perchance to dream

I recently woke from a dream, openly weeping...a dream whose content -- aside from the following verbatim passage -- I could not for the life of me remember. But this part I will never, ever forget:

"You have NO IDEA how love can change your life, how loving others can change their lives. Give love freely -- let it wash over every aspect of your existence. Infuse your every thought, move, and gesture with it. Through love, you will BECOME."

no words

So odd. The older I get, the more I not only appreciate, but actually PREFER, music with no words. Charlie Parker, Django, Wagner, DeBussy, Tchaikovsky. I don't know when it all changed or why it all changed, but it's almost as though I no longer feel the need to have my thoughts and feelings defined or expressed by someone else. I no longer need help in figuring out who I am and what I want. I already know.

poor un4CHANate souls

A few sweet souls have written to ask me, "Who is 4chan and what exactly is it that they do?"

Well, this link will give you just the very beginning of the most basic, minute, stripped-down concept of who and what the fuck they are.

As for what they do...have you ever watched that scene in the movie, "Ghost", when those vast legions of horrifying, anonymous, black, shadowy demons from hell single out, swarm, overtake, and consume some wretched, villainous bastard, before spiriting him away to hellish regions beyond?

Yeah. That's pretty much what they do.

adios, motherfucker

Shiiiit. The horrifying, relentless, collective vigilante webhive that is 4chan had this racist asshole's name, home address, social security number, and telephone number in about two minutes. Those ruthless bastards will eat her alive and spit out her white, white bones. There is no stopping them.

Yeah, that's right, Erika -- you really fucked up this this time, honey. Hope you're enjoying all the pizzas, Chinese food, aluminum siding salesmen, Slap Chops, Snuggies, slashed tires, feces hurled at your front door, visits from both Department of Homeland Security agents AND Craig's List trannie hustlers, delightful telephone callers threatening to disembowel you and gut you like a carp, interruptions in your phone/power/cable/cellular service, and 20,000 subscriptions to Ebony, Guns and Ammo, and Scat Mag International that you're going to be receiving for the rest of your hateful, miserable life. Oh, and while we're on the subject...FUCK YOU.

This bitch is a goner.

pearlie mae the stowaway

Thank you to ALL my awesome friends and family for rallying together and sending us glad thoughts last night. I truly believe in my heart that they are what brought that baby back to us.

I came home yesterday at 5 from a Disney shoot -- in FULL DRAG MAKEUP, by the way -- walked into my room, and she was perfectly fine. I took both she and Frances outside to squirt a clam, and all was gambolic and frolicsome. Almost immediately after she scampered out the door and peed, she started vomiting, staggering, and then collapsed. In all of 60 seconds, she went from a delightfully cavorting SASS MASTER, to a limp, unconscious little ragdoll. Thank christ my teenage son, Otis, was here with me -- his calm, logical, stoic, Stonehengish nature surely saved the goddamn day AND our beloved poochie. I was an absolute mess -- and remain so. I didn't realize that it was possible to belly cry that hard for that long -- so long and so hard, in fact, that the skin on my face is actually CHEMICAL BURNED from all the salt in my tears. Almost 24 hours later, I am still fucking traumatized -- but also relieved beyond words.

Anyway, when I realized what was happening, I called Gregory and told him to rush to meet us and we called the vet and told them we were coming and to be ready for her. I then gently wrapped her limp little body up in a soft baby blanket and we left for the hospital -- my son cradling her and trying to keep her conscious with tender kisses on her face and sweet nothings in her ear. All I remember of this drive, aside from the horrific 5 o'clock traffic, was telling Pearl over and over again, "Don't go, honey. Hold on. Don't leave us. Keep fighting. We love you SO SO SO SO much." When we got there, as I was hurrying her inside, I could feel her dying in my arms. There are NO WORDS to describe what I felt in my heart at that moment.

They whisked her away to the emergency triage area in the back. And then, all there was to do was simply wait -- and send love and light to our tiny girl as she fought for her life.

They immediately ran blood tests on her and found results consistent with anaphylactic shock, most likely sustained from the sting of a bee hiding in or hovering above the grass. Some of the results were so profoundly high as to not even register on their charts. The vet told us that she was in shock, had sustained liver damage, and was in grave shape -- and that she should be immediately transferred to an actual animal hospital for further treatment. We packed her up and rushed her there, where we were told that she needed to stay the night for treatment, observation, more tests, hydration, and various medications (antihistamines and antibiotics).

When I saw her this morning, she looked much better and was alert. Now that he knew she would survive, the critical care doctor there told me that, given the results of her blood tests and her vital signs when she came in, if we had waited even another 15 minutes to bring her in to the vet, she most certainly would have died. I can't even bear to think about it.

But, our girl is alive and still with us -- the people who adore her and revel in her tiny form and sweet face a thousand times a day. I think I can pretty safely say that although I know everyone loves their dogs with as much ferocity as we do, there are NO DOGS I know of who have lips pressed against their faces as much as these dogs do. Between the five of us, it's actually ludicrous. Two hundred kisses a day, AT THE VERY LEAST.

