Thursday, January 28, 2010

bucket list!

Muffy Bucket List Item #2710: To give a handjob using the same hand on which is prominently displayed an official "My Heart Belongs to Jesus" Purity Ring -- and to anonymously post pictures of said hand on hardcore porn forums all over the internets. Lemme tell you something, my friends...if one of my kids ever came to me and told me they wanted to marry someone they'd never slept with -- I'd kill them myself.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

pharamceutical fruitbasket

Sometimes you just gotta delight in the little things -- like the auspicious pattern in which your morning meds and vitamin supplements spill out into your meathook, an awesome gift from the gods.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

activist bastards

I love it that the most sinister bastard of them all -- that Opus Dei piece-of-shit Scalia -- is making like a satanic priest in a Renaissance painting with the cryptic hand symbology...slyly alerting us to which realm he truly serves: The Underworld. God, I hate that guy.


What a coincidence -- the same five soulless, mindless, malfeasant shitheads who anointed George W. Bush as president thought this would be an awesome idea. Tell me, where is the conservative, batshit crazy Patriotic Tea Party outrage over this corporate gang-bang of Lady Liberty, motherfuckers?

Iraq can kiss my fatass.... What we need in this country is a good ol' fashioned CIVIL WAR, my friends -- those who think that Sarah Palin would make a fine president...against those who wouldn't fuck her with Pat Robertson's dick.

You know which side I'm on.

Friday, January 22, 2010

requiescat in pace

Hands down, the best and wisest advice I ever got was from my fabulous, scandalous Sicilian granny, Rose: "Honey, go and sit in the car when you pluck your chin; the light is better out there."



A really marvelous, interesting, and inspiring piece on where the music industry is headed -- BACK INTO THE HANDS OF THE MUSICIANS, motherfuckers. According to the amazing Amanda Palmer of The Dresden Dolls, "Everyone has to stop thinking there is an answer. The answer is, there’s an infinite number of answers."


My passionate love affair with the Kinks continues. "Powerman" makes me moist -- perhaps because it reminds me so much of the music that my brilliant husband makes. Methinks I really do need to kiss his lippies.


Miniature knitter!


Life is FAR too short to use cheap, shitty yarn.


To all you right wing pricks whining that Obama hasn't fixed us up all nice yet:

FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOU. It took your boy, Bush, 8 years of ass-raping us with no lube to get us where we are in the first place. Give this poor bastard a chance -- he's only cleaning up Republican feces, after all. Where were all you goddamned patriots when W&Co. was parking their meat bus in your ca-ca locker for nearly a decade? FUCK OFF.


To all my crunchy, tie-dyed, big-bushed, hairy-armpitted, patchouli-reeking comrades out there -- and god knows there are many: I love you and admire your commitment to protecting the earth, but GOOD GODDAMN...all your hippie household cleaning products don't work FOR SHI-OT, and for god's sake let's not pretend they do. Tea Tree oil can kiss my fatass -- I need some ol' school Clorox bleach up in this motherfucker.


I fall in love with the heads of dead men and poets.


The only thing that could possibly make me love this video anymore than I do is if my darling niece and nephew were in it.


They are.

Hipster 101

Buttons strung across your chest on the strap of your fabric DIY bag? Check.
Square, black Geek Chic spectacles? Check.
Skinny leg jeans and deck shoes? Check.
Raggedy Anne Red dye? Check.
Worn out Converse? Check.
Exposed chest on the girls? Check.
White belt? Check.
Disordered hairstyle? Check.
Conditioned facial hair? Check.
Self drawn tattoos? Check.
Vintage shoes? Check.
Elvis glasses? Check.
Conceited head tilt? Check.

"Hold your own jacket please
I'm not in the mood
Millions of trains under the ground
This city was the blueprint for hell

Passed out, sleeping at your party
Dream of leaving in the morning
You will all die in Williamsburg
Too hip to even clean your nose out
Your grave is pulling at your pants now
You will all die in Williamsburg

Bored again
Watching the rats
Eat all your food
At least you'll be used to
The place you'll be soon
This city was the blueprint for hell

Passed out, sleeping at your party
Dream of leaving in the morning
You will all die in Williamsburg
Too hip to even clean your nose out
Your grave is pulling at your pants now
You will all die in Williamsburg

Do you know how obvious you are?
You were born in New Hampshire but you say you're from the O.C.
Brooklyn's a death bed
For clones of the same kid
Stuck in the party
That was lame to begin with
Yeah, yeah lame to begin with

At least you'll be used to
The place you'll be
This city was the blueprint for hell

Passed out, sleeping at your party
Dream of leaving in the morning
You will all die in Williamsburg
Too hip to even clean your nose out
Your grave is pulling at your pants now
You will all die in Williamsburg."

Fuck Williamsburg.

Annoying Silver Lake hipsters REPRESENT.


“As I get older, I just prefer to knit.” -- Tracey Ullman


My problem with the dethroned Miss California, Carrie Prejean, is not that she's a whore -- ALL OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE SHAMELESS WHORES, MYSELF INCLUDED. My problem with her is that she's a phony, sanctimonious, self-righteous, fascist, ignorant, intolerant prick.

The real problem with broads like Prejean and all her horseshit conservative christian ilk is that they fail to realize that their sinful whoring IS THE MOST INTERESTING THING ABOUT THEM.


"Festive Nephew" is the name of my new band.

MAC, betch

My talented and hilarious teenage nephew, Alex, is, in fact, SO FESTIVE that one day about 12 years ago I patted him down at the door after a visit at my house AND FOUND THREE OF MY MAC EYESHADOWS AND A NICKED CRIMSON LIPSTICK STOWED IN HIS GODDAMNED DIAPER. That's a true fucking story.

shoes, betch

My wicked funny and much-beloved teenage nephew, Alex, is, in fact, SO FESTIVE, that the same Christmas his cousins, Julian, Hunter, and Chase, asked for Gameboys and Star Wars Legos sets, Alex asked for Jimmy Choo pumps and a motherfucking Bumpit. That's a true goddamned story.

bite me

I think that Beverly D'Angelo has the sexiest overbite on the planet and if I ever made the decision to chase dames, she would be my number one with a magic bullet.


Because she is so extraordinarily intelligent, well-spoken, and liberated, it makes me suspect that Ann Coulter must be paid a WHOLE LOTTA SIMOLIANS BY SOMEBODY to do what she does and say what she says...BECAUSE THERE IS NO FUCKING WAY SHE CAN SERIOUSLY BELIEVE THAT HORSESHIT. I just don't buy it.


Even though she has never defended the rights -- reproductive or otherwise -- of myself, my sisters, my daughters, my girlfriends, and even the rights of her own two daughters...I will proudly stand up and defend to the death the right of Sarah Palin to control HER own destiny. Despite the massive chasm between us culturally, politically, and ideologically, I admire her ambition and her moxie. Now she just needs to pull her head out of her ass.


