:
“Let me tell you something you already know. The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place and it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t how hard you hit; it’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take, and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done. Now, if you know what you’re worth, then go out and get what you’re worth. But you gotta be willing to take the hit.”
Yet another self-indulgent list of odd/interesting facts about myself while I fret and sweat with ruinous perfectionism regarding my this-close-to-being-finished book proposal:
1.) From a very early age, I have slept with books in my bed…literally stowed in my pillowcases, tucked under the mattress, wrapped in the sheets, and stashed between the comforters — within arms distance and surrounding me at all times. This is, of course, so that I can wake and have instant access to my most valued and cherished material possessions. I just recently read somewhere that Chairman Mao practiced this same habit throughout his entire life –- which I find only mildly disturbing.
2.) My mother regularly douches with Scope mouthwash. She says it gives her cooter a blast of icy-fresh rejuvenation. If she is out of Scope, she has also been known to use Listerine in a pinch. Give us a kiss.
3.) My husband’s uncle was a writer on The Brady Bunch, All in the Family, Here’s Lucy, The Red Skelton Show, Mr. Ed, and Sanford and Son, among many other classic television shows. Also, his aunt was Morticia’s cousin, Melancholia, on The Addams Family as well as the voice of Henrietta Hippo on The New Zoo Revue and the “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing…” lady on the famous Alka Seltzer commercials of the 1970s (She would answer, “Believe it, Henry…”) And speaking about cousins, when you ride the Tower of Terror ride at Disneyland, that is Gregory’s first cousin, Bob, you see portraying Rod Serling. Brilliance clearly runs in his family.
4.) Because I apparently have the world’s tiniest ears, no earbuds known to man will fit me. When I wish to listen to my ipod, I am forced to do so via regular old-school earphones or car speakers, which is a colossal pain-in-the-icehole, I assure you. When we were in London a few years ago, I was the only person on the double-decker tour bus (small children included, mind you) who had to actually physically hold the tour’s earbuds in my ears because they would pop out within 3 seconds of my frustrating attempts at wedging them in there. Think Shaquille O’Neal trying to fuck Tinkerbelle…and well, you get the idea.
5.) I have always said that when it comes to rubbish — fuck girl power! Along with changing tires and killing spiders, garbage is the domain of men! I refuse to handle refuse!
6.) One of the sounds I love the most is the clackity-clackity sound of a huge brace of fresh clams or periwinkles being dumped all over each other into a metal cooking pot.
7.) No matter where I happen to find myself in the world, I always leave my watch set to the time where my children are.
8.) I never snoop in my children’s things –- not their drawers, not their purses, not their Facebooks, not their MySpaces. Never, ever.
9.) I keep a bottle of Visine in the refrigerator at all times –- because nothing in this world feels better when my eyes are itchy from allergies or tired from reading or writing. It’s sort of a blast of icy-fresh rejuvenation, you might say.
10) I come from a long line of carnival people –- including those who sold corndogs, those who worked the midway, those who performed in sideshows, and — though I’m sure you’ll find it terribly difficult to believe seeing that I am such a fine fuckin’ lady — those who were quite infamous for doing this:
a) List ten habits/quirks/facts about yourself
b) Tag ten people to do the same
c) Do not tag the person who tagged you or say that you tag “whoever wants to do it”
d) Fuck “C”; “C” is not the boss of me. This is my gottdamned journal and I say do it if you want — and if not? Well, you know the drill.
1. I perpetually, mercilessly, and without shame or hesitation…steal magazines and pens from doctor’s offices; I am incorrigible. And speaking of heisted pens — my latest fave writing instruments are the little red, clicky-click, logoed company pens used by the wait staff at Buca di Beppo Restaurants. I like how they write and how they feel in my hand and I have have zero dignity about stopping in whenever I am in the vicinity to beg a few from a usually befuddled yet amused front hostess.
2. I came into my bedroom recently and found my thirteen-year old son sitting all by himself at the computer and weeping at the beauty of Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man.” Oh, yes, he is my son.
3. Sometimes I cut up onions and celery and just rub them and smash them between my hands and fingers because I like it how it makes them smell –- even a day or two later. It smells like Thanksgiving and family and blustery weather. It’s quite literally my favorite perfume.