So, what I will say to you all is this. First of all, thank you from the bottom of our hearts for all of your healing thoughts and good wishes. Even in our horror, we took great comfort in knowing that so many people were thinking of Pearl and shooting her love and light across the many miles. She remains in the hospital and I await word from them on when we can safely bring her home.

Secondly, that if you have a pet, you NEED to be prepared to deal with an emergency should one arise. We are exemplary pet parents because we work at it and are hopelessly devoted to them and love them and have made the decision to take care of them with every bit as much care, concern, providence, and preparation as our three non-fuzzy babies. We had them spayed, they are micro-chipped, they have all of their shots, they receive both regular medical and dental check-ups and treatment, they eat the very best and very healthiest food available, they sleep in and on our bed on soft, clean fuzzy baby blankets LIKE GODDAMNED QUEENS. They are adored, protected, and cared for every minute of their lives...

BUT... I did NOT have the phone number and address of an emergency veterinary care facility programmed into my phone -- and the panic and fumbling that ensued as a result lost us precious minutes.

So, I am telling you right now -- RIGHT THIS FUCKING MINUTE -- to find that information NOW, and program it into your phone and into the phone of your spouse and children. It could quite literally make the difference between life and death -- and if you are anything like us, the thought of our life without these two babies is absolutely unimaginable. I am looking out my back window even as I type this, and see about 5 bastard bees buzzing about -- and it's making me want to go out there and beat some SERIOUS bee ass. Fuckers. Forget their awesome, vital purpose in the natural world and my endless obsession with their history, myth, and archetypical allusions in both literature and art. BEES CAN SUCK IT.

Our little family -- and especially Miss Pearl -- thank you for all your love...and send it right back to you in droves. xoxo

miss vicki

If the positively stunning Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Robinson and Joan Jett had a baby -- and employed Patti Smith as their nanny and Gertrude Stein as their wetnurse -- Miss Vicki Abelson would be that esteemed offspring.

She is like a walking, talking, living, breathing, belly laughing reincarnation of those women who, 100 years ago, boldly threw open the doors of their homes, flats, apartments, barns, and bookstores to others just like them – others who craved the passion and communion of THE WORD. Yes, that’s it. Vicki Abelson is like a HOT Mabel Dodge for The New Millennium.

She is that rare breed of woman who is fierce AND talented AND generous of self – a GENUINE triple-threat -- which sometimes makes me want to kick her right in the gottdamned taco. But, I can’t. I just can’t. I adore her far too much. She is the gorgeous, cool, older teenage sister that I never had, but always wanted -- the one who would secretly take me to buy my first tube of scarlet lipstick, my first box of Tampax, and my first package of birth control pills, and then later teach me how to lie on the bed to zip up my skin-tight Chemin de Fer jeans, French inhale a cigarette, and fetchingly toss my hair just right as I fiercely talked politics, poetry, and rock and roll with the big boys -- but yet the same big sister who also stuck copies of Vonnegut, Plath, Fitzgerald, Rimbaud, and Steinem into my hands, with the booming command, “READ THIS.”

As you’ve probably heard and read in publications such as The Los Angeles Times and LA Weekly, an invitation to her literary salon, Women Who Write, is a seriously hot ticket, one for which I had to inquire, tap-dance, cajole, and harass. I think she finally said yes just to shut my fatass up.

Walking into her living room in Montrose for the first time, I felt like I could scarcely breathe. Women, women, everywhere – powerful, intelligent, creative women, all brought together by Vicki, every single one of us poised on the verge of ANYTHING and EVERYTHING.

The ideas fly, words are read, books are born, alliances created, friendships forged. The inspiration, support, and enthusiasm she possesses and freely gives verily sparks from her – and those sparks are contagious, highly-flammable, and have lit many a fire under many an ass. As a writer, I can think of no better gift to receive than this: A seriously hot ass…from the SERIOUSLY hot ass of Miss Vicki Abelson.

So, thank you for all that you do, Miss Vicki. You are a wonder -- and one hell of a broad.

truth. mein.

It's ALL GOOD, Mein Poppets. This, too, shall pass. I am alive and I am PRESENT -- and, like you, I shimmer like a thousand newborn suns -- and as long as those three elements don't change...the forces of darkness can FUCK OFF. MY HAPPY FATASS IS GONNA DANCE.

"Right here, right now, there is no other place I want to be. Right here, right now, watching the world wake up from history."

vote

Christ, I cannot wait to get my fatass into that voting booth today. The faster I get in there and vote progressively all the the way down the fucking line, the faster the election returns will come in, the faster the Republicans will win back the House, THE FASTER WE CAN GET BACK TO BLAMING THE COCKSUCKING PARTY OF GEORGE W. BUSH FOR THE GODDAMNED MESS THE ECONOMY IS IN. Hey, and why the hell not? It's what they did to us.

Yes, my friends, it's time to tear down that BITCH of a bearing wall and put a window where it OUGHT to be!

