muffy bolding

Billy arrived in Nashville this afternoon to begin all the pre-production work for the film. He called me the second he got there to tell me that I couldn’t get my fatass out there FAST ENOUGH — as there appears to be gorgeous solo-video-lookin’ shitkickers and real-live honky tonks on very nearly every corner of the place. For the record, neither of us has, in fact, ever stepped foot into a right proper honky tonk — and we are so very excited to do so.

So then, of course, right there in front of god and cingular, we both spontaneously broke into song, complete with charming Southern accents:

“We’re goin’ honky tonkin’
down in Lou-siana,
Where the biscuits and gravy
taste just like my Grandma’s.
We’re goin’ honky tonkin’
down in Loos-eye-ann-eye-ay.”

And to keep things REAL interesting…here is a picture of where the film will be shot — The Old Tennessee State Prison:

We’ve all already made a pact that we each have to sit all alone in the dark for 10 minutes — in Ol’ Sparky, the electric chair, no less — holding a video camera ala “The Blair Witch Project.” The minute we hear a demonic voice whisper in the dark, “Why are you here?”…or we begin to smell fried baloney, we are excused to quickly exit stage goddamned left. I’m furious that Judd Nelson’s contract fell through and that he shan’t be there to join us.

Oh…but, Tom Fucking Sizemore will.

Yeah.

Billy’s right. I can’t get my fatass out there fast enough.

If you can read this…you made the cut, motherfucker.

Christ, through all of the keening and lamentation of late, I almost forgot to tell you about my latest, greatest news! Guess whose sweet, darling, psychic husband bought her THE GREATEST CHRISTMAS GIFT OF ALL TIME?

Yeah. That’s right. Mine.

Get ready.

With my acquisition of this priceless treasure, I can now retire the poor Live From San Quentin album cover I have had hanging up on my living room wall for the past ten years.

Keep holding.

I’m so excited I could just piss.

Wait for it.

Direct from ebay…here it is — probably the most perfect and extraordinary gift I have ever received:

“American Recordings and Johnny Cash would like to acknowledge the Nashville music establishment and country radio for your support.”

JOHNNY CASH Original Unchained FINGER poster *RARE*

It’s the ULTIMATE in CASH memoribilia!! INVESTMENT QUALITY POSTER RARITY!!

Please note, this is not a reproduction. It is the real and impossible to find, 11×17 original promo poster issued by the record company and still in MINT CONDITION.

And just in case you were wondering, the photo is one taken of Cash back in 1969 while he was performing for the inmates at San Quentin Prison in California. Right before he stepped out onto the stage, the photographer asked him if he had any message for the warden before he went on. As the story goes, THAT was his fucking message.

And THAT…was why I loved him so.

It will be mounted and framed like the great work of art that it is…and will hang in a place of great honor and reverence in our new home.

I just may be the luckiest girl alive.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, My Darling Rupert.

Lawdie, lawdie, lawdie…there has been FAR too much drama around here lately for MY fatass. And as much as I wish I could play, no can do. As little Georgie Harrison used to so brilliantly say before he was dead, rotting, and stinking in the earth: it’s all too much for me to take. I sincerely apologize, but between moving and working and babies and life, I just don’t have the time nor the energy for it. I am but a poor and humble carny girl who has already survived more than her share of restraint, discord, tiptoeing, and fisticuffs. It’s my party and I just wanna have fun, goddamnit. And, I will.

So…here is my most genuine and heartfelt offer: If I and my Facebook or blog in ANYWAY offend, anger, shock, or even bore the living shit out of you…then this is your chance to make a clean getaway with ABSOLUTELY NO HARD FEELINGS WHATSOEVER. Not that there would be hard feelings at any other time…but now I am just openly laying my offer of total and complete no-fault, no-explanation-required amnesty on the virtual table around which we all sit. If what I do and say here frequently causes you to catch your breath and clutch your pearls (and not in a good way), I beg of you to step away — as it is probably not going to get any better. In fact, as I progress with the writing of my book, it will most likely get WORSE, seeing that I will probably be trying a few things out here first. My intent is not to piss anybody off, my intent is to tell the truth; MY TRUTH. If you can’t or don’t wish to deal with that, we do, in fact, have a children’s table available for those with more tender sensibilities — though the menu there will be cut back quite a bit to include merely some savory little finger foods and tiny confectionary treats.

