muffy bolding

Living in Los Angeles can be so fucking surreal.

This morning at Starbucks, over the course of an hour, we saw Tim Allen, Joseph Campanella, and Taryn Manning stroll in with sweats and bedhead and procure a cup o’ joe. Last week it was Eric McCormack, as well as a bevy of other lesser-known celebrities. As in New York, no one even acknowledges their presence (as it should be), though I must admit that sometimes it’s really hard — like when this handsome fellow sauntered in and stood in line next to me — famed porn star turned director Paul Thomas. Of course, he looks older than he did back when he was still playing squat-hop-in-the-asparagus-patch with dames like Christy Canyon and Marilyn Chambers, but he’s still so handsome and so sexy, and he was so nice!

While we were waiting for our drinks, he and I had a charming conversation about caffeine after he heard me order my latte decaf. He said, “Well, just standing next to you and hearing you speak, one can clearly see that you don’t need it anyway. You have more than enough vitality and effervescence all on your own!” And then he smiled sweetly and gently laid his hand on my arm. Just think! The same arm that fisted Seka’s infamous undercarriage touched my little ol’ arm! I almost died right there in front of god and the barrista!

No-talent meathooks like Paris Hilton and Ryan Seacrest can kiss my fatass: WHATEVER. But let me step into the presence of a guy like Paul Thomas or Ron Jeremy like I did a few years ago…and just watch me stammer, stutter, and go all Davy Jones starry-eyed.

I’m such a starfucker starfucker.

I saw Little Miss Sunshine last week, and please allow me to tell you that you absolutely cannot get your fatasses to that theatre fast enough, my friends. There is a section towards the end where you are UNCONTROLLABLY BELLY GUFFAWING OUT LOUD FOR LIKE TEN MINUTES; belly laughing like you did when you were a child watching Bugs Bunny — all lipsticked, eyebatting, and dressed like a blushing bride — clobber Elmer Fudd over the skull with an anvil. You cannot even believe how hard you are laughing. I remember looking around and listening to the sound of pure, unbridled joy surrounding me; the feeling of communion I felt with everyone else in that theatre, who were all belly laughing just as hard as I was, was actually palpable. It felt like…bliss. Gottddamnit, isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?

At any rate, it is quite possibly the best film I have seen in ten years…maybe more. And further, I think that arriving where it does — right in the thick of the current movement towards Hollywood downsizing — that it will play a large part in the shaping of where film goes from here because it shows just how brilliant, and simple, the medium can be and will be again.

Don’t read anymore about it; just go see it.

1. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought?

How on earth did Ernest Borgnine get into my bathroom?

2. How much cash do you have on you?

Fie dolla for fucky-fucky.

3. What’s a word that rhymes with “DOOR?”?

Whore.

4. Favorite planet?

I won’t say it. You can’t make me say it.

5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your cell phone?

My sweet Baby Goat.

6. What is your favorite ring tone on your phone?

I haven’t figured out the whole ring thing yet on Le Blackberry pie…so right now it’s some sort of lovely pre-programmed Bach or Mozart sounding ring –- which is actually jake by me. The ring on my previous phone was “Clocks” by Coldplay — a band that I’m not totally in love with or anything, but I do adore that song…as it always reminds me of something that Bach or Mozart might be writing today if they weren’t dead, rotting, and stinking in the earth; in other words (WAIT FOR IT)…decomposing.

7. What shirt are you wearing?

No shirt…just a striped schmata and orange sherbety granny panties.

8. Do you “label” yourself?

Yeah, sometimes –- and who really gives a shit if I do, anyway? I always belly laugh when people whine, “Don’t label me” –- because language is nothing more than a construct through which we are better able to convey thought and information. Lighten the fuck up. If the worst problem you have is being labeled, get on your gottdamned knees and thank whatever gods you believe in for your extraordinary good fortune. Or, better yet, spend a week in Darfur and then get back to me upon your return so you can tell me just how tragic it is to be “labeled.”

9. Name the brand of your shoes you’re currently wearing?

Slippers of unknown pedigree.

10. Bright or Dark Room

Bright, unfortunately. (Hurry, Autumn! I can’t wait!)

11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you?

Christ, I don’t remember who took this test before me. It’s been in a holding pattern in a file for like a month now. Fuck off, lady.

12. What does your watch look like?

A silver Timex with a plain black leather band. It just screams, “WATCH.”

13. What were you doing at midnight last night?

Dreaming about Kurt and turtles.

