muffy bolding

FUCK IT.

Let ’em burn.

WE SHALL FIGHT BY FIRELIGHT!

So, a couple weeks ago, my fatass shimmied into a black dress an Abe Lincoln brooch from my FAVORITE jewelry shop, SCHMUTZERLAND, (Abe’s a BABE!), expertly applied some Russian Red, and sashayed down into the basement of a Metseecan restaurant in Silver Lake so I could witness the legendary, much-lauded, Los Angeles TOAST OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TOWN:

The Golden Girlz!

SO BRILLIANT! After BELLY LAUGHING OUT LOUD until my gunt ached and my face hurt, Your Own Insolent Correspondent insisted on a photo with her AWESOME Squad for posterity: 

Goddamn, every once in awhile it just hits me right betwixt the tits. The entire paradigm of Facebook is just SO fucking HORRIFYING on so many different levels. I ask you, Mein Poppets:

Would you EVER throw a dinner party and invite your father, your mother, your step-mother, your mother-in-law, your adored college English professor, your favorite adult film star/now beloved friend, your ex-husband’s new wife, your hairdresser, your drug dealer, your gusband, all your best friends and classmates from 4th grade in Fresno, California, the fabulous broad who directed many of the films that influenced you the very most, your favorite Hoosier zinester, a delightfully illiterate ScotchGuard-huffing GOD, the cousin you made out with when you were 14, the head of comedy at a major network, your daughter’s high school principal, the broad who waxes your snatch, your worst frenemy, your genius writing partner, the minister who baptized your infant daughter, NELLIE FUCKING OLESON, and the guy you drunkenly banged on the hood of his Pantera in 1985 as if you were Tawny Fucking Kitaen in a goddamned Whitesnake video?

FUCK NO.

And yet…there you all are.

On second thought, now that I really think about it — I wouldn’t have it ANY OTHER WAY.

Blue Horseshoe Loves Anacott Steel.

FUCK. TO. THE. YES.

Sashaying about in GLORIOUS Downtown Los Angeles at The MIGHTY L.A. Zine Fest 2016 with my BEST Husband, Gregory, and my BEST Girl, Pammie!

Such awesome zines! Such fabulous art! Such adorable DIY brooches! Such marvelous old friends! SUCH FUCKING FUN!

Oh, trust me, I get it.

I TOTALLY FUCKING GET IT.

‪#‎teamcrazybritney‬
‪#‎backoffmanimfromfresno‬
‪#‎donotfuckwithme‬‪#‎iwillshavemygottdamnedheadandbeatyogottdamnedasswifagottdamnedumbrella‬ ‪#‎yeahchuckleitupmotherfuckerimnotjoking‬

Do you ever just have one of those rare simple moments…where nothing really is going on…and yet everything really is going on? Just an ordinary moment…where the temperature is 72 degrees and there is a very cool breeze blowing on your skin and the warm sun is shimmering down all over your face and you are wearing an awesome yellow Sarah Utter “Reading is Sexy” t-shirt and your broken pinkie toe barely hurts at all and your writing partner who you just left is fucking hilarious and brilliant and kind and your babies are all beautiful and thriving and exploding like newborn stars in a galaxy of your own making and you are liked and loved by the most extraordinary boy in the world and the most extraordinary friends in the world and OH, MY GOD the color orange and WS Merwin is still alive and dwells on a lovely island in the middle of the blue, blue Pacific and your book is becoming and you had the money to pay for those groceries behind you and the electricity is still turned on in your house and you are afraid of nothing and no one and you exist on this planet at the same time as Liza Minnelli and you peed asparagus pee first thing this morning and it smelled heavenly and you are just sitting all alone in the parking lot of a Sprouts grocery store in gorgeous La Canada, California listening to NPR on the car radio and drinking a bottle of delicious, ice cold Kombucha and getting ready to drive home where your tiny chihuahua babies are waiting to swarm all around you seeking love in a great flurry of activity and you are going to pick each one of them up in turn and kith them right on their tiny baby lipth…and you realize in this exact, seemingly ordinary moment — THAT LIFE IS FUCKING BEAUTIFUL.