GODSPEED, MOTHERFUCKERS.

belly

Before you watch this video, I need to take a moment to break something down for you. I know and work with some of the funniest goddamned people on the planet -- people who buy their Twinkies, pay their hookers, and meet their mortgages by being funny. I KNOW funny. I am soaking in it.

With that said...I HAVE NEVER LAUGHED THIS HARD IN MY ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE.

buzz

Yesterday, whilst flying down a wide-open LA freeway on the most exquisitely beautiful day of the year, the stereo cranked to 11, it fucking hit me.

The very best way to explain what an orgasm feels like to someone who has never experienced one: It feels like the song, "Vasoline" by Stone Temple Pilots.

miss jackie beat

This weekend, the Los Angeles Times did a major style piece on the magnificent hilltop lair of my Souplantation lunch date and the delightful Auntie Mame to my chihuahuas -- Frances and Pearl -- Miss Jackie Beat.

So, click on inside and venture through the many wondrous rooms, filled with devastating style and ferocious taste, unequaled by anything you've ever seen. The trinkets and treasures go on for FOREVER and whenever I visit, I always remember to take along my biggest handbag so's I can covertly cram as much inside as humanly possible -- though it must be said that I do smuggle the smaller bric-a-brac out in more covert, creative ways...but of that, human decency, dignity, and decorum prevent me from saying more.

So, Brava to you, Miss Beat! It looks FABULOUSLY POSH! Good god, but that's a WHOLE LOTTA hit songs, handjobs and hairspray -- and I don't know of any broad who deserves it more than you. You are a wonder.

I love you! Congratulations on your LEGENDARY SPREAD -- oh, and on the LA times piece, as well.

The bitch has got STYLE.

true colors.

I haven't yet posted word one on all the recent suicides of young, gay men in this country -- but you all already know how I feel. It would be an absolute understatement to say that gay men have saved my life in all the ways that a life CAN be saved.

Aside from my husband and our children, the most profoundly important people in my world are the magnificent gay men that surround me at all times. They are my friends, they are my confidantes, they are my fashion advisers, they are my creative partners, they are my lunch dates, they are my therapists, they are my sisters, they are my audience, they are my show, they are my champions, they are my heart.

We are a huge, raging, messy, magical, hilarious, dysfunctional, fierce, loving, loyal, luminescent family of writers, artists, performers, oddballs, and misfits...the people who spent their earlier lives always on the outside, existing there for what seemed like forever, our noses pressed longingly against the glass of acceptance and inclusion -- while we waited for an invitation inside that never came. Eventually, we looked around and noticed that all the other scalliwags steaming up the window were FAR MORE INTERESTING than the boring, beige, ordinary bastards on the other side.

And so, there on the outside, we began to dance. And laugh. And rouge our cheeks. And paint our faces. And drape ourselves in glorious fabrics. And SING. And our song was so strong and so powerful and so alluring that we long ago lost interest in being let inside...and we created our own fucking party, our own Movable Feast.

So, if I could say something, anything, to all these young men and women who are taking their own lives because they are different and being bullied because of it, I would say this:

This magnificent party of which I speak? It is FOR YOU. It is YOUR party. YOU ARE OUR SPECIAL GUEST...and we are waiting for you -- just like those who came before, were waiting for us.

We need your voice.

We need your vision.

We need your talent.

We need your spirit.

We need your heart.

We need your fight.

We need your song.

We need YOU.

This sweet, powerful song below is from The Gay Men's Chorus of Los Angeles, of which one of my dearest friends -- Todd Stites -- is a longtime member (you can see his adorable, boyish face at 1:19). These are the faces of the people who exist with me on the outside of the glass -- THE OTHERS -- and our side is so much more beautiful, so much more interesting, so much more welcoming, so much more loving than you could ever imagine -- but, goddamnit, you just gotta trust us and stick around long enough to find out.

There is a time to dance -- oh, and trust me, you WILL FUCKING DANCE. With us. With all of us. The music may sound faint to you now, and you may not yet know the words, but you will. Just follow the music.

We're all waiting for you.

I See Your True Colors.

truth. mine.

To My Three Beautiful Babies: If you have a dream, don't let ANYONE or ANYTHING stop you from making it come true. People are threatened by excellence and will attempt to thwart you on your journey, by whatever small or petty means possible -- by trying to undermine you or even by laying claim to you and all that you've done. Just toss them a DAZZLING smile, throw your head back, and BELLY LAUGH in their motherfucking faces -- and push onward toward your destiny.

aubergine bagina

Wait a minute. YOU GOTTA BE FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS. Are you seriously telling me that [insert famous film and television actress' name here] HAS A PORT WINE STAIN ON HER VAGINA?

God, I love my indiscreet friends.

w/bff

Despite the fact that he was hideous, reprehensible, and shamelessly malfeasant during his two terms as president, of the following I have very little doubt: That it would be a goddamned blast to hang with George W. Bush for a lost weekend. I'd seriously like to party with THAT cowboy. I think he's a shitkicker, a BELLY LAUGHER, and just plain doesn't give a shit. I honestly think he and I would be the best of friends.