I write doodads...because it's a doodad kind of town.

eddie and the cruisers goes ape

Michael Pare' expertly and graciously doing the Monkeyface for me on the set of "Furnace", Old Nashville State Prison, February, 2006:

So fucking ALL.

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My name is Muffy Bolding...and I am a yarn snob.

i wanna feel you from the inside

For Mother's Day a few years ago, along with a priceless poem from my teenage son, I was gifted with two drop-dead gorgeous necklaces and a pair of earrings (all garnet -- my faviest of faves), an entire legion of my beloved ol' school Fisher-Price wooden Little People to add to my increasingly burgeoning collection (if you have any laying around the house that you wish to sell or dispose of, drop me a line!), and the following...which is just the most exquisite object I have ever seen. It occupies a place of great honor in our living room -- right on top of our old Danish Modern china cabinet that contains my also beloved collection of Pez dispensers, now about 500 strong.

She is just so cannot even imagine. I smile and marvel at her beauty every single time I pass her by...and sometimes even affectionately reach out and stroke her spleen:

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This dress exacerbates the genetic betrayal that is my legacy.


I was unexpectedly contacted last year -- via myspace, of all things -- by a charming young woman who told me she really loved my work -- particularly my poem, "Librarian." She also asked very sweetly if I had any other essays or poems of mine that I might send along to her...because she is doing her finals project on me in her English class.

Now, I'm not sure if you fully heard or understood the completely outrageous and unbelievable nature of what I just said:

She is doing her finals project on me in her English class.

For her finals project, she needs to explain the theme, purpose, structure, metaphor, word choice, rhythm, and sound devices of my writing...and its context in American culture and history.

I am the daughter of criminals, courtesans, cocksmen, and carnies. I am a high-school dropout. I come from a working class family of nine HILARIOUS children, several of whom are dead, addicted, incarcerated, or crazy. I'm a shitkicker and a thief. I like Nancy Grace, iceberg lettuce, Supercuts, and watching a really good freeway chase on tv. Every morning, I liberally mist Jean Nate bodyspray onto my pulsepoints and onto my cooter. I am from Fresno, for chrissake.

I don't think I have ever been more genuinely honored or blown-away by anything in my entire life.

ol' raspy

If history teaches us nothing else, it teaches us that Rasputin really needed to wash his ass. It also teaches us that he was hung like a Budweiser Clydesdale. He sought god, but found only Russian perma-frost peasant poon-tang -- which in some circles, I suppose, IS GOD.

too much information -- and if you don't like it...fuck off, lady

From the SWELTERING Summer of 2006:

Earlier this week I spent four fabulous days on location in Orlando, Florida on a television shoot for Disney.

First, please allow me to say that it was my very first time there and Florida is a lovely place; all green and lush and tropical. The sunset doesn't look like that in California; it was so perfect that it almost looked like a huge, fake CG sky. Unbelievably gorgeous.

However, having said that...please allow me to also say that although Gregory wasn't there with me to test it out, I can only hypothesize that the following is true:


because, let me tell you, you can take a nice, cool shower in the morning and expertly maneuver some really good Coast soap all up in that motherfucker, but five minutes after you walk out into that HIDEOUS HUMID HEAT...your muff is a SWELTERING NASTY MESS.

That's right, you heard me correctly, my friends:

Florida is The Land of The Sweaty Cooter.

Never in my entire gottdamned life have I ever experienced such an outrageous assault on my personal hygiene. Just so you know, I keep my shit all nice and trimmed up. Further, I am one of those biological mutants who NEVER sweats anywhere (aside from my upper lip and hairline) -- and yet I had to change my chonies like three times a day. I don't know how you people hang with that horseshit. I simply could not live there on the muggy fucking surface of the sun and go on about my day and then have my husband impetuously say, "Hey, baby -- let's bang around" without my first playing a quick and meaningful game of "squat-hop-in-the-asparagus-patch" with ol' Mr. Bidet.

The heat and humidity were literally appalling. My poor, dear muff...she still hasn't fully recovered.

So, thanks for the wonderfully verdant shooting location...and I take off my hat -- and my drenched granny panties -- to all you Floridians out there who are far heartier than I.

Now, please excuse me whilst I spritz some chilled Jean Nate onto my undercarriage...and execute a graceful grand plie over the gottdamned fan.

brother boy makes good

Once again...from the sweltering Summer of 2006:

The very best part of being on location (well, aside from the coke and hookers -- and snorting the coke off the asses of the hookers) is staying in luxurious hotel rooms. Ah! The room service! The thermostat cranked to 50 degrees whilst I disingenuously call down for more blankets and pillows so I can pretend it's winter! My very own bed! The absence of surly teenagers asking me for Starbucks money and a ride to Starbucks!

And so it was this trip. After a hard day at work, toiling in the heat, we would head back to the hotel rooms, put on our jammies, and get our fucking room service on: pizza, nachos, chicken strips, cheeseburgers, and on and on, ad nauseum (quite literally.) This trip, thanks to that JonBenet killer-wanna-be, we also got to do the perpetual CNN tango. Lord, I love me some vapid, endless, meaningless news updates...that contain absolutely NO NEWS! Needless to say, we were glued to the screen. Though I fervently believe that guy isn't the person who killed that poor child, I must say he is one of the ugliest bastards I have ever seen. That pasty freak looks like he was eaten by a wolf and shit off a cliff...but I digress.

On Saturday night, we locked the thermostat on ICE AGE, ordered up some grub, and dialed in The JonBenet Channel. And then, the Emmy Text Messaging began. We laid around, commiserating about our sweaty cooters, and watched the insane chief of police in Bangkok (the biggest market for kiddie poontang in the fucking world) tell us how the 38 year old John Mark Karr and 8 year old JonBenet Ramsey had been deeply in love before her tragic and untimely death (you gotta be fuckin' kidding me.)

In between completely pointless updates, we waited, with bated breath, to find out if our friend, Leslie, had won the Emmy in the category in which he was nominated: Outstanding Guest Actor in a Comedy Series for Will and Grace. He was most definitely in good company -- Jon Stewart, Patrick Stewart, Martin Sheen, and Alec Baldwin -- but we kept the faith. When we finally got the call (or the text, rather) that he had, in fact, won, it was absolute and total bedlam in rooms 4614 and 4616. A cantankerous 300 year old security guard even had to come and beat on our door to tell us to shut the fuck up.

Leslie, you old hooker -- we love you.

Another of our Jackal bretheren has nabbed a statue -- and we couldn't be prouder.