In honor of International Women’s Day, 2016:

FUCK EVERYONE.

FUCK EVERYTHING.

So, about five years ago I watched a television documentary about Mick Jagger that was just captivating. He isn’t at all how I thought he would be — jaded, cocky, swaggering, disinterested. He is actually a very tender, hands-on sort of father — particularly with the little ones. I suspect he probably learned his lesson the hard way from having been so consistently absent from the lives of his older children whilst traipsing about the globe tagging enormous amounts of top-shelf cooter and singing Jumpin’ Jack Flash for the unwashed masses. Those older children, by the way, have now made Sir Mick a grandfather. And life goes on.

The scene I loved the most by far was the one where he was participating in The Parents’ Play Day at his daughter, Georgia’s, school. Georgia, who is whipsmart and has impeccably charming manners, looked to be about ten at the time and also to be the apple of her father’s eye. She had him out there running relays in his socks like a madman, completely unconcerned that he is the world’s greatest living rock star; to Georgia, as it should be, he is just her father. The best part of the scene, however, was the interplay between Mick and his 93 year old father, Joe Jagger, who watched the days activities unfold from the sidelines, in a lawn chair seated next to his famous son. A retired schoolteacher with an elfin face, he was still spry and sharp. Sitting peacefully in the shade of a huge, old tree next to his father, Mick revealed that had he not gone into music, both he and his brother would have been teachers, just like their dad. “After all,” adds the man who once famously warned not to trust anyone over the age of 30, “we all eventually turn into our parents in the end, don’t we?” His wizened father just smiled beside him. I was completely charmed…and am sad to hear that old Joe Jagger passed away a couple of years ago. The world is most certainly a poorer place without him in it.

Another memorable scene had Mick sort of wandering through his London home, pointing out assorted paintings and bric-a-brac and giving their history and background…as well as giving some background on himself, as well. He explained that his attitude towards marriage and family is actually a very bohemian, Old World take on things in that when he becomes involved in a relationship, he goes at it fully, with all of his heart. But relationships, like anything else in life, sometimes run their course, or don’t work out at all. This, he said, is no reason not to remain a family, not to continue on with those relationships in another form. This is how he lives his life. Just because he is no longer married to or otherwise romantically involved with the mothers of his children, doesn’t mean they are not treated with the same respect and familial affection as those who might currently live under the same roof as him. He dotes on them all. They all remain his family.

Hearing Mick’s theories on love and marriage made me smile because they are exactly the same as my own. I have, without exception, always remained good friends with my exes; to me, it is simply good form to do so. These are people with whom I once joyously shared the best parts of myself, and in turn, partook of the very best parts of them; there is no reason not to keep them close in my life. I have taught my children, by both word and deed, that unless an ex is abusive or otherwise disharmonious, they should remain a familiar resource of great friendship and comfort along one’s journey. After all, they already know your backstory, they know who you are; they know your heart. That in itself is a priceless commodity in our otherwise temporary, disposable, transient society.

Though I’m sure it certainly comes as no surprise to people who know me well, I have also encouraged my husband to remain close with his exes…and have even become good friends with one of them myself. She has stayed in my home, laid in a huge familial puppy pile on our bed reading the Sunday paper, become an honorary aunt to our children, and dragged me along on her neverending quest for the perfect pair of shoes. And why shouldn’t I adore her? We are both fierce, powerful women, the contents spilling from her bookcases and mine are almost comically identical, and we love/have loved the same extraordinary man.

In the circles in which I run, those are the ties that bind.

I am just sitting here thinking about the time Gregory and I went to a parents night thingie at our daughter, Anne’s, Student Youth and Government leadership organization that is sponsored through The Y…where the evening’s rules were that we had to break down into several groups and each group had to choose one parent to go up and spontaneously perform a song in front of the entire assemblage. Guess who got chosen and guess whose fatass shamelessly strutted up in front of several hundred people, threw her hands in the air, tossed a well-placed peace sign, and shouted, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen — MY NAME IS SAGGY SPICE! GIRL POWER!”…and then proceeded to belt “Wannabe” a capella, a performance for which I was fortunate enough to receive not only a standing ovation, but first place for the evening’s festivities.