Once a Jackal...ALWAYS a Jackal.

truth. mine -- and my friends'.

To all those judgmental bastards who are contemptuous and disdainful of my friends, i.e., the queers, queens, artists, painters, cartoonists, writers, singers, musicians, film makers, actors, dancers, fashion designers, game designers, producers, publishers, hookers, et al...I say this:

Disapprove all you want, motherfuckers, because my degenerate ilk HAS always and WILL always have the last laugh. Tell me...just who do you think creates all the culture that your children hungrily consume? And who, consequently, do you think ponies up the simolians to pay for it?

Yeah. FUCK OFF, LADY...and thanks for the money.

"i'm sorry i didn't build you a better boat, young jackie..."

My awesome friend, Drag Superstar Miss Jackie Beat, is currently performing on a gay cruise somewhere in the Pacific...and when she left, I posted the following on her Facebook wall:

"Honey, when that fucking garbage scow starts to go under and Captain Stubing announces that they are loading the lifeboats -- starting with WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST -- bitch...just straighten that wig, check that lipstick, tuck it back, and WERK!"

truth. gilda's.

"I think dogs are the most amazing creatures; they give unconditional love. For me they are the role model for being alive." -- Gilda Radner

join me, won't you?

Muffy Bolding is takin' a SLOW BOAT TO CAYUCOS.

truth. roseanne's. and now mine, too.

If I were ever asked to come up with a single-line manifesto for how it is that I choose to live my life...this would be it. This brilliant, ballsy, extraordinary, self-created broad is an absolute inspiration to me, and I hope to be lucky enough to someday work with her:

"The thing women have yet to learn is nobody gives you power. You just take it." -- Roseanne Barr

truth. emo's.

As I sit here in my favorite Target schmata, guzzling a cup of TRULY amazing coffee on this gloriously wet and gloomy Sunday morning -- Gregory and the beloved pups still asleep on the bed beside me -- I am reminded of a quote from the BRILLIANT Emo Phillips that makes me belly laugh every goddamned time:

"A Mormon told me that they don't drink coffee. I said, 'A cup of coffee every day gives you wonderful benefits.' He said, 'Like what?' I said, 'Well, it keeps you from being Mormon...'"

truth. artie's.

"I called to the executioners that I might gnaw their rifle-butts while dying." -- Arthur Rimbaud

muffy and mikie sittin' in a tree

I'm madly in love with Michael Gross. There, I said it, motherfuckers. Oh...and I also said "motherfuckers" -- which, apparently, he finds endlessly amusing...which further means that I shall sashay about shouting it from the rooftops of the world until the end of time just to make him laugh.

Oh, wait...I do that NOW. Nevermind.

He is a Mensch, a King Raconteur, a darling man, and now, a precious friend.

My luck is without end.

papa DOUCHE

FUCK Ernest Hemingway. I hate him SO goddamned much for how he treated Scott Fitzgerald. He was such a smug, cruel, sadistic, histrionic, LATENT fucking meathook, that to this day, I can't read his work without becoming highly hostile. Yeah...I know that this is bidness, but I don't give a shit about propriety. For me, this is PERSONAL.

PAPA CAN SUCK MY DICK.

frau harshman

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l'chaim

Sometimes when I am watching a movie -- I not only hear the dialogue as it being spoken...but I also see the dialogue as it is written on the page, complete with direction. Occupational hazard, I suppose -- but trust me, WELL WORTH THE GOTTDAMNED MERRIMENT AND ADVENTURE I AM FORTUNATE ENOUGH TO EXPERIENCE EVERY MOTHERLOVING DAY OF MY LIFE.

truth. mine.

Muff Fact #72: I NEVER, EVER write better...than while I am knitting.

15 in 15 (frogged from facebook)

The Rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen authors (poets included) who've influenced you and that will always stick with you. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than fifteen minutes. Tag at least fifteen friends, including me, because I'm interested in seeing what authors my friends choose. (To do this, go to your Notes tab on your profile page, paste rules in a new note, cast your fifteen picks, and tag people in the note.)

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. Alexander Woollcott

10. George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart

11. Truman Capote

12. W.S. Merwin

13. Mark Twain

14. Pablo Neruda

15. Judy Blume

I ain't taggin' a GOTTdamned thing. Do it if you want to -- and if not...FUCK OFF, LADY.

viva chile!

Goddamn, I am saying fervent prayers of hope and gratitude for those 33 Chilean miners and their families -- as well as thanks that it's not ME down there as, a) I'm claustrophobic like a motherfucker, b) I would never last that long without a babywipe on my bunghole, and c) I'M FAR TOO FAT TO FIT IN THAT AWESOME, RETRO, MID-CENTURY MODERN, TOMORROWLAND RESCUE CAPSULE.

Viva Chile!

...'cuz you're playin' with fire

I LOVE IT when skinny little cookie-cutter hipster kids sneer "Breeder" at me under their breath when they find themselves in line behind me and my perilously overflowing cart at Trader Joe's...with their lone tub of tahini and bottle of Two Buck Chuck. After I check out and load up all the yummy grub that will feed my fab, rambling brood, I like to turn, flash them a DEVASTATING smile, blow them a kiss, grab my vagina, and exclaim, "SUCK MY DICK, SKINNY LITTLE COOKIE-CUTTER HIPSTER KIDS!"


