Holy shit, this man is a MOTHERFUCKIN’ BOSS. I love you, Joe! CALL MY FATASS!
“Look guys, no matter what a girl does, no matter how she’s dressed, no matter how much she’s had to drink, it’s never, never, never okay to touch her without her consent. This doesn’t make you a man. It makes you a coward.” — Joe Biden
“There was a time in this great country of ours when bein’ crazy really MEANT somethin’…you know? But now it don’t mean NOTHIN’…’cause now EVERYBODY’S CRAZY.” — Charlie Manson
And speaking about, “I Love L.A.”, Randy Newman’s MARVELOUS love song to his place of birth…I wish you people could see my fatass when they play that video on the JumboTron at my beloved Dodgers games. Here’s your visual, Mein Poppets:
Giddy old hooker in a black dress and red lips…belting at the top of her lungs and shimmying in the stands behind the third base line…like a BIG, FAT, DELIGHTED, DODGER-BLUE GENIE.
Think I don’t?
Gregory and I spent the long holiday weekend in a U-Haul, driving between Los Angeles and San Diego, moving The Baby Goat home for the summer, until she starts school at Cal State Long Beach in the fall. We spent all day Saturday packing up all of her precious and treasured things and saying goodbye to her best friends, Chelsi and Linze, with whom she shared a house near San Diego State.
When we were all loaded up and ready to drive off into the next exciting chapter of this amazing young woman’s life, I stopped for a moment to get this shot of the wall above their cozy, little dining room — and pondered for a moment the house-proud mama who long ago went and bought paint and dragged a step ladder over to lovingly enshrine this sweet sentiment over the sacred space where her little family once gathered to share food and the events of their days…and how it couldn’t POSSIBLY have occurred to her at that moment that some wretched, irreverent, HILARIOUS, Jackalian college students would come along one day and make it their very own.
Welcome home, Beautiful Baby Goat! You are adored and we are SO proud of you.
Oh, my stars. Here is the latest Frontiers column from my Darling Gusband, Miss Jackie Beat — where she once again takes names, kicks ass, and, this time out, gives MAJOR LOVE to all the funny broads in her glittering world…and even sweetly includes a certain scoundrelous, foulmouthed, diminutive Sicilian hooker from the provinces amongst their astonishing names. Knock my fatass over with a feather! Thank you, Jinxie! I LOVE YOU!
“The worst thing that can happen for people who don’t want women to be strong is that we help each other and become a force.” — Sarah Silverman
My children are obsessed with the 80s.
OBSESSED.
Recently, one of my daughters came to me, lamenting the fact that she was born too late to have experienced the utter magnificence that was my lost and awesome youth. She asked me, “What were the 80s really like, Mommy? What did the 80s feel like?”
I smiled, and told her to sit down and close her eyes.
“This. THIS is what the 80s felt like, little sister.”
“Remember that you own what happened to you. If your childhood was less than ideal, you may have been raised thinking that if you told the truth about what really went on in your family, a long bony white finger would emerge from a cloud and point to you, while a chilling voice thundered, ‘We *told* you not to tell.’ But that was then. Just put down on paper everything you can remember now about your parents and siblings and relatives and neighbors, and we will deal with libel later on. [Just change their height and hair color. No one ever once has recognized him or herself in my fiction. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.]” — Anne Lamott
The best part about living in Los Angeles?
The interesting, eclectic people and cultures in which you are constantly soaking. The perpetual, electric, neverending flow of creativity and collaboration. The awesome, bonding, “WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER” attitude that pervades the entire place. The notion of supporting each other, helping each other, building community, building family, and getting your foot in the fucking door SO THAT ALL YOUR BRILLIANT FRIENDS CAN BUM-RUSH IN RIGHT ALONGSIDE YOU.
The WORST part about living in Los Angeles?
The fact that your TALENTED, LUMINOUS, HILARIOUS, DROP-DEAD GORGEOUS, PLATINUM & PURPLE-HAIRED HIPSTER CHILD KEEPS GETTING FUCKING HIT ON HARD BY A BESOTTED, ENCHANTED [insert name of VERY famous 90s rock musician who is old enough to be her goddamned father here] AT NEARLY EVERY EVENT THAT SHE ATTENDS. You better BACK THE FUCK OFF, son.
MAMA DON’T PLAY.
I just this second hit “send” and placed the order for the high school graduation announcements of my last child. We will take him in tomorrow to be fitted for a classic black tux for his Senior Prom, to which he will go in two weeks. As I type this, I can hear his handsome, lanky self in the other room, sprawled out on the couch, playing a loud, fuzzy, awesome “Godzilla” by Blue Oyster Cult on his Gibson electric guitar. It was just five seconds ago that I held his 4 pound, premature self for the very first time in the ICU at Valley Children’s Hospital in Fresno, California, he and I sitting in a rocking chair together, rocking and watching live as OJ slowly made his way down the 405 in his white Bronco. True crime. True love. I was in utter and complete bliss.
Now that serious little cerebral bean in my arms drives, devours science fiction, argues politics (AND HOW), has a gorgeous ballerina girlfriend, and wants to make films. My first and only son. My last baby. The beautiful boy that I love above all others. Now he is a man.
Goddamn, it doesn’t take long to live a life.
And now…his truly begins.
muffy bolding 