14. What did your last text message you received on your cell say?

”We never get to lie in bed all day and surf the internets and watch TiVo and eat Taco Bell by the fistful!”

15. Where is your nearest 7-11?

Wow, I have no idea. How fucked-up and grown-up is THAT? It’s probably in Pasadena or something.

16. What’s a word that you say a lot?
Butch.

17.Who told you he/she loved you last?

Gregory, right before he dozed off in his hotel room in Philadelphia. And I returned the love.

18. Last furry thing you touched?

Please don’t ask me questions like this if you don’t want to hear the vile and ungodly answer that you just KNOW an Old Hooker like myself is going to offer up.

19. How many drugs have you done in the last three days?

Legal: 5
Illegal: 0

20. How many rolls of film do you need developed?

I don’t do rolls of film; only cinnamon rolls and rolls in the hay.

21. Favorite age you have been so far?

I’d like to do 10 again. Or 17. Or 23. Every age was magnificent in its own way – even the age I am now: 28 (YEAH RIGHT…28 plus tax and deposit)

22. Your worst enemy?

Hands down: Time.

23. What is your current desktop picture?

A really marvelous black and white shot of Jean Luc Godard and his sweet young honey, Anna Karina. The reason I have it up there? Because Godard looks so much like Gregory that it makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

24. What was the last thing you said to someone?

”I love you!”

25. If you had to choose between a million bucks or to be able to fly what would it be?

I’d take the simolians — and then fly my fatass to the south of France.

26. Do you like someone?

I like a LOT of people.

27. The last song you listened to?

“My Maria” by BW Stephenson is playing right now – and I am singing at the top of my lungs. I love this song!

28. What time of day were you born?

5:21 am

29. What’s your favorite number?

17

30. Where did you live in 1987?

Fresno, California.

31. Are you jealous of anyone?

God, no.

32. Is anyone jealous of you?

God, no.

33. Where were you when 9/11 happened?

Driving over the Coronado Bridge with my babies.

34. What do you do when vending machines steal your money?

Hurl curses at their maker.

35. Do you consider yourself kind?

I insist on it.

36. If you had to get a tattoo, where would it be?

Probably my upper left arm.

37. If you could be fluent in any other language, what would it be?

French; but I’d also like to know Latin.

38. Would you move for the person you loved?

I did…and I’d do it again, too.

39. Are you touchy feely?

Yes, unless it’s hot. Then, FUCK OFF.

40. What’s your life motto?

“Here’s some acid for your face, motherfucker!”

41. Name three things that you have on you at all times?

Blackberry, credit cards, pen&paper.

42. What’s your favorite town/city?

I’d have to say Paris…with London coming in a close second.

43. What was the last thing you paid for with cash?

I have three teenagers; I never have cash.

44. When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone on paper and mailed it?

The Carter Administration.

45. Can you change the oil on a car?

Honey, I can barely change the radio station on a car. I am pathetic.

46. Your first love: what is the last thing you heard about him/her?

That he had done time in jail for selling baggie on his industrial towel delivery route. When I loved him, he looked exactly like Ethan Hawke in Dead Poet’s Society.

47. How far back do you know about your ancestry?

Far enough to know that I come from a long line of criminals, thieves, murderers, and embezzlers. Oh…and REAL loose women.

48. The last time you dressed fancy, what did you wear and why did you dress fancy?

I don’t dress fancy. Ever. But when I am forced to put on something marginally respectable, it usually involves me looking like a nun –- albeit a nun who is wearing Liddle Kiddle jewelry on her habit, but a nun nun-the-less.

49. Does anything hurt on your body right now?

My temperature is 101 right now — and is at least 100 most days; that pretty much means that I live my life with a perpetual case of the flu. So, to answer your question as to whether or not I am experiencing any pain in my body right now…of course, I am. But, who doesn’t after a few cocktails?

50. Have you been burned by love?

Never.

Once tagged by this entry, the assignment is to write a blog entry of some kind with six random facts about yourself. Then, pick six of your friends and tag them; no tag backs. This explanation should be included.

Six Facts:

(I did ten. To hell with boring convention.)

1) I come from an East Coast family with a pronounced carnival and vaudevillian background; oh, and a strong East Coast “family” background — if you know what I’m saying, and I think maybe you do. Leave the icepick…take the cannoli.

2) And speaking of family…I am one of nine children. My parents could flat fuck, my friends.

3) After over four years of very odd but specific symptoms, I was just diagnosed this summer with a very rare, chronic, and incurable disease. Whatever. Bring it.