4. I have a secret cache of ancient answering machine tapes that contain HILARIOUS messages from my friend, Billy, and his old roommate, Viggo Mortensen, when they were both starving, struggling, brilliant young actors. A few tapes even have the two of them serenading me with wicked, irreverent ditties they wrote themselves that are HUGE belly laughers. These will never see the light of day.
5. If you want to make me absolutely cringe and recoil in horror…just sincerely use the phrase “make love” in my mortal presence. So embarrassing. It’s just the worst sort of pillowy, horseshit, romance novel dreck. Ugh.
6. Aside from the two Superman movies (which I LOVE!), I loathe ANYTHING to do with superheroes –- including all films, comic books, graphic novels, etc. I can never ever understand the whole goddamned culture poppin’ a chubby when a new superhero movie is announced, because they all look exactly the same and play exactly the same –- dark, grayish, grainy Gotham. Snore. God, I would rather light my own fucking hair on fire than to sit through another one. With all due respect, as far as I am concerned, you can take all your drivelous, monotonous superhero comics and their horrid by-products and sail ‘em right up your ass. BO-FUCKING-RING.
7. I always, always, always call women “Miss (Whatever-Her-Name-Is).” Don’t ask me why. I am not from the South, nor was I raised by or around people who were — it’s just something I have always done. Hey, maybe it means that I’m a real fuckin’ lady!
8. My son and I — both radical, staunch, anti-Bush Democrats — were mightily offended by the crowd booing and hissing at ol’ George W. as he threw out the ceremonial opening pitch at the Washington National’s game on March 30. Not the appropriate venue, kids. Just. Bad. Form.
9. I cannot get through the Elliott Smith cover of the Big Star song “Thirteen” without crying. It just kills me.
10. My theory on why the icons so popular in folk art and interior design right now (owls, birds, strawberries, mushrooms) are so ubiquitous is because the majority of people currently creating homecrafted art and buying hip housewares from places like Urban Outfitters were surrounded by these images as children –- their mother’s kitchens, bathrooms, and laundry rooms were filled with them! Of course, I am going to have to wait a few more years for my theory to be unequivocally proven –- when both culture and time move on…and we start seeing the French blue country geese motif, suffered by those children born in the 80s, appearing on ironic t-shirts, futon bedding, wedding invitations, and tattoo flash from Williamsburg to Silver Lake.
“Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand. They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better than we are because we had to discover the compensations and refuges of life for ourselves. Even when they enter deep into our world or sink below us, they still think that they are better than we are. They are different.”
A few days ago, I happened upon a story about the Discovery Channel reality show Deadliest Catch, which just recently aired its 4th 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!
So, while Gregory and I were off gallivanting around Boston and sashaying up The Cape, I had sort of an amazing thing happen career-wise — and even though I was unable to take advantage of the opportunity this time, as there were very precarious and pressing time issues involved and I had just stepped off a plane 3000 miles away from home when I received word, it still represents a huge leap for me…one that, because I pulled it outta my fancy ass once, I am most assured can and will happen again. Life and destiny are awfully surprising and extraordinary things.
I. Me. Muffaletta Von Schtupp…got called in for the lead in a series pilot for a major network.
There. I’ve spoken it aloud.
It came down to me and one other broad — and I shall say here and now that I hope whomever she is, she fully realizes it was her lucky fucking day, because had I been here, I would’ve OWNED that part, baby. There would’ve been no stopping me — just as there will be no stopping me the next time Fortune knocks on my door with a wry smile on her face, flowers in her hair, her titties hanging out the top of her toga, and her arms wide open to me. It will be my turn…and I shall accept with great grace, gladness, and gratitude — and remember that alongside whatever modicum of success I attain in my life, it will always be with an ardent and passionate eye to honoring and raising all women through my work.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, in my little corner of insanity — Fortune looks and acts just like Carol Kane.
So, Unnamed Actress, whoever you are, I genuinely wish you nothing but success and fulfillment in your new job and may many blessings rain down upon you as a result of your talent, your perseverance, and your hard work. May all your dreams come true — and I’ll see you around at The Emmys, sister.
