muffy bolding

Oh, my stars…what a whirlwind weekend of WONDER! Last night my fatass sashayed into an AWESOME club in Little Tokyo with My One True Love and our best girl, Miss Pammie, where we partooketh of a jaw-dropping performance of REAL-DEAL, NO HORSESHIT, OL’ SCHOOL JAZZ…and that was only after I had lunch yesterday at that infamous Eagle Rock HOUSE OF GUSTATORY DELIGHTS, Auntie Em’s Kitchen, with my VERY BEST BOYS: Gregory, Mario Diaz, and Jackie Beat…where our lunch date was (YOU GOTTA BE FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS) Fred “My Band’s AMAZING Music and GROUNDBREAKING Aesthetic Changed The Life of a Trashy Fresno Trollop Named Muffy Bolding” Schneider.

Holy shit…SOMEBODY PINCH THIS PINCHE PUTA.

Herr Schneider, Old Hooker, Older Hooker, and a BEAUTIFUL LITTLE BABY NAMED ‘BABY”!

Have you ever dated a guy who made CRAZY EYES when he was fucking you? I’m not talking about “Crazy ‘O’ Face” here — everybody has that, for chrissake. I’m talking about actual CRAZY EYES while he’s nailing you. Talk about a buzzkill. Frankly, when a guy fucks me with CRAZY EYES, he cock-blocks himself. It makes the flesh crawl right off my body and out of my bed. Just hand me the remote and get the fuck out, dude. I’m so done.

And on that delightful note…this I guarantee you: MITT ROMNEY CANNOT FUCK.

And further, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and unequivocally state that if you are a Republican, YOU CAN’T FUCK*. It is a mathematical certainty. You just can’t. There is an ebb and flow to this life…a beat, a rhythm. We are born to it. Conservative Republicans can’t dance because they can’t feel that beat or that rhythm, and that’s because hate, intolerance, and certainly Fundamentalist Christianity cut you off from feeling it — and everybody knows that if you can’t dance, you can’t fuck. It’s as simple as that, Mein Poppets. Those beliefs neuter you. They castrate your connection to The Great Throbbing Pulsing Disco Beat that is this universe and is this life — the single, infinite beat that ties us all one to the other. When you live your life steeped in hatred and intolerance, you are deaf to that beat and its enticing call. You don’t get to feel it move through you, bringing alive every cell in your being, calling you to join in The Dance. And it’s not just that you won’t dance — it’s that you can’t.

Now Obama? For however disappointed I am with his presidency thus far — oh, and trust me, WE GOT SOME DEFINITE ISSUES TO WORK OUT, ol’ Barry and I — there is one thing that cannot be denied:

That guy can FLAT FUCK.

*With the exception of my old friend, DeWayne Link. Now THAT OL’ BOY CAN FUCK.

“A genius is someone who shoots at something that no one else can see…and hits it.”

One of my writer friends recently put out a call on Facebook asking for the names of creative geniuses, historical and/or contemporary, I am guessing for a project she is working on. People chimed in with all manner of suggestions — some DEAD-ON and some positively inexplicable. It made me stop and consider what the oft-used (and misused) word, “genius” really means. What exactly is a “genius”?

For me, a genius is someone who takes my breath away with their natural talent — who takes the top of my fucking head off with their brilliance. Someone who comes into this world already brandishing that unknowable, unnameable IT. Someone whose lustre and illumination CANNOT BE DENIED.

True genius is a rare commodity, and to encounter it is an exhilarating experience. How does one recognize genius? As was once said by Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart (about pornography): …”It’s difficult to define…BUT I KNOW IT WHEN I SEE IT.”

And I do.

