muffy bolding

I will never KNOW anyone more important.

I will never WRITE anything more important.

I will never THINK anything more important.

I will never CREATE anything more important.

I will never DO anything more important.

NOTHING is more important than this.

THIS.

THIS IS MY REVOLUTION.

Anybody who thinks that Baz Luhrmann’s “The Great Gatsby” is gonna tank is FAR, FAR off the mark, muthafuckas.

In MY house, for the past six weeks or so, it has been NOTHING but Gatsby, Gatsby, Gatsby. I, myself, am OBSESSED with the book (THANK YOU, Waynie Cole. I LOVE YOU!) and when the three of them each had to read it in high school, I read it with them…TO THEM, in fact, and glammed it up and broke it down and revealed to them the UNIMAGINABLE beauty and UNIMAGINABLE tragedy with which Fitzgerald powdered and gilded every page. The dreams, the reach, the glitter, the imagery, THE UTTER END OF ALL THINGS.

This story is AMERICA. It comes from a place of dreams and fearlessness and reinvention and possibility — a place that holds the very best of what we are…and the very worst. I could talk about it ALL FUCKING DAY.

Consequently, around here, it has been adorable babies re-reading the book in bed at night, lively discussions over the kitchen island about Tom, Gatsby, and Daisy, the ruthless hunting down of blackmarket copies of the soundtrack ahead of its actual release, listening to said soundtrack on a NEVERENDING REPEAT LOOP OF HELL, breathlessly counting down the minutes until the first preview showing at 10 last night — which they flocked to IN DROVES. Trust me, it was a LONG-anticipated EVENT — and, as is their wont in such cinematic love-affairs, they will gather, go back, and see it again.

And again.

And again.

Trust me, this movie is going to make a GODDAMNED FORTUNE.

Jay Gatsby would be so proud.

“The Rules: Don’t take too long to think about it. Fifteen authors (poets and playwrights included) who have influenced you as a reader, writer, thinker, and person. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than fifteen minutes. Good night and good luck.”

1. David Foster Wallace

2. Dorothy Parker

3. Anne Sexton

4. Fran Lebowitz

5. Ted Hughes

6. Hunter Thompson

7. Doug Kenney

8. Scott Fitzgerald

9. Jacqueline Susann

10. George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart

11. Truman Capote

12. W.S. Merwin

13. Mark Twain

14. C.S. Lewis

15. Charles Bukowski

Do it if you want — and if not?

FUCK OFF, LADY.

Though I, myself, am FAR too OLD and FAT and ANNOYED and HOT and MENOPAUSAL and INCONVENIENCED and NON-RELIGIOUS to wear such garments, I support, to the fucking death, any other broad’s right to do so — and so, apparently, does this awesome fellow:

“The man in the picture is Rachid Nekkaz, a French-Algerian businessman living in France.

He opened a fund of € 1 million. Then he said, ‘My sisters, go out free wherever you want and I will pay the fine for you.'”

From the BRILLIANT Guerrilla Feminism:

So, yesterday, my GENIUS writing partner, Doug Prochilo, and I, had lunch at one of our favorite grub haunts, Casa Vega. Afterward, we both grabbed a hard-chocolate after-lunch mint out of the bowl on the hostess desk and wandered out into the bright sunlight.

Doug, who was driving, got into the car and started her up…but, alas, the MISERABLE CUNT who had parked next to us pretty much parked crosswise and like three inches away from my door — and, trust me, I am FAR too large and in charge to thread my fatass through the eye of THAT needle. So, while Doug was attempting to back out of our space to give me room to climb in, an older, white-haired, moneyed-looking, impeccably-Brooks Brothers-bedecked, attorney-type gentleman who had just gotten out of a sleek black Mercedes, stopped to commiserate with my situation. He shook his handsome, distinguished head and said:

“Gosh, don’t you hate when people do that? For the longest time, I have wanted to get some pre-printed cards made up that say, ‘Hey, why don’t you learn how to park, buddy?’, so I can leave one on their windshield. What do you think about that?”

To which I smiled sweetly and responded:

“Oh, TOTALLY. I was actually just considering hiking up my skirt, scrambling up onto the car, and taking a HUGE DUMP on the hood…you know, as a social statement. What do you think about THAT?”

This poor guy got the most horrified look on his face, and hurriedly turned to walk away, raising his hands in the air in disgust. I opened my arms like a yenta and yelled across the parking lot after him, “What…TOO MUCH?”

I AM A FUCKING DISGRACE.

YES.

“The writer must be in it; he can’t be to one side of it, ever. He has to be endangered by it. His own attitudes have to be tested in it. The best work that anybody ever writes is the work that is on the verge of embarrassing himself, always.” — Arthur Miller

If, by my age, you don’t know what you bring to the table…first of all, may god help you.

Second of all, I fervently hope with ALL my heart that you find out.

And third of all, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY.

Old broads got NO TIME.

“Long before there was spirit, or confession, or redemption, or the true quest — there were those hands. They were twisted and sinewy, and whenever I pictured them, decadently bejeweled. Even with a spindly, lipstick-stained cigarette held effortlessly between her fingers, they still somehow looked as though they should have been draped over a sceptre and an orb. In conversation, between long, glorious, menthol drags, her fingers seemed to pinch and poke at some smooth, velvety fabric that no one else could see. After just ten minutes spent in her presence, I longed to touch it also.

Perhaps encountering a true prophet in the ladies’ lingerie department at Sears is wholly unbelievable, but the chances of recognizing it as such are even more unlikely — particularly when you are as ardent and confused a non-believer as I was then. But witness her, I did — and the first thought that chiseled itself onto the inside of my forehead was, ‘Alea iacta est’:

‘The die has been cast.'”

— The Queen of Cups