Along with that offer, I am also going to have to go back on a pledge I made to myself when I started this thing: Because of the inexplicable and soul-sucking drama that inevitably ensues, it has always been my policy here to not unfriend people except under majorly rare and extenuating circumstances (like they have been uncovered as a shameless molester of beloved family pets, or that they are, in fact, dead — and even then sometimes I choose to keep them around just for shits and giggles…but of this, I shall certainly speak no more.)

But the problem is that my friends list has gotten so large and so unwieldy that I am having a difficult time keeping up with all of it. So, with that being said, I am probably going to go through my friends list and do a little cleaning up regarding those who don’t post very much (or at all) and/or those with whom I share very little in the way of communion. There is not enough time in this life, out of some misplaced sense of obligation, to keep company with people who are not of interest to you or for whom you feel no great sense of affection. That’s a sword, of course, that cuts both ways.

So, if you somehow made a profound error in friending me all those many moons ago — thinking this was going to be humor and social commentary on the level of rainbows and unicorns and sweet, chuckling, cartwheeling clownies (as opposed to the MOCKING, LEERING, TOOTHLESS, PAGLIACCI MIDWAY MOTHERFUCKERS you find lurking around MY gottdamned corners) — then I beseech you, noble friend, to take your glorious forsworn destiny into your own hands, step up to them clicky buttons, and boldly correct that mistake now. DO IT NOW. I am sure we will all feel the better for it.

Res ipsa loquitur.

And vaya con dias. (Go with the Gal)

Thank you for your very precious time…and now, back to our regularly scheduled programme of treachery, heresy, profanity, and deceit.

Awhile ago, my son, Hunter, and his entire crew of then-11 year old skateboard buddies were lounging around my living room — eating Hot Cheetos, drinking root beer, and watching South Park. I had an appointment and was way in the back part of the house taking a shower and getting ready to go. I was hauling fatass so as not to be late, and was distracted, so I had no idea that there was a flock of dudes with their lanky selves spread out all over my furniture.

After I pulled on my white cotton granny panties and white cotton sports bra, I realized that the black t-shirt I wanted to wear was up in the laundry room — right off the kitchen. So, in all of my oblivious, hurried glory, I sauntered my fatass in that direction. It was only as I saw them — and more importantly, THEY SAW ME — that I realized the horrific truth: I was strutting practically naked past a roomful of pre-pubescent boys. In my trauma, I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I looked over at their stunned faces, cocked my head to one side, pursed my lips, put my hands on my hips, continued to strut, and shouted in a voice that was large and in charge:

“Don’t look, boys, it’ll turn you queer!”

Hilarious fucking line, I know.

Too bad it wasn’t mine.

It was Shelley’s.

As the story goes, she was shooting a film way back in the day — after she had gained quite a bit of weight — and was unexpectedly called to the set. She wasn’t exactly dressed and ready, but being the consummate fucking professional that she was (oh, and she WAS) she ran out her dressing room door, still pushing and tucking her ample flesh into her girdle. As the story goes on — half dressed and with titties and tummy asplay — she passed a group of young male actors waiting for their call…and as she passed them, she shouted out that immortal line:

“Don’t look, boys, it’ll turn you queer!”

Goodnight, Miss Shelley. There’ll never, ever be another you.

Okay, bitches, because I miss it so gottdamned much and occasionally just gotta have it (and because I KNOW all you wicked, sinful bastards undoubtedly have lots to confess!)…step right up, pull that strand of rosary beads slowly out of your ass in a real steamy and sultry manner, cross yourself, and confess all to Sister Mary Muffalina!

You are welcome to post anonymously whatever it is you need to get off your goat-tittied chests. Anything at all! Tell me your deepest darkest secrets! Tell me your wickedest fantasies! Tell me who you love! Tell me who you hate! Tell me what you covet! Tell me who you envy! Tell me who you’d like to see dead, rotting, and stinking in the earth! Tell me the strangest inanimate object that has ever been in your butt (aside from Grandma Margaret’s rosary beads!) Tell me your dreams and I’ll tell you what they mean. For the love of god, man, tell me any fucking thing you wish…just please do it anonymously.

Remember, salvation can be yours, sweet bitches o’ mine.

But first…you must kneel, kiss my sleeve, and confess.

I received a query to today’s omnipresent community amnesty meme from one of the most fascinating and talented women on my friends list — . In it, she makes mention of an earlier comment I had made elsewhere about how very relieved I was to have recently had breast reduction surgery — and that all I needed now was to “lose my fat gut.”