4) Every night, I sleep surrounded by a king’s ransom worth of fine pillows. In fact, my husband and all three of my children do, as well. I decided a long time ago — when I was poor, poor, poor as a churchmouse — that soft, luxurious, high-end bedding was a necessary splurge. Even in their cribs, my babies have slept on/been surrounded by down and feather pillows and irrationally high-thread-count sheets. What decadent pigs we be.

5) Even though I am so motherfucking busy right now with these current television writing and producing jobs, I am still digging out the precious time to work on my book of essays, Inside a Chinese Dragon. I am determined to finish it by my deadline, goddamnit. It’s odd to me how the more you have to do, the more you get done. Or, at least it works that way with me.

6) My favorite ethnic food is either Mediterranean or Vietnamese; I can never ever make up my mind. Oh, and Ethiopian. And Afghani. And corn dogs with lots of mustard.

7) I rarely stumble upon actors who really do it for me…so, it is with great surprise that I find myself currently obsessed with Clive Owen. I normally go for the academic, intellectual, nebbishy type — so the only thing I can figure is that the working class girl in me is drawn to the working class boy in him. It seems you can take the blue-collar girl out of Fresno, but you can’t take the welfare cheese out of the blue-collar girl…or some such ridiculous metaphorical drivel like that. I think I’d just like to nail him.

8) And speaking of obsession, I am working on the film treatment for a true story that is so fucking ALL-talent, that I even visit it in my dreams. I can’t get enough of it. It makes me breathless just to think about it — which is pretty much all the time. How lucky I am to have a job that I love.

9) A few years ago, I banged around with my husband in the downstairs bathroom of the Seattle-Bainbridge Island Ferry.

10) I own some 40 black t-shirts, as well as black dresses, jumpers, sweaters, skirts, and other assorted articles of clothing. If you peer into my closet, so much is it a vast sea of black…that an outside party actually commented that it looks like my husband is married to a nun — to which I just threw back my head and BELLY LAUGHED AT THE IRONY.

As for Le Tag — do it if you wish…and if not, fuck off, lady.

For those interested in such matters…here is the unofficial trailer and sneak peek we cut specifically for the Los Angeles Fangoria Convention in June. We don’t yet have an exact date for release, but from what we hear, Spring Break 2007 seems to be what they are shooting for.

Oh, yeah, and just in case anybody was wondering — Tom Sizemore TRULY IS brilliant…and TRULY IS out of his motherfucking mind.

Special bonus for : an adorable Paul Wall fixin’ to blow his brains out, baby.

Furnace

For my birthday on Monday, my friends took me to Downtown Disney in Orlando for treats and eats. The treats came first: I got a Sleeping Beauty playset (complete with The Prince, Maleficent, and all three Fairy Godmothers) and a Tinkerbell dress-up set with 6 different outfits (think Polly Pocket with pixie dust and a temper.) I could not be more pleased with my haul and cannot stop playing with all their tiny, plastic asses. When it comes to gifts, my friends are so on-track that it hurts.

Our tummies all aflutter with gastric juices, we then headed for the digestive side of the street and ended up at some marginally upscale Italian restaurant. After scouring the menu, hoping to find just a big plate of pisghetti instead of some weird, specialty concoction (when it comes to Italian, I like to keep it ol’ school and ON-TRACK), I came across a seafood dish with a hilarious name that had me belly laughing OUT LOUD — so much so that when our FABULOUS, RAGING BULL-DYKE WAITRESS asked for my order, I proudly announced that although I just wanted to order the spaghetti, I would henceforth be officially adopting the moniker of one of their specialty dishes as my new stripper name:

Snapper Bruschetta

Homegirl blinked, ran a quick hand through her mullet, stared at me with HUGE eyes like she couldn’t believe what I had just said, and started to BELLY GUFFAW OUT LOUD. And then, well, that was it — it was ON.

The meal was a HOOT…The Jackals were in rare form. And afterwards, because my friends had covertly notified our girl that it was my birthday, she and every gottdamned waiter, bartender, and busboy in the joint marched over to our table carrying a little chocolate cake on a large white platter — onto which had been carefully written by their in-house pastry chef: SNAPPER BRUSCHETTA. And then, in front of a full restaurant of bemused patrons, proceeded to loudly and proudly sing:

“Happy Birthday, Snapper Bruschetta…Happy Birthday….toooooooooo yooooooooooou!”