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ps) Unfortunately, the coke and hookers thing is a total and complete fabrication: my fatass was in my footies and in bed by 11:00. I'm a real fucking lady, I am.


Every once in awhile, the lines blur and the standard rules fall away. Race, class, economic status, athletic genius, and world renown matter not in the least -- along with the fawning adulation by annoying white pricks who, only a single generation ago, surely would've called him "boy" to his face and demanded he serve them tea in the clubhouse...instead of paying him millions of dollars to tee off in their boring, mindless, reverential tournaments. This fine and graceful athlete has shattered all preconceived notions about who belongs kickin' ass out on the green...and who belongs delivering double-highballs and finger sandwiches to complete assholes back in the dining room at the country club.

But you know...when he crashed his SUV that night in December, Tiger Woods found out that none of that really matters. The only thing ol' Tiger knows now is that if you stick your double-bogey into the birdie of a woman other than your wife and your wife finds out about it -- BE PREPARED TO HAVE A 5 IRON BROKEN OFF IN YOUR ASS, my friend.

from the archives: order up

From the sweltering Summer of 2006:

For my birthday on Monday, my friends took me to Downtown Disney in Orlando for treats and eats. The treats came first: I got a Sleeping Beauty playset (complete with The Prince, Maleficent, and all three Fairy Godmothers) and a Tinkerbell dress-up set with 6 different outfits (think Polly Pocket with pixie dust and a temper.) I could not be more pleased with my haul and cannot stop playing with all their tiny, plastic asses. When it comes to gifts, my friends are so on-track that it hurts.

Our tummies all aflutter with gastric juices, we then headed for the digestive side of the street and ended up at some marginally upscale Italian restaurant. After scouring the menu, hoping to find just a big plate of pisghetti instead of some weird, specialty concoction (when it comes to Italian, I like to keep it ol' school and ON-TRACK), I came across a seafood dish with a hilarious name that had me belly laughing OUT LOUD -- so much so that when our fabulous, raging bulldyke waitress asked for my order, I proudly announced that although I just wanted to order the spaghetti, I would henceforth be officially adopting the moniker of one of their specialty dishes as my new stripper name:

Snapper Bruschetta.

Homegirl blinked, ran a quick hand through her mullet, stared at me with HUGE eyes like she couldn't believe what I had just said, and started to BELLY GUFFAW OUT LOUD. And then, well, that was it -- it was ON.

The meal was a HOOT...The Jackals were in rare form. And afterwards, because Jimmy had covertly notified our girl that it was my birthday, she and every gottdamned waiter, bartender, busboy, and hostess in the joint marched over to our table carrying a little chocolate cake on a large white platter -- onto which had been carefully written by their in-house pastry chef: SNAPPER BRUSCHETTA. And then, in front of a full restaurant of bemused patrons, proceeded to loudly and proudly sing:

"Happy Birthday, Snapper Bruschetta...Happy Birthday....toooooooooo yooooooooooou!"

She told me afterwards, "You guys are the best table I have EVER waited on -- and none of us will ever again be able to hear someone order the Snapper Bruschetta without smirking and thinking of you."

She got a $100 tip.

I got the best birthday dinner ever.

Good trade.

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From the Muffy Bolding "Just Fucking Say What You Really Mean" Files:

In old movies, when a man and woman get back to her place and she coyly tells him to help himself to a drink while she goes and "freshens up" -- what she really means is "You start gettin' liquored up, motherfucker, while I go squat in the bathtub with some really hot water and a bar of Lux soap so's I can wash my possibilities."

with apologies to tom brinker

Once tagged by this entry, the assignment is to write a blog entry of some kind with six random facts about yourself. Then, pick six of your friends and tag them; no tag backs. This explanation should be included.

Six Facts:

(I did ten. To hell with boring convention.)

1) I come from a New York family with a pronounced carnival and vaudevillian background; oh, and a strong East Coast "family" background -- if you know what I'm saying, and I think maybe you do. Leave the gun...take the cannoli.

2) Every time I read about all the controversy that continuously swirls around this whole "pink/no pink" issue, all I can think of is: CHRIST, ANOTHER BULLSHIT BUSY-WORK FIRST-WORLD DISTRACTION. Enough already. Who really gives a fuck? Dress your kid however you want to dress them -- pink, purple, black, blue, yellow, flowing diaphanous burlap: WHATEVER -- and then just teach them that people can be whatever and whoever the fuck they want to be NO MATTER WHAT COLOR THEY ARE AND NO MATTER WHAT COLOR THEY WEAR. As a female, to have my choices limited to just pink is fucked up -- but to CHOOSE PINK IN THE FIRST PLACE JUST BECAUSE I LIKE IT, despite the fact that annoying busy-body pricks are constantly yammering in my ear that choosing pink is some raging political statement as opposed to merely an aesthetic preference, is BUTCH...and god knows, I'M BUTCH.

My two FIERCE, feminist daughters -- who are now 18 and 22 -- both LIVED for pink EVERYTHING when they were little. Hell, the older one, in between inking her arms, piercing her face, and studying to be a wardrobe designer, STILL worships at the altar of the pink and the sparkly...and I DEFY YOU to fuck with either of them, my friend. Go ahead -- though I have no idea how on earth you'll manage to eat your annual 4th of July corn on the cob WITH NO FUCKIN' TEETH.

3) After over four years of very odd but specific symptoms, I was just diagnosed three years ago with a very rare, chronic, and incurable autoimmune disease. Whatever. Fucking bring it.

4) Every night, I sleep surrounded by a king's ransom worth of fine pillows. In fact, my husband and all three of my children do, as well. I decided a long time ago -- even when I was poor, poor, poor as a churchmouse -- that soft, luxurious, high-end bedding was a necessary splurge. Even in their cribs, my babies have slept on/been surrounded by down and feather pillows and irrationally high-thread-count sheets at all times. What decadent pigs we be.

5) I am endlessly shocked that so many of the awesome, hilarious people I went to high school with back in Fresno -- who used to be TOTAL AND COMPLETE STONED, DRUNKEN, BELLY LAUGHING, HOSEBEAST FUCKPIGS and CUM-GUZZLING COCKHOLSTERS -- are now born again HARD. I mean, once you have children you gotta get your shit together, no doubt -- but, goddamnit, you don't have to lose your humor and your humanity, become a fucking Republican, worship Rush Limbaugh, get all up in a faggot's marital bidness, and defend ABSOLUTELY LUDICROUS, WORTHLESS piece of shit morons like Sarah Palin just to pay penance for the time you got caught giving Tom Brinker a handjob in your mother's station wagon behind Foster's Freeze sophomore year, bitch. Look I can totally understand needing to clean it up a bit after you have a family. I mean, despite the fact that I front otherwise, except for an ice cold Corona with lime about once a year, I pretty much quit any and all hooch back when I had my first baby some twenty years ago. The thought of that little baby girl waking up scared in the middle of the night and having her only comfort be some boozy, slurring, smoky, stinking hooker was just something that I could not abide. And I have just never really been a drug or substancey person -- mostly because I crave clarity and communion above all else. So, consequently, I probably live a FAR more righteous life than most hardcore neighbor-judging, margarita-guzzling, in-tongues-speaking, xanax-gobbling, wife-swapping, tax-cheating, pro-life-except-of-course-when-it's-my-own-precious-teenage-daughter Christians I know. How fucking HILARIOUS is that?