Think I don't?

say it ain't so, mo

I feel like I've been eaten by a wolf and shit off a cliff.

Where is your god now, Moses?

the axe

I was recently asked, "What is the #1 reason you would defriend someone on Facebook?"

My answer:

Goddamnit, I verily LIVE to hear about all my friends' latest interesting projects, shindigs, happenings, adventures, incarnations, love affairs, and skullduggery -- it is what makes Facebook such a glorious, reciprocal, creative place to hang out and fuck around. It is the ULTIMATE worldwide water cooler!

HOWEVER...with that said, I suspect that most people will agree with me when I say that wearing out one's welcome with constant, annoying, repetitive, relentless, thrice-hourly promotions of your band, your book, your zine, your show, your miracle multi-level-marketing Andalusian Goat Load elixir, your organic Asshole Bleaching bidness, your "1001 Placenta Polenta Recipes" cooking blog, your Squat-Hop-in-the-Asparagus-Patch Vaginal Jazzercise modern dance classes, or your feminist "Menstrual Blood Warpaint Workshop" -- with SCARCELY ANYTHING ELSE of interest posted from you -- will get your fatass "hidden" on my wall feed quicker than the shameless dropping of my granny panties in the presence of one starkers Clive Owen -- and you'll never even know that I feel nothing but contempt and disdain for you. It'll just be my little secret.

However, if you truly wish to make the leap from merely annoying me to PISSING MY FATASS OFF, here's how you do it: being consistently rude, discourteous, insulting, and aggressive towards my other Facebook friends in my comments -- I am talking people that you don't know, nor have any affection or loyalty towards -- when they have done nothing to warrant such treatment from you. This unacceptable, inexcusable behavior will initially get you a couple of friendly warnings from me about the rules in my clubhouse. If you continue, you will be unfriended YESTERDAY. No discussion, no explanation, no nothing. After that, no matter how much you may beg, plead, or attempt to explain yourself and your bad form and poor manners, you will simply cease to exist for me. The way I look at it is, YOU GOT WHAT YOU APPARENTLY WANTED AND WORKED SO FUCKING HARD TO GET. You earned it. Congratulations...and goodbye.

Discourse, passion, joviality, debate? ALL GOOD, and I encourage it wholeheartedly -- just don't cross the fucking line. You wanna swagger, strut, spar, and show everyone how big your comedy dick is? YOU DO IT WITH ME, bitches, not my komrades.

In other words, I am the nicest, warmest, most welcoming person in the world...but do NOT fuck with my friends -- friends who, for the most part, have the vicious, biting wit and devastating verbal acumen to destroy you in two sentences or less all on their own...but that's beside the point. Just do me a fat fucking favor and don't come over to my Tupperware party, squat, and take a big, steaming dump in the middle of my shag rug all because mommy didn't hug you enough and daddy hugged you TOO MUCH. Do that at your own place, motherfucker...lest I be forced to UNLEASH THE KRAKEN.

Ultimately, if I learned one thing growing up in a family of scoundrels, criminals, shitkickers, and thieves, it is this: Discord is a bitch -- and it isn't even any fun...and let's face it, that's all I really care about on Facebook: Having fun. If you disagree, then I'm sorry...but, FUCK OFF, LADY.

So, you see, it really is SO simple, kids. JUST PLAY NICE over there and Mama will be happy -- and when Mama's happy, EVERYBODY'S happy...and we'll all be the best of friends. Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning!

That is all.

fever

This raging, relentless fever is making me feel wistful for places I've never been and people I've never met.

Tell me true: Is this longing? Or regret?

oh, dhani boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling...

After George Harrison's death on 29 November 2001, his son, Dhani Harrison, in collaboration with Jeff Lynne, completed George's final album, Brainwashed, which was released in 2002. He participated in the Concert for George on the first anniversary of his father's death. The concert was organized by Eric Clapton and featured some of George's friends and collaborators, including Eric Clapton, Billy Preston, Ravi Shankar, Jeff Lynne, Tom Petty, Ringo Starr, and Paul McCartney. Dhani Harrison played backup acoustic guitar for most of the concert.

So uncanny is his resemblance to his dead father, that, during the show, a stunned McCartney turned to Dhani and told him, "You look more like George Harrison than George Harrison looked like George Harrison."

Then later, just before the finale, McCartney relayed to the audience, "Olivia [George's widow] said that with Dhani up on stage, it looks like George stayed young...and we all got old."

Dhani Harrison:

funny...you don't LOOK flu-ish

A few potentially psychotic and disdain-inducing health-related questions for my clever, clever friends:

1) Alright...so tell me true: Is the flu utter and complete horseshit -- or does it truly exist?

2) What the fuck IS the flu? What are its symptoms and have you ever had it? How bad was it? How bad can it actually be?