Miss Susan, in her endlessly charming and uniquely stream-of-consciousness sort of way, thoughtfully answered back. My response to her ran long, so I thought I would just post it here on the front page. I hope she doesn’t mind.

From :

Muffy, oh, Muffy, how you torment me. (Not on purpose, I know — just living your life.) This — and your overall eye-catching lj, full of piss and vinegar, spit and fire, salty kindness, fine writing and charm — totally makes me want to try to insinuate myself in your life so that I could properly get to know that fucking chubby gut and shower it with (superfluous, I bet! I bet there’s already plenty!) respectful, detailed and accurate praise (backed, if necessary, by data and political arguments), just for hope of the pleasure of hearing your all-out, nuanced, whole and human praise for it here, too. That, I know, would be wrong. And bodies do, they change, we change them, they keep changing, every honor for your right to make your choices, but I’m a hairy old campaigner with big tits and a belly (plus, you know, one of those little lady beards), and just couldn’t resist putting in a word here for the strange and interesting paths that cultivating actual tenderness for those particular swells and falls of fat and their interpretive dance in my life and culture.

Dang, maybe I should have resisted — I can take this comment down at any point, you do, you torment me, because I’m also totally taken with statements like, “i love my little boobies.” Who on earth could argue with that?

My response:

Gosh, your question seems to have taken the very longest for me to process, Miss Susan, and I am not really sure why — but I shall try my very best to explain myself.

First off, I have already long ago played through on the whole eating disorder game…and found it to be a terrible, horrible, awful, no-good way to lose weight — as well as a terrible, horrible, awful, no-good BORE. In fact, I don’t even consider eating disorders to be eating disorders anymore — they are just soooooooooooooooo fucking ubiquitous now that rather than being a way to medically or psychologically classify some abhorrent, marginalized way of eating or not eating…they are just pretty much how a vast majority of American women now regularly conduct themselves regarding food. And that, of course, is a tragedy.

On a personal note, I could give a fat motherfucking rat’s ass how I look compared to Gisele Bundchen…or Paris Hilton…or the dame sitting next to me on the red San Diego trolley. Did you catch that, sugar? I DON’T GIVE A SHIT IF I AM NOT AS THIN OR AS PRETTY OR AS HAIRLESS AS THAT SOUL-VACANT BALENCIAGA BAG-CARRYING CUM-GUZZLING COCK-HOLSTER PREENING ON THE COVER OF BRITISH VOGUE. I don’t care. Truly. I never, ever compare myself to other women — or even to other men, for that matter…either personally OR professionally. I got my own thing goin’ on, and regardless of how fat I may be at any given time, if someone doesn’t recognize who the fuck I am and what the fuck I bring to the table…FUCK ‘EM ALL — short, fat, and fuckin’ tall, baby. I got no use for the PSYCHICALLY BLIND. Let’s just say they bore me.

As for my reasons for wanting to lose weight, allow me to pull an MC Hammer and break-it-down now.

One word:

HEALTH.

Another word:

COMFORT.

Notice I did not invoke fashion or beauty on that list.

I don’t hate my body, or my fat, or even myself. What I hate is feeling polluted, ponderous, unwieldy, and unwell. I just wanna be healthy and aerodynamic. I wanna be able to eat Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream occasionally — without worrying that every bite is someday gonna cost me a gottdamned toe. Is that really asking so much?

Look, although I am sure that there are those who will vehemently disagree with me, being fat or not being fat is NOT a political or feminist decision for me — although I readily acknowledge that it may very well be for others. For whatever reason — chronic medical condition, troublesome medication, lack of consistent exercise, whatever — I have gained a considerable amount of weight over the past 3 or 4 years. I don’t like it. I am uncomfortable. I am in pain. I don’t feel well. My health is suffering because of it. I am now an early-stage diabetic. And guess what? According to the team of highly esteemed medical specialists that regularly attend me, THIS ALL GOES AWAY WHEN I LOSE THE FIFTY POUNDS I HAVE GAINED.

Gone. Poof. My suffering is vapor.

This, my darling Susan, is why I need to chuck the fat gut. Because I want to be around forever to enjoy all my grandbabies in that cozy beach house in Malibu. I simply don’t have the luxury of making hip, culturally correct choices just so that I can be down with the sistahs — I have children who depend on me for their very lives and well-being. I don’t want to die young. And if someone wants to somehow politicize the very personal choice that I have made regarding losing this weight, go right ahead. I don’t mind in the least.