6) My favorite ethnic food is either Mediterranean or Vietnamese; I can never ever make up my mind. Oh, and Ethiopian. And Afghani. And corn dogs with lots of mustard eaten under the lights of a carnival midway.

7) I rarely stumble upon actors who really do it for, it is with great surprise that I find myself currently obsessed with Clive Owen. I normally go for the academic, intellectual, nebbishy type -- so the only thing I can figure is that the working class girl in me is drawn to the working class boy in him. It seems you can take the blue-collar girl out of Fresno, but you can't take the welfare cheese out of the blue-collar girl...or some such ridiculous metaphorical drivel like that. I think I'd just like to nail him.

8) And speaking of obsession, I am working on the film treatment for a true story that is so fucking ALL-talent, that I even visit it in my dreams. I can't get enough of it. It makes me breathless just to think about it -- which is pretty much all the time. How lucky I am to have a job that I love.

9) A few years ago, I banged around with my husband in the downstairs bathroom of the Seattle-Bainbridge Island Ferry whilst it was in transit across the sound. I got no shame.

10) I own legions of plain black t-shirts, as well as black dresses, jumpers, sweaters, skirts, and other assorted articles of clothing. If you peer into my closet, so much is it a vast sea of solid black...that a friend of mine actually commented that it looks like my husband is married to a nun -- at which point I just threw back my head and BELLY LAUGHED AT THE IRONY.

As for Le Tag -- do it if you wish...and if not, fuck off, lady.


Take one film -- one single film in the entire history of films -- and claim it as your own. Which film would it be? What is the one film that says the most about who you are? What you desire, what you value? What film would you most love to claim as your own?

As the medium of film is one of the greatest loves of my life, it puckers my undercarriage to think of picking just a single one as my very own...but if I must:

Oh, poop, I can't. I just can't.

But because I am such a living, breathing, sashaying contradiction-in-terms, I can absolutely do three:

The Godfather, What's Up, Doc?, and Arthur

What about you?

My husband, Gregory, is -- just like the rest of us -- smitten with the fabulous Ms. Ayun Halliday...whom he called, "An interesting combination of goofy and sexy."

And how.

"The years teach much which the days never knew." -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

1. What time did you get up this morning?
6 cockeatin' 30. I had to take the darling Beastie and her darling boyfriend to the airport for their flight to Lost Wages. <---- "Lost Wages", of course, said with a snide, hateful sneer on my face.

2. Diamonds or pearls?
BOTH, goddamnit. I'm nothing short of a dirty, plundering, acquisitive whore who enjoys nothing more than a lazy afternoon spent guzzling absinthe, stroking my crab ladder, and plucking the rings from the fingers of the dead. Not really. I was just kidding! I loathe absinthe and the entire horseshit absinthe culture. But truthfully, I like jewels and stones and beads and doo-dads and gew-gaws and shiny baubles of all kinds, though their actual monetary or cultural value means very little to me; it's their sparkle and lustre that catches my cold eye. My husband calls me a highly distractable kitty-kat in regards to such things and thinks I must've been of the race of dwarves or hobbits in my previous life. Or a pirate, even. And besides that, I positively LIVE to "clutch my pearls" and act shocked at the behavior of it would be nice to actually have something stranded and nacreous there to clutch aside from merely clavicle or a shameless chain of hickeys.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Angels and Demons. LOVED IT.

4. What is your favorite TV Show?
Antiques Roadshow (Everytime they use the word "veneer", we get to chug-a-lug! Okay, so it's probably just seltzer water we are chug-a-lugging, but whatever.)

5. What do you usually have for breakfast?
Usually just really fucking good coffee (I insist on really fucking good coffee) and sometimes some soup or a salad.

6. What is your middle name?

7. Favorite cuisines?
Afghani, Ethiopian, Mediterranean.

8. What foods do you dislike?
Very, very few -- but prominent on that list are definitely slimy fried okra, lambchops and lychee (smells entirely too much like LOAD for my liking, thank you very much.)

9. What is your favorite chip flavor?
Salt and vinegar.

10. What is your favorite CD at the moment?
An Anthology of Big Band Swing, 1930-1955. It's included in the group of music that I write to, and listening to it causes my heart to race and my to pulse quicken...and makes me feel connected to all the writers who have come and gone before me. You hear that, Mr. Benchley?

11. What kind of car are you driving?
A ruby red Honda CRV that my family and friends affectionately refers to as "The Crazy Rodent Vehicle" (CRV? Get it?) because my nickname around these parts is "Mouse". Yes, my husband and my children call me Mouse.

12. Favorite sandwich?
Reuben on rye...with horseradish. At Canter's.

13. What characteristic do you despise?
I quickly and deftly recoil in disgust from undignified personal drama in any form -- but worse than that, if you dare commit the cardinal sin of being uninteresting...fuck off, lady.

14. What is your favorite clothing?
Black dresses, cashmere sweater sets, cardigans, and homely, interesting thrift store dresses from the late 50's and early 60's -- and my ancient Bass penny loafers. Oh, and EARRINGS. Always always always with the earrings. Think demented debutante.

15. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation where would you go?
London's calling.

16. What color is your bathroom?
Oh, christ. Fuck off. Who cares. Next question.

17. Favorite brand of clothing?
I adore Brooks Brothers -- both new and thrifted. Gimme old thrashed soft pink buttondown shirts and some of them ol' time New England coats with horn-toggle closures, and I'll most likely blow you for the difference, friend. And, if listing my favorite designers counts for anything...I like Betsey Johnson, Lilly Pulitzer, Calvin Klein, and Ralph Lauren. I think I must've been a fucking preppie pilgrim DAR club-lady in another life. A really drunken, chain-smoking, foul-mouthed one with questionable moral fiber, of course. Think Anne Sexton.

18. Where would you retire?
Truth be told, even though I would giddily skip-kick the wall-plug outta my own Mother's life support system to live in London, Dublin, or Edinburgh...I'll probably end up in a cozy beach house in Malibu surrounded by grandbabies and friends -- which sounds practically perfect in every way to me. I plan on being the world's most KICKIN' granny.