3) How do you get the flu, prevent the flu, and are there, in fact, different strains and strengths of the flu -- as in, "Oh, maybe you've just got a little flu virus?" Is it even possible to have a "LITTLE flu virus"?

4) When all these people say they have the flu -- do they really and truly have the flu or are they just confused and/or misinformed and/or overreacting and/or full of shit and/or just trying to get out of work so they can stay home in their jammies, eat Pop Tarts, watch The Banana Splits, play World of Warcraft, and jerk off?

5) Did all those goddamned people really and truly die in 1918 from something that I scarcely believe even exists? Is it really that fucking bad? And further, with all the advancements in medicine and technology, and all the hygiene standards and practices we have in place today, could a flu epidemic of that magnitude still really happen in 2010?

This might all sound completely insane, so I am imploring you to please remember that it is coming from a place of delirious illness, ignorance, impatience, idiocy, intolerance, ire, AND frustration, mein poppets. I am one of those people who just simply does NOT get sick -- or to be more specific, who does not get sick with the flu or common cold. It just doesn't happen -- and yet, here I sit, mired in my very own fever, chills, malaise, and tummy trauma. OFF TRACK.

You see, when I get sick, it tends to be a major, chronic, rare, incurable, debilitating, life-altering piece-of-shit sort of disease that involves daily needles, high profile medical specialists, and Vocal Reverberation Under Spinal Pressure (you know, V.R.U.S.P?) It is simply incomprehensible to me that I might be felled by something as ordinary as the fucking flu; I am used to much fiercer, more formidable opponents than this, goddamnit.

So, yes, this little tantrum I'm throwing could very well be yet another manifestation of my self-delusional and perpetually Magical Thinking, but I find myself just utterly gobsmacked to be taken down by something as...common...as a common cold or flu -- because although I feel like complete feces at the moment, the gods usually kick my fatass FAR harder and WAY farther across the Universe than this.

Whatever.

BRING IT.

requiescat in pace, nana miller

"My, my, my...isn't THIS a festive table?" -- RIP Nancy Miller, a long-time director at the dinner theatre back home where we all got our start, all those many years ago in Fresno. The wry, talented, and quite formidable Miss Miller forced us all to BUTCH IT THE FUCK UP, just to survive that felonious city -- and for that, I thank her from the bottom of my wicked heart.

Long may your Carlton cig and cabbie hat wave, Nana Miller!

happy 120th birthday, groucho!

"You know, I don't believe in religion, or the hereafter. Not at all. I discussed the subject with Chico and Harpo a couple of years before they died. They said they'd get in touch with me if there were a hereafter. But you know what? I never heard a word. Not a goddamn word."-- Julius Henry "Groucho" Marx

october

Judging by the legions of friends posting of their undying affection for the tenth month in their Facebook status updates today, apparently I am not alone in my rapture and exaltation at the arrival of October, the most magnificent month of them all.

With October comes the beginning of the cold, the grey, the wind, the mysteries, the spirits, the shadows, the spectres...the dark. This is the time of year when we latch the shutters and light the fires. It is the time when we turn inward, dig deep, re-evaluate our lives, and celebrate the lives of those who have preceded us into history.

For me, it is a month to honor my feminine ancestors and to acknowledge all that has been passed to me and through me. A lot of ballsy broads had to risk an AWFUL LOT all so that I might live deliberately, fully, and with no fear...in complete control of my own destiny and free from the subjugation of ANY MAN. This is the time of year when I light candles to those women, thank them with all my heart, and promise them that I, too, will be mindful and vigilant of the young women and girls who will come after me. This time of year I like to rededicate myself to the feminine moon who is always there to light my way through the dark, should I ever call upon her to do so.

But, come every October, most importantly of all (well, according to an adorable, scratchy-voiced three year old Baby Goat, anyway), "I LIKE TO KEEP IT REAL SPOOKY."

So, kill the lights, bitches -- and BRING ON THE DARKNESS.

demolition derby, 2010, l.a. county fair

Yep. The "Sweet Spot" at the intersection of T.S. Eliot, Sophie Tucker, and Junior Samples.

That'd be me.

"oh, sammy!"

Someone wrote and asked me for my top ten favorite television characters of all time -- and you know me, goddamnit...I aim to please, live to knit, and love to schtupp -- though, what that has to do with beloved tv characters in ANY WAY is beyond me. Better push on.

At any rate, here they are...in no particular order:


Titus Pullo from HBO's Rome

Andy Botwin from Weeds

Gomez Addams from The Addams Family

Beavis from Beavis and Butthead

Uncle Arthur from Bewitched

Jane Tennison from Prime Suspect

Neil Pye from The Young Ones

Atia of The Julii from HBO's Rome

Maggie Jacobs from Extras

Eric Cartman from South Park

big wig, bigger heart

And speaking about My Beloveds...you need to read this fabulous interview with one of my bestest girlfriends and Souplantation scarfing partners...Drag Superstar, Writer, and Dog Lover, Miss Jackie Beat, who, trust me, is every bit as beautiful inside as she is out. She's also a complete cunt, but of that, I shall speak no more...today.