But, know this — I categorically REFUSE to stay fat and sick to support ANYBODY’S political agenda…and to anybody who in any way suggests that I or any other woman should, I have a little message for you: Go fuck yourself.

1. What time did you get up this morning?
6 cockeatin’ 30.

2. Diamonds or pearls?
BOTH, goddamnit. I’m nothing short of a dirty, plundering, acquisitive whore who enjoys nothing more than a lazy afternoon spent guzzling absinthe, stroking my crab ladder, and plucking the rings from the fingers of the dead. Not really. I was just kidding! I loathe absinthe and the entire horseshit absinthe culture. But truthfully, I like jewels and stones and beads and doo-dads and gew-gaws and shiny baubles of all kinds, though their actual monetary or cultural value means very little to me; it’s their sparkle and lustre that catches my cold eye. My husband calls me a highly distractable kitty-kat in regards to such things and thinks I must’ve been of the race of dwarves or hobbits in my previous life. Or a pirate, even. And besides that, I positively LIVE to “clutch my pearls” and act shocked at the behavior of others…so it would be nice to actually have something stranded and nacreous there to clutch aside from merely clavicle or a shameless chain of hickeys.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Angels and Demons. LOVED IT.

4. What is your favorite TV Show?
Antiques Roadshow (Everytime they use the word “veneer”, we get to chug-a-lug! Okay, so it’s probably just seltzer water we are chug-a-lugging, but whatever.)

5. What do you usually have for breakfast?
Usually just really fucking good coffee (I insist on really fucking good coffee) and sometimes some soup or a salad.

6. What is your middle name?
Pomeline.

7. Favorite cuisines?
Afghani, Ethiopian, Mediterranean.

8. What foods do you dislike?
Very, very few — but prominent on that list are definitely slimy fried okra, lambchops and lychee (smells entirely too much like LOAD for my liking, thank you very much.)

9. What is your favorite chip flavor?
Salt and vinegar.

10. What is your favorite CD at the moment?
An Anthology of Big Band Swing, 1930-1955. It’s included in the group of music that I write to, and listening to it causes my heart to race and my to pulse quicken…and makes me feel connected to all the writers who have come and gone before me. You hear that, Mr. Benchley?

11. What kind of car are you driving?
A ruby red Honda CRV that my family and friends affectionately refers to as “The Crazy Rodent Vehicle” (CRV? Get it?) because my nickname around these parts is “Mouse”. Yes, my husband and my children call me Mouse.

12. Favorite sandwich?
Reuben on rye…with horseradish. At Canter’s.

13. What characteristic do you despise?
I quickly and deftly recoil in disgust from undignified personal drama in any form — but worse than that, if you dare commit the cardinal sin of being uninteresting…fuck off, lady.

14. What is your favorite clothing?
Black dresses, cashmere sweater sets, cardigans, and homely, interesting thrift store dresses from the late 50’s and early 60’s — and my ancient Bass penny loafers. Oh, and EARRINGS. Always always always with the earrings. Think demented debutante.

15. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation where would you go?
London’s calling.

16. What color is your bathroom?
Oh, christ. Fuck off. Who cares. Next question.

17. Favorite brand of clothing?
I adore Brooks Brothers — both new and thrifted. Gimme old thrashed soft pink buttondown shirts and some of them ol’ time New England coats with horn-toggle closures, and I’ll most likely blow you for the difference, friend. And, if listing my favorite designers counts for anything…I like Betsey Johnson, Lilly Pulitzer, Calvin Klein, and Ralph Lauren. I think I must’ve been a fucking preppie pilgrim DAR club-lady in another life. A really drunken, chain-smoking, foul-mouthed one with questionable moral fiber, of course. Think Anne Sexton.

18. Where would you retire?
Truth be told, even though I would giddily skip-kick the wall-plug outta my own Mother’s life support system to live in London, Dublin, or Edinburgh…I’ll probably end up in a cozy beach house in Malibu surrounded by grandbabies and friends — which sounds practically perfect in every way to me. I plan on being the world’s most KICKIN’ granny.