Aside from the simple matter of craving some serious adventure, one of the more practical reasons Gregory and I traveled to Boston recently was so that he could introduce me to some of his old high school friends and show me where he grew up. I got a chance to meet Neal and Peter (who are both SO fucking butch!) and their darling wives, Miss April and Miss Gwen — who, it turns out, is quite an extraordinary artist. Although she didn’t go to high school with our darling little trio of drug-addled teenage villains, apparently Gwen knew my sweet husband all those many years ago, as well.
After we were all ensconced cozily around her and Peter’s kitchen table — drinking yummy hot tea, poring over old yearbooks, and belly laughing at the absolutely HIDEOUS 80s hairstyles contained therein — Gwen smiled mischievously and asked Gregory, “So, do you remember when I sketched you all those years ago?” — to which my husband actually looked rather shocked and answered, “Umm…no.” And then homegirl proceeded to go into her studio and return with a portfolio…out of which she removed an absolutely extraordinary drawing she had done of him when he was but a mere 23-year old babe in arms.
When she handed it to me, I honestly almost passed out — I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. All the air completely left my body. I couldn’t stop staring at it — it was just so amazing. It was my sweet love’s face from a long, long time ago — before I knew him. Before I loved him. Before he loved me. I couldn’t stop crying — it was just the most amazing and unexpected surprise to have had come floating down to me from the ethers of the past. Thank you, Miss Gwen — it is truly one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given: A singular moment in the past of the man I love most in the whole world — a small glimpse into a life he had long before I knew he even existed. I mean, how many times in your life are you offered a treasure like that? It just takes my breath away.
Needless to say, we went to the post office the next day and mailed it home in one of those secure document mailer tubes as we didn’t want to ruin it in our vagabond luggage. When it arrived at our house a few days after returned, I was just so enchanted that I couldn’t stop gazing into his clear, young eyes — eyes that had hardly tasted life yet…but which, of course, are the very same green eyes I gaze into everyday of my life. He’s just so unbelievably beautiful — and I love him without end. Were it that every girl was as lucky as me.
Goddamnit, I love me some teenagers! The Baby Goat and her flock of adorable, pony-legged comrades are always turning me on to such hilarious, wondrous happenings as this video. The way they look at the world — through brand-new eyes, unravaged by the bitterness of time and bad drugs from the 80s — is such an amazing, invigorating, and inspiring thing for an old hooker like me. That they take such joyous delight in celebrating small moments like this gives me hope for the future yet.
One look through youtube will show you that teenagers in not only my girl’s little group but kids from all over the world are currently re-enacting their very own versions of what was originally a sweet little video clip posted by some proud mum in the UK. God, I live for shit like this — and needless to say…”Charlie Bit My Finger” shall be the name of my new band.
Come…take my hand and join me, won’t you? And belly laugh by my side as I vampirically drink the blood of the taut, the youthful, and the scorchingly funny.
The Original:
One of the many delightful homages to be found on youtube:
“Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” Days Honor Children’s Television Icon
“(Pittsburgh) – In honor of what would have been Mister Rogers’ 80th birthday on March 20, Mr. McFeely — aka David Newell, the public relations director for Family Communications, Inc. (the nonprofit company founded in 1971 by Fred Rogers) — has a special request.
“We’re asking everyone everywhere — from Pittsburgh to Paris — to wear their favorite sweater on that day,” he asks in his best speedy delivery voice. “It doesn’t have to have a zipper down the front like the one Mister Rogers wore on the program, it just has to be special to you.”
But wait, there’s more.
It just so happens that Sweater Day is part of Pittsburgh’s 250th anniversary celebration and the first-ever “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” Days (March 15 — 20).
“We wanted to recognize Fred in a way that would reflect his deep appreciation of what it means to be a caring neighbor,” explains FCI’s Margy Whitmer.
As a result, “’Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” Days — WYBMND for short, although not by much — was born as a means of promoting neighborliness throughout Fred Rogers’ own backyard — Southwestern Pennsylvania region.