She told me afterwards, “You guys are the best table I have EVER waited on — and none of us will ever again be able to hear someone order the Snapper Bruschetta without smirking and thinking of you.”

She got a $100 tip.

I got the best birthday dinner ever.

Good trade.

The very best part of being on location (well, aside from the coke and hookers — and snorting the coke off the asses of the hookers) is staying in luxurious hotel rooms. Ah! The room service! The thermostat cranked to 50 degrees whilst I disingenuously call down for more blankets and pillows so I can pretend it’s winter! My very own bed! The absence of surly teenagers asking me for Starbucks money and a ride to Starbucks!

And so it was this trip. After a hard day at work, toiling for The Mouse, we would head back to the hotel rooms, put on our jammies, and get our fucking room service on: pizza, nachos, chicken strips, cheeseburgers, and on and on, ad nauseum (quite literally.) This trip, thanks to that JonBenet killer-wanna-be, we also got to do the perpetual CNN tango. Lord, I love me some vapid, endless, meaningless news updates…that contain absolutely NO NEWS! Needless to say, we were glued to the screen. Though I fervently believe that guy isn’t the person who killed that poor child, I must say he is one of the ugliest bastards I have ever seen. That pasty freak looks like he was eaten by a wolf and shit off a cliff…but I digress.

On Saturday night, we locked the thermostat on ICE AGE, ordered up some grub, and dialed in The JonBenet Channel. And then, the Emmy Text Messaging began. We laid around, commiserating about our sweaty cooters, and watched the insane chief of police in Bangkok (the biggest market for kiddie poontang in the fucking world) tell us how the 38 year old John Mark Karr and 8 year old JonBenet Ramsey had been deeply in love before her tragic and untimely death (you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.)

In between completely pointless updates, we waited, with bated breath, to find out if our friend, Leslie, had won the Emmy in the category in which he was nominated: Outstanding Guest Actor in a Comedy Series for Will and Grace. He was most definitely in good company — Jon Stewart, Patrick Stewart, Martin Sheen, and Alec Baldwin — but we kept the faith. When we finally got the call (or the text, rather) that he had, in fact, won, it was absolute and total bedlam in rooms 4614 and 4616. A cantankerous 300 year old security guard even had to come and beat on our door to tell us to shut the fuck up.

Leslie, you old hooker — we love you.

Another of our Jackal bretheren has nabbed a statue — and we couldn’t be prouder.

ps) Unfortunately, the coke and hookers thing is a total and complete fabrication: my fatass was in my footies and in bed by 11:00. I’m a real fucking lady, I am.

Earlier this week I spent four fabulous days on location in Orlando, Florida on a television shoot for Disney.

First, please allow me to say that it was my very first time there and Florida is a lovely place; all green and lush and tropical. The sunset doesn’t look like that in California; it was so perfect that it almost looked like a huge, fake CG sky. Unbelievably gorgeous.

However, having said that…please allow me to also say that although Gregory wasn’t there with me to test it out, I can only hypothesize that the following is true:

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS SPONTANEOUS SEX IN FLORIDA IN THE SUMMERTIME…

because, let me tell you, you can take a nice, cool shower in the morning and expertly maneuver some really good Coast soap all up in that motherfucker, but five minutes after you walk out into that HIDEOUS HUMID HEAT…your muff is a SWELTERING NASTY MESS.

That’s right, you heard me correctly, my friends:

Florida is The Land of The Sweaty Cooter.

Never in my entire gottdamned life have I ever experienced such an outrageous assault on my personal hygiene. Just so you know, I keep my shit all nice and trimmed up. Further, I am one of those biological mutants who NEVER sweats anywhere (aside from my upper lip and hairline) — and yet I had to change my chonies like three times a day. I don’t know how you people hang with that horseshit. I simply could not live there on the muggy fucking surface of the sun and go on about my day and then have my husband impetuously say, “Hey, baby — let’s bang around” without my first playing a quick and meaningful game of “squat-hop-in-the-asparagus-patch” with ol’ Mr. Bidet.

The heat and humidity were literally appalling. My poor, dear muff…she still hasn’t fully recovered.

So, thanks for the wonderfully verdant shooting location…and I take off my hat — and my drenched granny panties — to all you Floridians out there who are far heartier than I.

Now, please excuse me whilst I spritz some chilled Jean Nate onto my undercarriage…and execute a graceful grand plie over the gottdamned fan.

No matter how many times I may do it, the fact that I woke up this morning on the other side of this continent and am now here in L.A. blows my fucking mind.