19. What was your most memorable birthday?
After about the age of 13, I realized that I don't really give a rat's ass about my actual birthday (in my mind, EVERYDAY is my birthday and made to be filled with fun!) -- so I don't really have any fucking answer to that query. In other words, I need extravagant birthday festivities held in my Paris Hilton needs her pussy stretched.

20. Favorite sport to watch?
Baseball, both major and minor league; oh, and if you were wondering, I like the Yankees. I'm nothing if not an ol' school purist.

24. Goal you have for yourself?
Books, films, travel, and eternal life.

25. What are your hobbies?
Books, films, travel, and eternal life.

26. When is your Anniversary?
Bloomsday; June 16.

27. Are you a morning person or a night person?

28. What is your shoe size?
7 1/2, sometimes an 8 -- depending on how fat I am. I currently wear an 8.

29. Pets:
Am in the market for a Chihuahua I shall name "Hamish."

30. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us?
Yes. Your mother's a whore. (Then again, who isn't after a few cocktails?)

31. What did you want to be when you were little?
A hostess on The Storybook Canal Boats in Disneyland. In fact, it's still my dream -- and I'll do it, too. Think I won't?

32. What are you today?
Writer, Mother, Libertine, Tart.

33. What is your favorite candy?
Green apple Jolly Ranchers -- but thanks to a touch of the diabletes, no can do no mo.

34. What is your favorite flower?
Violets. Lovely violets.

35. What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to?
June 6th, 2006 at 6 a.m. He is risen! Oh, wait a minute. I missed it. Nevermind.

36. Anyone special in your life of the opposite sex?
My husband, son, father, Tom...and my best friend, Billy.


From the Inexplicable Life Files of Muffy P. Bolding: At the MIGHTY New York City Bust Craftacular in December, NO LESS THAN FOUR separate crafty girls approached me to tell me I look exactly like Exene Cervenka. Other than the red lipstick, the thick waist, and the ever-present cardigan, I find this comparison absolutely baffling.

ravelry revelry

To all our Knittas out there: If you are on Ravelry -- and have a knitting obsession, a foul mouth, and a scandalous soul -- please join the group founded there by myself, CJ Arabia, and Kimberly Scott -- The Vulgarian Yarn Mafia! We carry sharp, pointy sticks and are planning a hilarious, hostile takeover of the planet. Join us in our revolution, won't you?


Restauranteur Elaine Kaufman of Elaine's Restaurant in NYC, surrounded by some of her distinguished clientele from amongst the creme de la creme of the New York literati.

A friend recently told me they saw a picture of Elaine Kaufman in Vanity Fair, and that looking at it, they immediately thought of me -- me in the future. And having been obsessed, from about the 6th grade on, with Elaine's and the whole decadent, hilarious, brilliant, literary mist that swirls about the place, I must say that I was intrigued by her comparison. So, I googled Elaine -- who by all accounts has a reputation for being a well-read, whip-smart, bawdy, rollicking, belly laugher of a broad -- and sure as is DEAD-ON like looking in a mirror into the future.

Accompanying one of the pictures I found of her was an interview she did with The New York Times where, when asked how she finds the energy to keep doing it after all these years, she pursed her lips and answered, "If you slow down, you fuckin' die, honey!"

By the way, in case you hadn't already guessed it, despite her quick and erudite mind, and the esteemed company she keeps (up until his death in 2003, the writer George Plimpton was one of her closest friends and is pictured here above her right shoulder), "fuck" is apparently her favorite word, and she feels free to pepper her language with it quite liberally. If you google "Elaine Kaufman" and "fuck", the results are positively breathtaking.

There's a story about Elaine, told by New York journalist Bob Drury, that pretty much sums her up. I shall let him tell it:

And, of course, there was Elaine’s—Elaine Kaufman, she loved reporters and cops. I had met her back when I was a kid sportswriter, maybe seven or eight years earlier. A literary agent owed me 11k—a lordly sum at the time for me; even today now that I think about it—and he was hosting an afternoon party at Elaine’s for another one of his clients. When I arrived at the door he was greeting people and handed me the check. I didn’t know anybody so I slinked over to a corner of the bar and ordered a beer. When I went to pay, and the bartender told me it was an open bar, I jacked him a two-spot tip. Three or four more beers later, three or four more $2 tips later, I notice that there’s this, er, zaftig women giving me the voodoo eye from a couple of bar stools down.

I stand up and start to say, “Hi. My name is ...” and she holds a hand up and cuts me off.

"I know who the fuck you are. I saw Jay give you that check for eleven grand when you walked in and I’ve been watching you tip my bartender with every drink. My name’s Elaine, and you're welcome in my place any fuckin' time.”

It seems she and I have a lot more in common than just a hair-do, funny glasses, a zest for living, and a fondness for black dresses and smart men.


As a child, I fervently believed that Mincemeat Pie was made from mouse meat...and therefore, refused to eat it.

upon the death of the biggest, baddest mama of them all: january, 2006


Awhile ago, my son, Hunter, and his entire crew of then-11 year old skateboard buddies were lounging around my living room -- eating Hot Cheetos, drinking root beer, and watching South Park. I had an appointment and was way in the back part of the house taking a shower and getting ready to go. I was hauling fatass so as not to be late, and was distracted, so I had no idea that there was a flock of dudes with their lanky selves spread out all over my furniture.

After I pulled on my white cotton granny panties and white cotton sports bra, I realized that the black t-shirt I wanted to wear was up in the laundry room -- right off the kitchen. So, in all of my oblivious, hurried glory, I sauntered my fatass in that direction. It was only as I saw them -- and more importantly, THEY SAW ME -- that I realized the horrific truth: I was strutting practically naked past a roomful of pre-pubescent boys. In my trauma, I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I looked over at their stunned faces, cocked my head to one side, pursed my lips, put my hands on my hips, continued to strut, and shouted in a voice that was large and in charge:

"Don't look, boys, it'll turn you queer!"

Hilarious fucking line, I know.

Too bad it wasn't mine.

It was Shelley's.

As the story goes, she was shooting a film way back in the day -- after she had gained quite a bit of weight -- and was unexpectedly called to the set. She wasn't exactly dressed and ready, but being the consummate fucking professional that she was (oh, and she WAS) she ran out her dressing room door, still pushing and tucking her ample flesh into her girdle. As the story goes on -- half dressed and with titties and tummy asplay -- she passed a group of young male actors waiting for their call...and as she passed them, she shouted out that immortal line:

"Don't look, boys, it'll turn you queer!"