Throughout WYBMND, more than 30 organizations ranging from libraries (Carnegie Libraries of Pittsburgh and others throughout Southwestern Pennsylvania), to museums (The Children’s Museum of Pittsburgh, the Westmoreland Museum of American Art, the Senator John Heinz History Center and The Carnegies) to other venues (The New Hazlett Theater, The Pittsburgh Opera, the Pittsburgh Zoo and the PPG Aquarium, the National Aviary and Gilda’s Club Western Pennsylvania) have signed up to participate. Highlights of the celebration also include performances by musicians including members of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. ”
Mister Rogers and PBS funding
In 1969, Rogers appeared before the United States Senate Subcommittee on Communications. His goal was to support funding for PBS and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, in response to significant proposed cuts. In about six minutes of testimony, Rogers spoke of the need for social and emotional education that public television provided. He passionately argued that alternative television programming like his Neighborhood helped encourage children to become happy and productive citizens, sometimes opposing less positive messages in media and in popular culture. He even recited the lyrics to one of his songs.
The chairman of the subcommittee, John O. Pastore, was not previously familiar with Rogers’ work, and was sometimes described as gruff and impatient. However, he reported that the testimony had given him goosebumps, and declared, “Looks like you just earned the $20 million.” The subsequent congressional appropriation, for 1971, increased PBS funding from $9 million to $22 million.
Simply put, there will never be anyone else like him. When he died in 2003, the children of the world lost one of their most tireless and courageous advocates. Here he passionately champions their cause before a Senate Subcommittee and wins over the icy hearts of jaded career politicians who had already pretty much decided to cut him off at the budgetary knees with the single stroke of a pen. The fact that he even makes the attempt is valiant. That he succeeds is stunning. But the part that is most breathtaking is that he does it all with a genuine kindness, patience, and sincerity undoubtedly not seen before or since in such fiscally cutthroat proceedings. He is a wonder:
And finally, in honor of a man who changed my life, here is an essay I wrote following the news of his death:
Fred McFeely Rogers, 1928-2003
by Muffy Bolding
Among other astonishing tidbits of wisdom — like, say, a behind-the-scenes look at how crayons are made — Fred Rogers provided me with my very first lesson on how you can totally and completely love someone with all your heart…even someone you’ve never met.
In the early 1990s, I read a newspaper story about Mr. Rogers’ stint as the main guest speaker at the graduation ceremonies of some fancy Ivy League college back East. I smiled as I read that he was overwhelmingly chosen — from among a rather large field of quite renowned and impressive possible candidates — by the graduating students themselves.
However, because of the great affection that I felt for this man, as I read the story I distinctly remember also feeling a small, but palpable twinge of fear in my chest — fear that perhaps this bored, jaded, favored, overly-educated, disenchanted slice of my generation had chosen him to speak at their college graduation as some supreme statement of kitsch, or even as an opportunity to poke fun at his tender, gentle ways in a very public forum.
When I got to the part about him walking to the podium to begin his speech — in that purposeful, patient, and unhurried walk of his that we all know so well — the protective concern that I was feeling instantly shifted into a sense of great pride, relief, and community. They hadn’t let me down.
And I began to weep. And I weep again, even now, just remembering it.
As Fred Rogers was introduced and began his walk to the microphone where he would address them, thousands of voices — voices that were soon to take their place in positions of great power, leadership, erudition, and meaningful discourse in this nation –- spontaneously and enthusiastically erupted into song; his song:
“It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor…
Would you be mine? Could you be mine? Won’t you be my neighbor?”
They hadn’t invited him there to their hallowed halls to make fun of him at all. They had invited him there, with great reverence, to pay him tribute. He had — one song, one smile, one loving word at a time — been a part of each of their journeys to adulthood. They had asked him to be there, on this symbolic last day of their childhoods, because they loved him.
Those thousands of voices raised in song were a profound and heartfelt “thank you” for the many years that he gave them his kind, patient, and undivided attention. A voice that was there, everyday, even when parents or friends weren’t. A voice that, to a tragic few, may have been the only loving and reassuring words they might hear all day.
I miss him, and his kindness…his cardigan and his sneakers…his calm, sweet voice and his silly puppets. But most of all, I miss his unfailing belief that all things are possible.
Because they are.
That simple, glimmering truth was his gift to us all.
muffy bolding 