19. What was your most memorable birthday?
After about the age of 13, I realized that I don’t really give a rat’s ass about my actual birthday (in my mind, EVERYDAY is my birthday and made to be filled with fun!) — so I don’t really have any fucking answer to that query. In other words, I need extravagant birthday festivities held in my honor…like Paris Hilton needs her pussy stretched, honey.

20. Favorite sport to watch?
Baseball, both major and minor league; oh, and if you were wondering, I like the Yankees. I’m nothing if not an ol’ school purist.

24. Goal you have for yourself?
Books, films, travel, and eternal life.

25. What are your hobbies?
Books, films, travel, and eternal life.

26. When is your Anniversary?
Bloomsday; June 16.

27. Are you a morning person or a night person?
Either.

28. What is your shoe size?
7 1/2, sometimes an 8 — depending on how fat I am. I currently wear an 8.

29. Pets:
Am currently in the market for a Chihuahua I shall name “Hamish.”

30. Any new and exciting news you’d like to share with us?
Yes. Your mother’s a whore. (Then again, who isn’t after a few drinks?)

31. What did you want to be when you were little?
A hostess on The Storybook Canal Boats in Disneyland. In fact, it’s still my dream — and I’ll do it, too. Think I won’t?

32. What are you today?
Writer, Mother, Libertine, Tart.

33. What is your favorite candy?
Green apple Jolly Ranchers — but thanks to a touch of the diabletes, no can do no mo.

34. What is your favorite flower?
Violets. Lovely violets.

35. What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to?
June 6th, 2006 at 6 a.m. He is risen! Oh, wait a minute. I missed it. Nevermind.

36. Anyone special in your life of the opposite sex?
My husband, Gregory…my son, Hunter…my father, Tom…and my best friend, Billy.

I certainly would’ve guessed that Mrs. Beaver would’ve ranked higher on my list — though my real deep and abiding connection always has been and always will be…to Reepicheep, and sailing on alone to the Utter East.

You scored as Lucy Pevensie. Lucy Pevensie 67% Susan Pevensie 57% Aslan 57% Peter Pevensie 47% Mrs. Beaver 43% Oreius 37% Mr. Beaver 17% Edmund Pevensie 17% Ginarrbrik 13% Mr. Tumnus 3% The White Witch 0% Which Chronicles of Narnia character are you most like? created with QuizFarm.com

I completely embrace and live by the concept of the song below: that we have the power to reinvent ourselves and start all over again anytime we decide to…truly unencumbered by the mistakes and circumstances of our past.

I consider it one of the most important lessons that I have infused into the hearts and minds of my children. It is my mantra…and is now part of theirs. We can be born again anytime we want to and in any manner in which we choose — and we don’t even need an angry god or a pointless crucifixion or even a shocking submersion into a vat of chlorinated holy water to do it. We just need the desire, and the vision, and the hope.

We also need to learn to forgive ourselves for the inevitable missteps and transgressions that come along with being human. It is our very imperfections that make us so goddamned…perfect. Sorta like the mole on Cindy Crawford’s face.

So, every January 1st, I consciously remind myself that every new day — not just New Year’s Day — is another opportunity for me to make my life extraordinary…and then I set about doing it. Some days I succeed wildly…and some days I don’t wash my muff or brush my teeth and just lay around in my pajamas drinking coffee, wolfing Taco Bell, sniffing the sweet skulls of my babies, and reading the poetry of Ted Hughes.

I’ll let you guess which days I consider extraordinary.

My wish for all those whom I love…is that they find and celebrate the mole on the face of their own extraordinary lives.

Happy New Year.

Better Days

And you ask me what I want this year
And I try to make this kind and clear
Just a chance that maybe we’ll find better days
Cuz I don’t need boxes wrapped in strings
And desire and love and empty things
Just a chance that maybe we’ll find better days

So take these words
And sing out loud
Cuz everyone is forgiven now
Cuz tonight’s the night the world begins again

And it’s someplace simple where we could live
And something only you can give
And thats faith and trust and peace while we’re alive
And the one poor child that saved this world
And there’s 10 million more who probably could
If we all just stopped and said a prayer for them

So take these words
And sing out loud
Cuz everyone is forgiven now
Cuz tonight’s the night the world begins again

I wish everyone was loved tonight
And somehow stop this endless fight
Just a chance that maybe we’ll find better days

So take these words
And sing out loud
Cuz everyone is forgiven now
Cuz tonight’s the night the world begins again
Cuz tonight’s the night the world begins again