Goodnight, Miss Shelley. There'll never, ever be another you.

knitty, knitty

Mark your calendars, my Scandalous Knitty Exhibitionists! "World Wide Knit in Public Days 2010" are the 12th & 13th, as well as the 19th & 20th, of June. The Vulgarian Yarn Mafia Los Angeles Chapter will undoubtedly hold some sort of a gathering -- come join us if you're in town! Sharp sticks and even sharper tongues -- that's us!

on the NOT-SO-dark side


We shot the film Furnace at the spooky old Nashville State Penitentiary a few years ago, in the freezing cold dead of winter. First things first: Nashville is motherfucking COLD -- colder than a whore's heart. I had no idea, people. Even now, just remembering it, my cooter, she is shivering.

Second things second: During my big scene, my hair was in a HUGE sassy secretarial bouffant, not seen before or since with these hairs of mine. That hair was epic -- EVEN IN HELL.

And third things third: Said scene was just me and Michael Pare' from "Eddie and The Cruisers" fame. He is fucking brilliant, funny, and oh, so LOVELY. I was absolutely smitten, and remain so to this day.

During the last take, unbeknownst to everyone else on the set, the director, Billy, and I took a small liberty with the script. Originally, Michael -- who plays Detective Turner to my Polly, his secretary -- sweetly asks me, "Are you propositioning me, Polly?", and I look over the top of my glasses at him, read him, work my neck like there's no tomorrow, and respond with, "Ummm, no -- and trust me, honey...YOU COULDN'T KEEP UP."

Billy and I -- with one wicked eye on the inevitable outtakes reel -- did the last take this way instead:

Michael: "Are you propositioning me, Polly?"

Polly (patting her bouffant, throwing down her file folders, and peeling off her sensible sweater before lustily crawling over the top of the precinct desk at him): "As a matter of fact, I am, Mr. Eddie and The Fucking Cruisers. Let's get back on it!"

Needless to say, it brought down the gottdamned house -- and belly laughing louder and harder than anyone else was Mr. Michael Pare'. He's a good egg. Oh, and did I mention he's still a top shelf piece of ass?

Goddamnit, I love my job.


I am FAR less offended by Tiger Woods' OUTRAGEOUS pussyhound behavior than I am by his BELLY LAUGHABLE TASTE IN VAGINE. You'd think with all his simolians that he'd only go in for TOP SHELF COOTER. Those broads he's bangin' look like Tuesday night at Jumbo's Clown Room.

a prince

Although it's not something I am necessarily proud of, for the most part I -- along with the entire pack of treacherous, delightful Jackals of which I am a proud founding member -- am completely hideous and jaded when it comes to celebrities. An alarmingly large percentage of these so-called stars are completely NO-talent as people. Regarding the ones who are evil, annoying, uninteresting bastards, I would fucking cut their throats just as soon as look at their stretched, petulant, botulized faces. I don't play any shit. A NO-talent meathook is a NO-talent meathook. I wake up with chunks of celebrity in my fucking stool, baby.

However, every once in a while, I get the opportunity to meet one who stuns and humbles me -- and I become a babbling fool, drooling at their feet and worshipping at the altar of their brilliance. Having the chance to work with Danny Trejo on the set of Furnace a few years ago was one such moment -- and I didn't hesitate for a second to tell him so.

His story is one of the most amazing in all of show business; he was born in a really rough section of Los Angeles and was a full-on drug addict and criminal before he hit adolescence. He spent time in prison, where he excelled at boxing. After his release, he became involved in AA and ended up on a movie set to meet a friend who was also affiliated with the program. It was there the director discovered that Trejo was an astonishing boxer and asked him to coach some of the actors on the set for their scenes. He was eventually put into the film himself -- and that was just the first of many in which he has acted, including several with Quentin Tarantino. In fact, if you IMDB him, you will see that he is one of the most prolific actors working today -- he virtually travels from set to set, working and winning people over with his extraordinary kindness and professionalism. There is almost something buddha-like about him; he has THAT FACE on the outside...and inside, the heart of a gentle wiseman.

In addition to that -- he is surprisingly hilarious. One night when we were standing around freezing our asses off, waiting for the lighting guys to work their magic for the next scene, and marveling at the beauty of one of the young actors in the film, he turned to me and said, "Let me tell you something, Miss Muffy -- I never felt uglier in my life than when I found myself standing between Antonio Banderas and Johnny Depp. I just looked to my left and then looked to my right...and then raised my hands to heaven and asked god, 'What the fuck, man? What'd I ever do to you?'"

When I met him, he was as gracious, charming, and affectionate as could be -- and when I was bowing down before him, chanting that I wasn't worthy, he laughed and told me, "Shit, stand your ass up, Holmes. We're all the fuckin' same, man."

What a prince.

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the ring

At his high school graduation party, singer John Mellencamp broke up with his girlfriend so he could fuck college broads. When he asked for his class ring back, the girl was so furious that -- in front of a 100 people -- she pulled the ring off, reached up under her skirt, pushed it into her vagina, and loudly announced, "You want your ring back, motherfucker? THEN COME AND GET IT!"

According to Mellencamp, some 40 years later, she still has it.

paradise loft

When I first met my husband, he was living with his brilliant and gorgeous girlfriend, Marla, in a loft in an old converted brewery in downtown Los Angeles. This place was not chic, not chi-chi, not finished, not trendy; it was rough and tumble living. But it was lovely; 25 foot ceilings and huge windows that overlooked the lights and skyscrapers of downtown. It was freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer. It smelled of age and time and ancient hops. Vagrants regularly populated the grounds like so many marble statues dotting the gardens of Versailles. I learned to love Bob Dylan there -- Bob Dylan on vinyl.

Their home was a marvel because they recognized -- and honored -- the history and integrity of the old red bricks and the smooth grey concrete. Their presence there augmented the space, not destroyed it. Their surroundings absorbed them -- not the other way around. I loved them both, and I loved that place.

Which all the more makes me want to punch trendfucks like this right in the goddamned throat:

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The pricks who live here are probably named Sebastian and Fiona; outwardly, he looks like a sensitive enough hipster type, with his little sideswept emo haircut, porkpie hat, and black geek-chic eyeglass frames, but he is actually a sexist misogynist bastard who hisses the word "cunt" at her from across the room whenever he drinks too much Trader Joe's wine, which is often. She is a graphic artist who designs greeting cards for "womyn", wears black Dansko clogs, shops at Williams-Sonoma, and cries when she fucks. Someday they will have children named Jasper and Greer. Miserable cocksuckers.

Everything that was once genuine and ALL-talent in this world has now been co-opted by the mainstream wannabe hipster masses, with their bad art and their bad poetry. There is nothing left that is real. There is no escaping it.

I loathe everyone and everything.

You Call This a Loft?
They started out as bohemian art spaces in low-rent places. Now they're crafty conversions and bold new construction—and they aren't cheap anymore.

By Barbara Thornburg, Times Staff Writer
March 12, 2006

Loft living used to be reserved for some of the most down-to-earth people I know.