Love you, Miss Jackie!

my roots are showing

For a trashy, working class girl from Fresno, there is NOTHING better than scarfing a mustard-slathered corndog, knitting up a storm, and enjoying an AWESOME evening of demolition derby with your beloved friends -- C.J. Arabia and Mather Zickel...and your beloved, Gregory Babior -- at The MIGHTY Los Angeles County Fair...which is precisely where my fatass is headed.

ALL HAIL THE MALACHI CRUNCH, bitches!

dream jobs!

Just got axed, "What's your Dream Job?": I have two! Tweedy, eccentric professor of European History at some awesome Medieval university located someplace cold, blustery, rainy, and grey...OR, one of those tour girls on the Storybook Land Canal Boats at Disneyland who wear rick-racky lederhosen jumpers and knee socks, and always sound like they have a stuffy nose as they tell you all about the London park where Peter Pan taught Wendy, Michael, and John to fly!

miss vicki

The gorgeous writer, rocker, and raconteur, Miss Vicki Abelson, hosts (quite LITERALLY hosts...as in "in her GOTTDAMNED LIVING ROOM") the hottest monthly literary salon in Los Angeles, and my fatass is lucky enough to have wrangled a highly-prized invite for today's mighty assemblage. I am a HUGE fan of Miss Vicki -- she is one amazing broad -- and she inspires me NO END with her unfailing support of West Coast writers. I am putting on scarlet lipstick, bringing along a huge, heapin' helpin' of my infamous Aztec Salad for treats, and might even pluck my chin beforehand in a feckless attempt to impress her. Fancy!

23

23 Things That Changed My Life: Knitting, Gay Men, Coco Chanel, My Babies, Anne Sexton, What's Up, Doc?, William Butler, The Cedars-Sinai Rheumatology Dept., Fresno, Miss Bonnie Hearn, Valley of the Dolls, Los Angeles, Phyllis Diller, Dogs, 100% Cotton Granny Panties, My sister Jennifer, Baby Wipes, Judy Garland, Breast Reduction Surgery, Madeline Kahn, My One True Love Gregory, Red MAC Lipstick, The Wife of Bath.

truth. the marquis'.

"The assumption that I agreed by mere birth to your so called 'social contract' and to your entire body of ancient and useless laws designed primarily to deform my character and limit the possibilities inherent to my essential being is an obscenity and an absurdity, Sir!" -- Marquis Donatien De Sade 

pose

Did you know that "Yoga" is the Sanskrit word for, "I can smell my own vagina"?

truth. maya's.

"Don't make money your goal. Instead, pursue the things you love doing, and do them so well that people can't take their eyes off you. All the other tangible rewards will come as a result." -- Miss Maya Angelou

zooey kate and katy olsen

Fuck it. I give up. No matter how much or how hard I study, I CANNOT for the life of me tell Zooey Deschanel and Katy Perry apart. Has anybody DNA-tested these bitches? This is a goddamned OUTRAGE.

shitstorm!

If you enjoy TALKING SHIT -- and frankly, if you are one of MY degenerate friends, how on earth could you NOT? -- then you need to get your fine ass on over to Casita del Campo in Silver Lake tomorrow night and buy tickets to see my amazingly talented friends turn themselves inside out for your entertainment (and I mea...n that QUITE LITERALLY) in the one-night-only show, SHITSTORM!

Hear Drag Superstar Miss Jackie Beat, Miss Selene Luna, Mr. Billy Butler, and others tell you their hilarious, humiliating stories of self-defecation, i.e., THE HORRIFYING TIMES THEY EACH SHIT THEIR PANTS IN A PUBLIC PLACE. Miss Beat will be performing some SHITTY songs and there will also be awesome SHIT TALK VIDEOS by the delightful Miss Margaret Cho and Miss Sherry Vine!

As I have always said, FECES IS THE GREAT EQUALIZER...it's what we ALL have in common and it dudn't care if you are rich or poor, black or white, Jewish or Muslim, fat or skinny. When you got a happy crap on deck, my friends, WE ARE ALL THE SAME.

So, pull your thumb outta your butt -- unless it's corkin' the dyke, that is -- and come see the show! There are only a few tickets left! Come early and enjoy a DELICIOUS Mexican meal, some hot SALZA, some cool Don Julio and maybe even create some SHIT STORIES OF YOUR VERY OWN! Oh, and for the love of christ, don't forget your baby wipes!

though she clearly, at some point, ran outta yarn

"Knitting is the saving of life." -- Virginia Woolf

boy

I am blissfully sitting at a salon...watching my gorgeously eccentric, intellectual, 16 year old son, Otis, get his hair cut into a Mohawk. There's not a single, solitary moment of my life that doesn't rock. Even when it gets hard or complicated or painful...it's still lovely beyond words.

truth. MINE.

