muffy bolding

The Patron Saint of MY KIND.

My pipples are hilarious.

Relentless.

Ruthless.

Shameless.

It’s all about THE LONG CON, baby.

God bless us, every one.

Before I moved to Los Angeles with the silly, Fresno-Middle-Aged-Schoolgirl dream of writing and working in the entertainment industry in some capacity, I always just assumed that there were millions of teeming people working and struggling in Hollywood, making movies and television.

But once you get here and dive in headfirst and actually meet the people who generate the creative content which you and your family consume, you discover that the reality is there are pretty much just 25 or 30 tightly knit crews putting stuff out. Yes, there is definitely some overlap between these crews, i.e., actors who regularly appear in both Judd Apatow projects AND Will Farrell stuff, but for the most part, just like the Mafia, your crew is your crew, and for them, you would DIE.

Like a family of friends (or a FRAMILY, as our little crew calls it), you help and support one another, both professionally, as well as personally, and when — after perhaps decades of struggle, persistence, and luck — someone from a particular crew finally MAKES IT, they grandly and ceremoniously step through the door of success…BUT, just before it slams shut behind them, they quickly spin around and with a maniacal belly laugh that was YEARS OF TENDING BAR AND WAITING TABLES IN THE MAKING, cram their foot in the jamb AND HOLD THAT MOTHERFUCKER OPEN SO THE REST OF THEIR CREW CAN THEN BUM-RUSH THROUGH TO JOIN THEM IN PARADISE.

So, just in case you were wondering…that, Mein Poppets, is how this mysterious, grand, glorious, glamorous, full-of-shit, dream-come-true, DO-NOT-GIVE-UP-NO-MATTER-WHAT sort of town works.

So, throw the fucking dice and meet your destiny…if you dare.

Oh, and table 32 needs a side of vegan bleu and a refill on their jasmine iced tea.

Hollywood ain’t no place for sissies.

Today:

THIS.

“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.” — Henry Miller

For reasons which strike terror into the very core of my being…the past week has been one of the most difficult of my entire life — and the worst part is, I didn’t even see it coming. And, yet…there it was, upon me, snatching the breath from my chest and bringing me to my goddamned knees. Believe me when I tell you, that without the clear-headed logic, reason, compassion, devotion, and brilliance of Gregory…I would most definitely be a goner.

At the moment of impact, my very first thought, as insane and unlikely as it sounds, was a notion from one of my favorite childhood books, C.S. Lewis’, “The Magician’s Nephew.” It continues to echo in my head:

“The Sorceress Jadis was indeed the first evil to enter Narnia on its original day of creation…and her corruption would impact it for ages to come.”

Jadis has indeed entered my world — and no matter how much I may wish her away…she is here. Even when I feel I have her vanquished — she will always be in the shadows…waiting. I suspect that I shall never sleep as soundly nor feel peace in quite the same way again.

And such is the nature of being alive. The rise and fall and rise again.

When you least expect it…EXPECT IT.

Life is both beauty and agony. Calm and storm. Joy and horror. But, we persevere. That is our job here. To hold onto each other. To find strength in love and friendship. To figure it out. To dig deep. To get up and keep moving. To NOT give up. To pour ourselves a drink, put on some lipstick, and fucking pull ourselves together.

Red lipstick.

RUSSIAN RED.

And onward…yes, ON.

Speaking solely as one of the TEEMING, WRITHING, UNWASHED, LOW-LIFE, LOW-RENT, BROWN-SKINNED, UPSTART COCKROACH, FUCKMACHINE, SOCIAL-CLIMBING BASTARDS preparing to mount world domination SIMPLY BY MOUNTING EACH OTHER…I’ve been saying this exact same thing FOR YEARS:

We are eventually going to BREED you out of power, my PALE, PURSE-LIPPED, BUTTER-BREATHED, FLAT-ASSED, NO-RHYTHM-HAVING FRIENDS…and THAT is a MATHEMATICAL CERTAINTY — for it is THE DOOM of White People…that they CANNOT FUCK.

And how do you definitively know if you’re white? If you and your family have, at any time, sat your puckered, uptight, Protestant asses around an Ethan Allen Queen Anne dining room table and silently and dispassionately eaten a dinner consisting of pork chops, green beans, applesauce, and white rice with a perfectly square pat of butter on it — or, if you’re related by blood to any child named either Tucker or Mackenzie — YOU’RE FUCKING WHITE, my friend.

Anyway, I hope y’all like curry, kimchi, adobo, paella, mole, wasabi, hummus, and collard greens — ’cause hot dogs and apple pie are goin’ the way of the eight-track, motherfuckers.

God bless America.

And PEACE OUT.

Well, I can say with absolute certainty that it reared its shimmering head with the hilarious, unholy union of Brett Somers and Charles Nelson Reilly on “Match Game”, for whom I would race home after school every day to wistfully watch. From them, I learned the genius that true love could be.

And then, it all exploded into ten thousand sequinned suns with the even UNHOLIER union of myself and my GLORIOUS, GLAMOROUS Gusband, Miss Jackie Beat, several decades later.

But, for me, a lifetime of longing for the company of my other FABULOUS HALF started here, in my childhood, in a book…in a snowy wood under a magical lamp post…with Lucy Pevensie and Mr. Tumnus, the most elegant, delightful, “Confirmed Bachelor” in all of Narnia.

This is where it all began.

#faghagforlife

Okay, for the very first time in this venue…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 Muffaletta!

You are welcome and encouraged to post whatever it is you need to get off your sweaty-underboob 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 your guilty pleasures!

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 Marge’s rosary beads!)

Tell me your dreams, motherfuckers, and I’ll tell you what they mean.

But for the love of god, man, just tell me SOMETHING.

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

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

Me and The Boys —  Gregory Babior, Heath Chamblee, Mario Diaz and Russell Brown — GOIN’ DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE…on the Alice in Wonderland ride at Disneyland. 

The very best part about this photo is that what those three FAB NANCY BOYS sitting behind me are excitedly pointing at is A GLITTERING DISNEY PRINCESS PARADE that just happened to be rolling by. THE BEST!

God, I love them all so much.

Look at me. Thin and dainty. I don’t look a goddamned day over 2,000.

Moisturize me. Moisturize me.

(With MANY loving thanks to my darling, Joe Fitrzyk, for the FAB photo ganked from Dr. Who. I LOVE YOU, Joey Fitz!)