In the late 1970s and early '80s, artists flocked in increasing numbers to inner-city Los Angeles. Their neighborhood, near Traction Avenue and Hewitt Street, was anchored by Hilbie's (now Bloom's General Store), the Los Angeles Institute of Contemporary Art and Lili Lakich's neon gallery. A surreal, multihued airplane hung precariously above Al's Bar on Hewitt, a beacon for bohemians.

Yet the area's heart and soul—the things that made downtown boosters like me tout the neighborhood as a future SoHo West—were the affordable, spacious spreads that artists had made for themselves as places to live and work. Often the lofts they settled in weren't even legal: abandoned printing plants, toy and apparel factories, truck depots, shipping depositories, breweries, railroad and spice warehouses.

George Rollins, a painter, moved into a 3rd Street loft downtown in 1975. The old three-story brick building, a one-time electric-motor company and garment factory, had neither a toilet nor a kitchen. But the rent was right: $75 a month for a 4,000-square-foot space. "When I moved in, there was nothing but pigeon droppings covering the floors," Rollins remembers. "But it had brick walls and turn-of-the-century wood trusses and beautiful windows on the whole south and west side. It was a killer space."

Over the last decade, of course, the loft landscape has been transformed dramatically. "The good old days of cheap rent are gone," says Jon Peterson, an artist-turned-developer who 30 years ago lived downtown in a five-story brick garment building, paying 3 cents a square foot for his digs. By comparison, a downtown loft today generally rents for about $2 to $2.50 a square foot.

But it's more than just the price that has changed.

What's most remarkable is that the loft—its definition once so clear in my mind—has morphed into a host of newfangled forms. There are still traditional artists' lofts, such as in the Brewery, a 21-building complex on a huge North Main Street parcel directly behind the Los Angeles train-switching yards. But now, developers and brokers also talk about demi-lofts and soft lofts, new-construction lofts, condo lofts and townhouse lofts.

Some of these concepts are wonderful. Others make me cringe. The term loft has "been slapped on anything as a marketing device," says Mark Tolley, one of two managing partners at Urban Pacific Builders, which has three loft projects in Los Angeles. "Even condos with walls and 8-foot ceilings seem to qualify."

Tolley threw it back at me: "Give me another name for loft. You're the wordsmith."

"How about tfol?" I reply. "That's loft spelled backward." It seems appropriate, the way everything has become so turned around.

Artist's loft

Hamid Behdad, the city official who keeps track of the number of "joint living and work quarters" in Los Angeles, says there were 10,503 at last count. However, there is no official definition of "loft" in the municipal code. If I could write one, I bet Behdad's total wouldn't be so high.

I recently drove past a plain-looking apartment-building-turned-condos in Venice. Slapped with a new coat of paint, it sported a large sign: "Artists' Luxury Lofts." There's an oxymoron, if I ever heard one.

My definition of a loft conjures a free spirit's lair, a former industrial space marked by cast-iron columns, a worn wood floor and light streaming through rows of large-paned, metal-framed windows. And then there's the nostalgia quotient found in the brick walls, bygone backdrops for seamstresses or printers who hunched over long tables, toiling 14 hours a day.

Painter Kelly Reemtsen and Dick Koopmans, a record company production director, live in my kind of loft at the Brewery. Overlooking Lincoln Heights, it's housed in a five-story concrete building that for three decades was home to Pabst Brewing Co.

The 3,600-square-foot open space features a dramatic wall of 15-foot-tall industrial windows. Traces of the East L.A. beer plant remain: Gouged ceiling joists mark the spot where large steel vats were once attached. The scored concrete floor has a definite slant. Reemtsen recalls setting a bowling ball on the floor and watching it roll all the way to the kitchen, where a drain used to be.

The couple has divided the loft into two nearly mirror-image sections. One is for Kelly's studio, which is equipped with a pair of easels, a large printer and several large tables—all on wheels so she can move things around as needed. The other side is for living. The dining room-den-library area is sandwiched between the kitchen, located along the back wall, and the living room, outfitted in midcentury furnishings. A former tenant—an architect—enclosed the bedroom next to the kitchen with a corrugated roof. "Otherwise," Reemtsen notes, "everything would be open."

It is that sense of openness that I so love. As one loft enthusiast explains: "You can build an environment totally on your own terms. You're not inheriting someone else's vision." The notion of the home as a blank canvas—that, in many ways, is the loft's true essence.


Not so open in format are the lofts that began to emerge in the early '90s in downtown's Historic Core (between 3rd and 9th streets, Main and Broadway).

Developer Tom Gilmore, an ex-New Yorker, began the revitalization of this area by turning three early 20th century buildings—the San Fernando, Continental and Hellman—into loft-like apartments, a.k.a. demi-lofts. Carved from former financial and business buildings in the Old Bank District, this generation of lofts generally lacks the spaciousness that the former factories provided. Still, they seem to suit many of L.A.'s new urban pioneers just fine.

One such couple, Danny Valenzuela and Matt Hutchison, moved from their 1927 cottage in the Mid-Wilshire District into the 1906 San Fernando Building six years ago. Their top-floor apartment-loft features a slate-clad bathroom, galley kitchen and doorless bedroom. The 800-square-foot unit also boasts typical loft elements that they admire: concrete floors, tall ceilings and a row of windows with an unobstructed view of City Hall and the snowcapped San Gabriel Mountains. That vista, along with the fact that the building allowed pets, clinched the deal. Over time, they expanded their home by taking over what had been a receptionist's station across the hall.

"It's not as spacious as a typical artist's loft, but it's a historic building with a lot of charm," says Hutchison, an underwriter's assistant. "I love the lobby with its staircase and black-and-white check marble floor and high ceilings. It feels very grand."

Meanwhile, those who love the aesthetic but don't want to live downtown are being drawn to another interpretation of the loft: the new-construction variety, which has mushroomed in tony areas around the city.

"It's a way for people to live in an upscale urban environment so they can be close to where they work, shop and play," says Avi Brosh, president of Palisades Development Group in Santa Monica. The firm has created seven nouveau-industrial-looking structures in the last six years, with sites in West Hollywood, Santa Monica, Pasadena and Marina del Rey.

Some of this sounds a bit like loft lite to me—a factory feel without the history or the grit. But it's hard to argue that these places aren't beautiful. And considering the look of many newly built structures around Los Angeles, I guess faux character is better than no character.

New-construction loft

Living in a loft that was close to both work and the ocean was Mark Friedman's dream. Realizing it, however, was a tricky proposition.

"There weren't any big, spacious loft buildings in Santa Monica," explains Friedman, a software executive. "They didn't exist."