"Dogs’ lives are too short. Their only fault, really." – Agnes Sligh Turnbull

with a fucking bullet

The title of the first #1 single from my new band, "Fatter Than Gladys": Jackie Beat Can't Hold Her Mud."

sip this. bitches

Don't know much about history. Don't know much biology. Don't know much about a science book. Don't know much about the French I took. I don't know much, but I DO know this: I'd rather be a Socialist than a Fascist. If given the choice to err on either the side of ineptitude or the side of malfeasance -- I'll take ineptitude EVERY GODDAMNED TIME. And you can pack that in your ass, steep it, and suck it, motherfuckers.

we got the beat

Muffy Bolding Chola Moment of the Day: Today at Target, I actually got into a FULL ON girl skirmish/bitch fisticuff with Miss Jackie Beat...OVER A DRESS WE BOTH WANTED. Shit, Homes...I took off my hoops, put the baby in the stroller, handed my Bud Light to Junior and Lil' Tiger, and proceeded to rechristen that pinche puta as Jackie BeatDOWN. I got a fistful of that bitch's tired weave...and she got the dress. GOOD TRADE.

the bliss that is this

A meaningful little message to all the tiresome, uninteresting misanthropes, pricks, and infernal whiners in the world: "Why don't you knock it off with them negative waves? Why don't you dig how beautiful it is out here? Why don't you say something righteous and hopeful for a change?" -- The Righteous, Hopeful, and COMPLETELY ON TRACK Oddball, Kelly's Heroes, 1970

skin. mine.

Today, a friend gave me a lovely and most unexpected compliment about the luminosity of my skin -- and asked me to give up my beauty secrets as to how I maintain its peachy, healthy glow. Well, Miss Holly, here is my special, medical-grade, triple-top-secret skincare regime:

1) I wash my face with whatever fucking bar soap happens to be in the shower -- Ivory, Dove, Coast, Trader Joe's honey/oatmeal...whatever. Anything and everything except, of course, Dial...which, as every self-respecting woman knows, gives you The Tuna Rot something fierce.

2) Other than my single tube of red MAC lipstick (literally, the ONLY item of makeup I own or ever buy), I ONLY wear makeup if I am being paid to do so. I fucking LOATHE the feel of it on my skin.

3) I drink as much hot coffee and iced tea as humanly possible, also enjoying the occasional cigarette and tight whack of Thorazine in my ass, as needed.

4) As the light is much better there, I regularly sit out in the car and pluck the hairs from my chinny-chin-chin -- a small price to pay, as far as I am concerned, for the AWESOMENESS that is being of Sicilian criminal trash descent.

5) I am not wholly adverse to taking a well-placed, authoritative load to the face on birthdays, anniversaries, or the Jewish High Holy Days. Shana Tova!

gym de la giove

"I'm too fat to live in a castle." -- In 2009, I breathlessly and shamelessly announced this to an entire room of film colleagues and friends, after walking up a particularly lengthy and steep set of stairs in the STUNNING 900 year old Italian castle of awesome movie producer Charles Band. After just three days of this cold, stone conditioning, I no longer struggled...and my GUNT was visibly smaller.

ALL HAIL, CASTLE GIOVE!

"nobody loves a fat girl, but oh how a fat girl can love"

“From birth to 18, a girl needs good parents. From 18 to 35, she needs good looks. From 35 to 55, good personality. From 55 on, she needs good cash. I'm saving my money.” -- Miss Sophie Tucker (Who was, for the record, one of my most powerful and profound influences and inspirations. Sophie was SOME BROAD.)

crazy from the heat

Last week was blustery, cold, and delightfully grey -- and I was BESIDE MYSELF with glee. I was writing and knitting like a madwoman and reveling in both my element and the earth's eternal promise of the chill, dark days to come. Today, as I sit here watching the temperature inexplicably rise ever closer to the century mark...it is literally making me SUICIDAL. Nature? She is a whore -- but then again, WHO ISN'T AFTER A FEW DRINKS?

truth. mine and davy's.

“A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person.” -- Dave Barry

(By the way...if you ever want to see my fatass UNLEASH THE FUCKING KRAKEN -- just treat a wait person poorly or with disdain in front of me to make yourself look like a hotshot...and see what fucking happens, my friend. MAMA DON'T PLAY.)

truth. larry's.

"It's only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdry that you can get tenderness." -- Lawrence Durrell

incontrovertible science and stuff

Muffy's Scandalous Science Sunday: According to rigorous experimentation using the Scientific Method, these two facts we know to be empirically and categorically true: 1) One cannot possibly sneeze with one's eyes open...and 2) One cannot possibly floss one's teeth without smelling the floss. Shantih, Shantih, Shantih...and Amen.

se7en

From Miss Jackie Beat: Post 7 completely random, unrelated things that you LOVE!

Here are mine: Roman Centurion Titus Pullo of the MIGHTY XXIV; Noro Japanese yarn; "The Wife of Bath"; the Frito smell of my chihuahuas' paws; the soy sauce smell of my husband's paws; the shimmery, silvery sound of George Harrison's Rickenbacker guitar on the first breathtaking, earthshattering chord of "A Hard Day's Night"; the superlative poetry of Miss Anne Sexton.