After pondering the concept for a bit, here is a list of some of those humans I believe to be, or have been, not only extraordinary…but actually FUCKING GENIUS:

Anne Sexton

Charlie Parker

Truman Capote

Madeline Kahn

Doug Kenney

Mel Brooks

Michael Jackson

Louis CK

Meryl Streep

Charlie Chaplin

Elsa Schiaparelli

Richard Pryor

Geoffrey Chaucer

Bill Murray

Muhammad Ali

Ricky Gervais

Mary Blair

David Foster Wallace

Judy Garland

As for me, though I have known countless brilliant creatives in my life — in fact, I am blissfully surrounded by them at all times — I have only personally known one whom I consider to be an actual creative genius…and of this, there is NO QUESTION:

Jackie Beat

My youngest daughter, Anne, and I were hanging out this afternoon, belly laughing and reciting lines from “Bridesmaids”…and at some point we touched on the subject of fear — and I told her, “If I could give you only one gift of wisdom from all my years spent on this planet, it would be this, Young Baby Goat: Fear is WORTHLESS. It’s a waste of time. FEAR NOTHING. FEAR NO ONE. KNOW HOW POWERFUL AND ASTONISHING YOU TRULY ARE. NO ONE knows any more than you do. Go after ANYTHING YOU WANT — because you can have it. MOVE THROUGH THIS FUCKING WORLD AS IF YOU OWN IT — BECAUSE YOU DO. IT’S ALL YOURS FOR THE TAKING, sister — ALL OF IT.”

She beamed that amazing Baby Goat smile at me and said, “I already know that, Mommy — because you taught me.”

At 20 years of age, this delightful little creature already gets what it took me a goddamned lifetime to learn. She TOTALLY gets it.

If I dropped dead right this second…I would do so knowing that my life was an utter success.

There is no more telling statement on America’s attitude toward aging than this:

If given a choice and the necessary resources, otherwise rational, intelligent women in the culture in which I, my daughters, my sisters, and my girlfriends exist…WOULD RATHER LOOK LIKE MOTHERFUCKING MONSTERS THAN TO LOOK OLD. This has GOT to change. We can run away as far and as fast as we are able — but in the end, Age has its way with us all, baby.

My way of dealing with it? I look Age right in the crepey bastard eye, throw back my greying head, grab my jiggling gunt, and BELLY LAUGH.

I DON’T GIVE A FUCK.

Let’s see…my most favorite memory from our wedding day was not just that I finally finally finally got to marry My One True Love…but that right after I became her son’s lawfully wedded wife, my new mother-in-law handed us an envelope that contained a very generous wedding check — an envelope across whose front she had accidentally written, “Greg and Marla”, i.e., Gregory’s lovely, talented, long-term ex-girlfriend. When he laughed and pointed the mistake out to her, my MIL was ABSOLUTELY MORTIFIED — and for the rest of the day, could NOT stop apologizing for her gaffe.

Being the perpetually-bemused, wry, old hooker that I am, I, of course, LOVED the inadvertent error…and even saved it to be framed and hung in a place of great honor in our home.

In the sacred spirit of Christmas and of being grateful and counting one’s blessings for all that is good in one’s life, I have even come up with a way to be thankful for My Dread Disease: This malar rash is saving me A GODDAMNED FORTUNE IN ROUGE.

Merry, Merry, Mein Poppets!

To all you generous, thoughtful, and enthusiastic holiday bakers out there, a small, but meaningful, Christmas gift from me — a gift of THE TRUTH:

You can spin it however you want and festoon that shit with ribbons, sprinkles, and Christmas tins from Wal-Mart aplenty…but the truth is, my friend, that FRESHLY CUT PERSIMMONS SMELL JUST LIKE LOAD. Therefore, you can bake ALL the gottdamned persimmon cookies you want, motherfucker, but I AIN’T EATIN’ NONE O’ DAT SHIT.

Dat is all.

“My reaction to porno films is as follows: After the first ten minutes, I want to go home and screw. After the first twenty minutes, I never want to screw again as long as I live.” — Erica Jong

Mother of god.

I wish I could adequately communicate to you just how much I LOVE THIS:

“Kazan and company were clearly grooming Warren Beatty as a fresh new Method-acting Boy Wonder, and his performance is a genuine oddity: He works against his own rigid, tortured muscular presence by refusing to act on impulses where Brando would. But it was Natalie Wood who rightfully earned the Academy Award nomination for, as much as anything, whining like a cat in heat and moaning in a steaming hot bathtub while her unbroken hymen vibrates like a tuning fork.” — Eric Henderson, reviewing “Splendor in the Grass”