muffy bolding

1. Grab the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence (grab next nearest book if fewer than 7 sentences found).
4. Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don’t you dare dig for that “cool” or “intellectual” book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.
6. Tag three people.

“As climax to all these profound changes, slowly at work through many passing generations, the mist is suddenly rolled back one day off the Atlantic waves, revealing new worlds beyond the ocean. England, it seems, is no longer at the extreme verge of all things, but is their maritime heart and center. She has long been half European; she shall now become oceanic – and American, as well, and yet remain English all the while.”

From “A Shortened History of England” by G.M. Trevelyan, published in 1942 (and in 1959 by my BELOVED Penguin Books. Goddamnit, I love me some Penguie Books; they always feel so creamy.)

Yes, as those of you who read this journal are probably well-aware (in many cases to the point of nausea, I am sure) I am positively obsessed with all things English – and have been ever since I was 3 and madly in love with Davy Jones (of The Monkees fame, not the “locker” fame.”)

As for the tag somebody schtick – do it if you want…and if not, fuck off, lady.

“It’s rare in Hollywood to get the chance to work on something that you actually care about. The tragedy of the place is all these talented people trying to get excited about stuff they themselves would only view at gunpoint.”

— Writer and director Stephen Gaghan

For my bunnyrabbits and :

The Shat hits the fan.

What most people don’t know is that one of the reasons I actually became a writer is because of the old Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts that were on in the 70’s. When I was still a little girl, I used to sit, rapt, and watch all the old comics tear each other apart, like rabid jackals — and I would BELLY LAUGH…at jokes that I should have still been years away from understanding. But, somehow I understood them — and I understood that I wanted to write them and make people laugh too. I wanted to be Phyllis Diller.

Now that I think about it, I just may be Phyllis Diller, at that.

Has anyone else heard this?

Travolta’s son rumoured to suffer from autism

On Friday, April 7th, Hollywood, Interrupted was treated to the Los Angeles premiere of “Normal People Scare Me” –- a feature-length documentary about autism, co-directed by the high functioning autistic teenager Taylor Cross and his mother, Keri Bowers. The event was sponsored by an organization called Cure Autism Now (CAN) and the new magazine, The Autism Perspective (TAP).

This enlightening film was produced by b-movie actor/director/producer and former special education teacher, Joey Travolta. Joey’s brother and sister-in-law, “Battlefield Earth” co-stars John Travolta and his wife Kelly Preston, were not present. Too bad…had John and Kelly been at the screening, they might have a better understanding of the disorder reportedly affecting their 14 year-old son, Jett. Sadly, the Scientology couple cannot even publicly admit that their son is afflicted with a neurological disorder, lest – according to the incontrovertible doctrine of Scientology founder L Ron Hubbard – he be labeled a “degraded being” that brought his affliction onto himself. Instead, the Travoltas have long blamed their son’s disability on Kawasaki Syndrome-related “environmental toxins,” specifically carpet cleaning chemicals.

Rumors about Jett Travolta’s disability have been floating around for years, but when no less than five sources (including a media rep from the Autism Society of America (ASA), an executive from Cure Autism Now, a major Hollywood producer and parent of an autistic child, and a Hollywood actor-parent) reported that Jett Travolta was afflicted did we decide to deliver this story. Scientology will not even recognize the disability, let alone the myriad therapies for treating it.

The CAN and ASA officials that spoke with Hollywood, Interrupted credited Sylvester Stallone and former pro football greats Doug Flutie and Dan Marino as celebrity parents of children with autism that have helped raise awareness of the malady. These celebs reportedly share their frustration with what they perceive as Travolta’s “denial” stemming from Scientology’s rabid hatred of psychiatry and judgment of those with psychological problems as lesser humans responsible for their own maladies.

The Hollywood actor interviewed describes having autism as “like being trapped within yourself, and having difficulty letting normal people know who you really are.” Now, imagine being trapped inside a mind-control cult that prohibits you from availing your child to the treatment available. No wonder Scientology has long been plagued by suicides, and wrongful deaths.

The movie producer that spoke with Hollywood, Interrupted reports: “Kelly Preston, in her heart, wants to do the right thing for her son.” “I bet it rips her heart out,” says the actor. “But,” says the producer, “John Travolta has so far, done nothing to help raise awareness about autism.”

Tragically, Scientology does nasty things to the heart. “And to the other families who are being torn apart by this disorder,” sighs the actor. “Let me know if I can help you appeal to his heart.” Hollywood, Interrupted believes that you may have done just that.

Gosh.

I have to tell you that I am completely bowled over by all of the generous and amazing responses to last week’s incident involving our daughter. Aside from all the well wishes my family was given here on Livejournal, I also received several emails offering support and strength. For all of the words of kindess, peace, and healing, we are profoundly grateful.

