muffy bolding

“I have known Joan Crawford for more than 35 years. I still don’t know her at all. She is the only star I know who manufactured herself. She drew up a blueprint for herself and outlined a beautiful package of skin, bones, and character and then set about to put life into the outline. She succeeded, and so Joan Crawford came into existence at the same time an overweight Charleston dancer, born Lucile LeSueur, disappeared from the world. It took me a long time to realize this. I believed, for some time, that Lucille existed under the skin. She does not.” — Louella Parsons on Miss Joan Crawford

Mother of god. So, once again, crawling out of the “highly offended” woodwork come all the stereotypical holier-than-though bastards, braying like some judgmental Greek Chorus that getting your six month old half-Nicaraguan daughter’s ears pierced at her Miami pediatrician’s office is a) “sexualizing” her, b) low-rent, i.e., not something that decent, middle or upper-middle class (read: WHITE) people do, and/or c) actually akin to genital mutilation.

Everyone just needs to calm down and SHUT THE FUCK UP. My complete piece-of-ass Filipina/Metseecan mother sat my narrow, two year old ass in my high chair, handed me a Cherry popsicle, and pierced my toddler ears with a piece of ice, some rubbing alcohol, and a gottdamned needle and thread — and look at me. Aside from being a fierce, foul-mouthed whore who wakes up with chunks of Asshole Anti-Woman Fundamentalist Christian Republicans in my stool, I TURNED OUT JUST FUCKING FINE.

“Tip the world over on its side and…everything loose will land in Los Angeles.” — Frank Lloyd Wright

I love this fucking city so much — and all the brilliant misfits and miscreants who dwell within her sparkly walls.

Los Angeles, 1960.

A midday love note — from me…to all the MAGNIFICENT “Confirmed Bachelors” that exuberantly surround me at all times…and assemble — with great affection and distinction — their own wonderful “families”:

“Only solitary men know the full joys of friendship. Others have their family; but to a solitary and an exile, his friends are everything.” — Willa Cather

I must respectfully disagree with those Facebookers who are offended by this delightful photo meme (none of whom are actually friends of mine, of course) and are calling it abhorrent, sickening, and cruel. By my way of thinking, jokes can be made about ANYTHING — and, in fact, SHOULD be made about anything. Humor diffuses, DEfuses, deconstructs, heals, and murders despair. Humor is what carries us through. Humor is what brings us that horizon, goddamnit.

Furthermore, this joke is not about the suffering, death, persecution, rape, or eradication of the indomitable Miss Frank — and is, in fact, all about the CELEBRATION of her life. Her youth. Her writing. Her humor. Her typical pain-in-the-ass teenagerdom. Her authorship of the MOST FAMOUS DIARY IN THE WORLD — and the profound change that she wrought on that world with her written thoughts of defiance, love, laughter, joy, and hope.

If you’ve read her diary, you know that all this young woman wanted — ALL SHE FUCKING WANTED — was just the chance to be a normal teenager…and to do the same normal things that EVERY teenager wants to do: Hang out with her friends. Dress in cute clothes. Look gorgeous. See and be seen. FALL IN LOVE. BELLY LAUGH. To deny her her normalcy by forbidding that her life and existence be celebrated with humor all these many years later…is to deny her her humanity…and, well, must I really state the obvious regarding that?

And let me go one further here: to those who have voiced their disapproval over this photo and joke — let me genuinely state that I am OFFENDED that you are offended. It is hateful, closed-minded, small-minded, joyless thinking that brought us the horrors of the 20th Century in the first place.

I, for one, think that Miss Frank — who was essentially the very first TEEN BLOGGER — would have LOVED not only the Internet and social media, but, most of all, THIS AWESOME MEME.

With Jackie Beat, Selene Luna, and Gregory Babior at The American Idol Finalist Party — playing posh, acting scandalous, scarfing vittles, and taking over the VIP section. Pretty much just generally invading and annoying our betters.

This is my new favorite website — concise, wicked, to the bone. One of the very few I know of that truly speaks to the weary, annoyed, eye-rolling, nostril-flared, cultural loathing that dwells deep within my fat, black little heart:

Fuck your Eames coat rack.

Fuck your ornamental vintage typewriter.

Fuck your bookshelf with the books arranged by color.

Fuck your Chair Hodge Podge.

And, lastly, to all precious, pretentious, predictable pricks everywhere?

FUCK YOU.

Recently, one of the broads on my Facebook friends list publicly derided granny panties, opining that they look like ugly, oversized toddler chonies and that wearing them pretty much means you’ve, “given up.”

Yes. Of course. Because I am just the sort of dame you’d describe as being dispassionate and dowdy.

You see, I ALWAYS wear white, 100% cotton granny panties and have done so for pretty much my entire adult life. Call me prudish and Victorian (I DOUBLE-DOG DARE YOU), but for me, underwear are strictly utilitarian garments, meant to provide proper hygiene and absolute comfort under my clothing — and that is precisely what mine do. I personally got WAY BETTER THINGS to think about/create/dream/fight for/support/be concerned with/be distracted by than whether or not my unmentionables are flossing my crack, paralyzing my thigh, humidifying my muff, or turning some poor bastard on or off. They provide me with consistent bodily comfort and a well-aerated undercarriage — because, as you all well know, if Mama’s Bagine ain’t happy, ain’t NOBODY happy. In other words, they work. Swimmingly.

Styles may come and go, gunts, titties, poundage, and fortunes may rise and fall, but through it all I shall continue to proudly strut about town wearing my grannies. I consider their effortlessness and carefree wearin’ as a boost to my ability to focus, write, and RULE. And though it might seem silly to some, I also consider my very fervent choice to be unfettered — as opposed to being FETTERED LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER — as not only a personal fashion choice, but perhaps even a feminist fashion choice, as well.

So, in the profound spirit of The Sisterhood, my message to she who thinks girls in grannies have given up:

FUCK OFF, LADY.

“Things are sweeter when they’re lost. I know — because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly…and when I got it, it turned to dust in my hand.” — Scott Fitzgerald

And with this one smooth, dulcet croon from Our Fearless Leader, one can just sense the sudden rush of dew on Herman Miller Aeron Chairs the nation over. Talk about your “TRUE BLACK”, BITCHES. Like I’ve told you before, my friends…OUR PRESIDENT CAN FLAT FUCK — and that virtue gets MY VOTE EVERY TIME.

OBAMA, 2012