She is doing very, very well and has pretty much returned to the most excellent and normal teenage life in the whole gottdamned world: a delightful gaggle of best girlfriends, an excellent grade in her summer school class, riding her beachcruiser, Starbucks green tea frappucinos, MySpace, and just hanging out on the gorgeous beach at Coronado Island; an endless summer, indeed.

Thanks to whatever gods that may smile down upon my little family, she is safe…and that extraordinary place remains a location of great beauty, good friends, and much happiness for us all.

You have touched me beyond words — and so, from the bottom of a grateful mother’s heart (the deepest and most powerful place in the universe, mind you)…I shall just say thank you.

One evening this past week, I got a phone call that brought me to my knees. Literally.

The call was from my hilarious and beautiful 15 year old daughter — who is spending the summer with family friends on our former home, Coronado Island. She was crying and hysterical and I could barely understand what she was saying. When I finally got her to calm down, she told me what had happened not 10 minutes before:

She had been walking with her best girlfriends on the beach at the gorgeous, old Hotel Del Coronado — the grand, wooden Victorian hotel that is one of the premiere upscale vacation resorts in the country — when she told her girls that she really, really needed to use the public restroom to pee and that she would catch up with them at the park two blocks away, where they were all headed to meet up with some other friends.

She was separated from them and alone for no more than two or three minutes. In that amount of time, our joyful, hilarious baby was grabbed and dragged and thrown on the ground between two parked cars by a stranger in his late 30’s…who very clearly had plans to rape her.

Fortunately, my fierce and tiny Baby Goat had other plans for the gutless bastard who dared lay his hands on her: she did exactly what I had always taught her to do if she was ever grabbed in a public place; all 98 pounds of her kicked and bit and punched and scratched and screamed and gouged and thrashed…until he realized that she wasn’t going down without a fight. She was too much trouble. He stood up and threatened her and told her to stay there and wait for him…that he was going to get some of his friends and come back — and then he took off.

My daughter, who is by far the funniest person I know (and I know some FUNNY motherfuckers, let me tell you), said “FUCK ALL THAT” — and got herself up and ran screaming for help. That is when she called me.

It was 10:30 at night and we got in the car and flew down the 5 to be with her. By the time we got there, she had already spent an hour and a half being interviewed at the police station and was at home in her jammies. Never in my 19 years as a parent have I ever been so relieved to wrap my arms around one of my babies. As I held her tightly, all I could think about was how lucky we were, how some women, even though they fight back with all their spirit and all their might, do not escape; that night, though horrific, could have ended very, very differently.

The next day a detective from the Coronado Police Department called and asked if my girl would agree to come down and help a sketch artist put together a composite drawing of the suspect because they were releasing the story to the wider media…and then he told me why — and it chilled me to my fucking soul. It seems that the night before my daughter was attacked, another young woman had actually been raped in the business district of that small, charming, upscale seaside town, which is famous for having almost zero violent crime. The night before.

I called my daughter — who really just wanted to put the whole thing behind her and move on — to tell her what had happened to the other young woman and to ask whether she would be willing to help put a face on their possibly mutual attacker — and perhaps even save other women from the same fate. After discussing the notion of civic responsibility and owing something back to the society in which you live — as well as the idea that all women need to stand up for each other whenever and wherever they are able — she readily agreed to do it. The next day, she spent her afternoon dredging up the horror and trauma of precisely that which she really just wanted to forget; piecing together the face of her worst nightmares.

Of my worst nightmares.

In the end, being “too much trouble” certainly saved my daughter from being raped, and quite possibly saved her life — so that’s my new mantra for myself and for all women: Don’t be a good girl. Be bold. Be fierce. Don’t take the abuse. Don’t be afraid to kick some fucking ass. Be too much trouble.

I am so proud of my girl; she is so courageous and mighty and brave — and not even the cowardly actions of some worthless, predatory, dickless cocksucker can ever change that.

I just read the following description on some LA-centric website and had to belly laugh out loud — because it’s just so ridiculously true. Welcome to Los Angeles:

Let’s face it, Angelenos, we’re all a bunch of gossips. How else to explain that peculiar L.A. habit of looking up at each new customer who crosses a restaurant’s threshold, assessing their attractiveness and/or celebrity. In certain dining establishments around West Hollywood, the atmosphere is akin to a high school cafeteria.

“When we die we shall slough off this cheap intellect, and go abroad into Dreamland clothed in our real selves.”

— Mark Twain

Last night we purchased a new work laptop for me and it should be zinging its little self to my tender little meathooks even as we speak. Hooray for new computers! However, I am at a loss as far as choosing a bag to protect its darling carcass as it moves with me from meetings to writing sessions to set. I want something interesting, but also functional. I have a Queen Bee record purse that I positively live out of and couldn’t live without, but I couldn’t find that they make any laptop bags specifically; their styling and durability is top-shelf and they are the overall satchel standard as far as I am concerned. Do you think anything they make would be adequate?

At any rate, do tell me — how do you cradle and transport your baby? Advice, links, brands, names, and pics are encouraged!