He solved the problem by becoming partners with five like-minded friends. Bill Brantley, a Marina del Rey architect, designed the three-story, six-unit building of corrugated metal in Santa Monica's Broadway Commercial District. Each partner took over a 1,900-square-foot loft.

In the four-plus years it took to complete the complex, Friedman became engaged to Velvet Hammerschmidt, an interior designer. "What looked like a decent-size unit for a single guy," he says, "suddenly looked cramped." So he bought a friend's loft next door and combined the two into one 3,800-square-foot residence.

The loft, accessed by private elevator, is divided into two separate suites with a long gallery corridor between them. On one side are the open-plan kitchen, dining room and library. The opposite wing holds the living room, office-library and powder room. Bedrooms and baths, on raised levels reached by painted steel stairs, anchor each end of the loft. Topping everything off is a roof garden with a built-in kitchen and lounge area.

Hammerschmidt's primary goal was to imbue the space with the feeling of home. For instance, she wanted a modern d├ęcor, but one that was warmed up. Instead of cold concrete floors, she installed end-cut Douglas fir for texture. She stained the floor and other woodwork espresso brown. The kitchen floor is whitewashed. Like an area rug, she explains, it helps define the space. Often barefoot, Hammerschmidt chose to cover the bedroom and library floors in wool carpet for comfort.

Hammerschmidt selected modern Euro-style furniture covered with luxurious materials in a subtle, sophisticated palette of gray, black and coffee. A state-of-the-art AMX home automation system controls lighting, temperature, window shades and an entertainment center. Recently Friedman and Hammerschmidt acquired something else, too: a crib for their newborn—a sign that lofts may be starting to attract families with children.

Just as she'd hoped, Hammerschmidt says, "the loft has all the comforts of a real home."

It also has a price tag—well into the seven figures—that would knock L.A.'s original loft denizens off their feet.

Loft home

The latest twist in the loft's evolution is something that I call the loft-house. These are single-family homes, but with a decidedly loft-like look.

Venice loft developer Rick Ehrman had this in mind when he commissioned Culver City architect Steven Ehrlich to design plans for a Venice home now owned by an attorney. "I didn't want to build something traditional like everyone else," Ehrman says, "but something that would create a new style for the Venice community."

Constructed in a high-density area, the two-story courtyard home features 12-foot-high ceilings, a concrete floor, industrial garage doors, exposed Douglas fir floor joists and a metal-grid stair and landing. The house manages a sleek, loft-like ambience even though it's more Chardonnay than Pabst.

It's also "sustainably sound," says Ehrlich, a proponent of increasing the density in urban L.A. rather than sprawling outward into surrounding areas. "I think the idea of reaching out farther and farther to raw land, diminishing our resources for a house with a white picket fence in suburbia, is suspect land use," he adds. "Invigorating our existing neighborhoods is so much better."

In the end, the demi-lofts, new-construction and home-style lofts that are being built are light-years away from the crude artists' digs of the 1970s that I recall so fondly. But the best of these 21st century translations has a common thread running through them: They all offer the freedom to be creative. Like the lofts of old, they are laboratories for living. And over time, they may even acquire the one thing they're missing: a soul.

adorable scalliwags

How much do I love that I have three babies who, when in Disneyland, NEVER EVER fail to call me when they are about to step onto The Pirates of the Caribbean ride because it is collectively our favorite place in the world? I love to hear them DEEPLY INHALE the dank, watery, delightfully evocative smell of the place, and ex...claim, "I'm getting on the boat, Mommy! I love you and wish you were here!"


just for shits and giggles

From Madhouse:

Me and Jordy Ladd just fucking hangin' around and chillin'.



"When you grow up and have children of your own, do please remember something important: a stodgy parent is no fun at all. What a child wants and deserves is a parent who is SPARKY." -- Roald Dahl, "Danny The Champion of the World"

the drag queen and miss emmy

From the Archives -- 22nd April, 2006:

This evening, one of my oldest and dearest friends, Peter Garcia, won an Emmy Award for his writing on the PBS-Kids series, Jakers! The Adventures of Piggley Winks.

Peter and I, along with Billy, have been mates since we were all starstruck theatre-geek teenagers back in Fresno. And those who follow my work will remember that it was on Petey's television pilot, "Chit Chat With Chi-Chi", that I played the fabulous, be-mulleted, BUTCH diesel dyke stage manager, Sandy Culpepper:

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So, my most proud and affectionate congratulations go out to my old friend Peter...on this most magical and life-changing of nights.

I love you, Miss Chi-Chi; well done.

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According to all the excited, breathless calls and texts we've received over the course of the day, apparently my fatass is all over the gottdamned Disney Channel as "The Sassy Librarian" on a Zeke and Luther promo. Though I myself have not seen it yet, I can tell you this much: I am channeling both Willie Wonka AND Ethel Mertz.

last meal

One of our favorite things to do is venture out and discover new and yummy places to eat. So, last week, Gregory and I tried a new (to us, anyway) Mediterranean restaurant just a few miles up the street. The food was excellent, but what made the entire experience turn the corner from delightful into SUBLIME was the darling 60ish Middle Eastern gentleman over in the corner wearing a cabby hat and smiling a hugely self-satisfied smile whilst playing tunes like "Hotel California" and "Endless Love" on an electric organ. Yeah.

At any rate, although I love me some Mexican grub, I have officially decided that Middle Eastern Food is my absolute favorite -- and, to me, that includes Afghani, Lebanese, Greek, Arabic, et al. If I knew that I was going to be strapped into Ol' Sparky and fried in a couple of hours for crimes against humanity (okay, more realistically for putting a hollowpoint bullet through Kevin Federline's oddly-shaped skull, but whatever), the order I would place for my Last Meal would include some pita bread, cherry basmati rice, stuffed grape leaves, chicken shish, falafel, and a bigass platter of tabouli. Oh...and a massive Diet Coke -- with that little crunchy ice you don't find much anymore. Then, and only then, would I be ready to meet my fucking maker -- with cucumber-yogurt sauce dripping sensuously from my chin like some baggied-out porn star after the Money Shot.

This got me to thinking about the whole reverent symbolism placed on the Last Meal (could it perhaps be some quasi-Jesus thing?), so I turned to that modern cultural authority on all things modern and cultural -- Wikipedia -- and there I found a list of the last meals of the infamous and not-so-dearly departed:

Famous Last Meals

* Matthew Dudley: 2 party pies, a sausage roll, 3 rissoles, and some cold, soggy chips.
* Wesley Baker: Breaded fish, pasta marinara, green beans, orange fruit punch, bread, and milk.
* Ted Bundy: Steak (medium rare), eggs over easy, hash browns and coffee.
* Victor Feguer: A single olive.
* John Wayne Gacy: Fried chicken, fried shrimp, french fries, and fresh strawberries.
* Gary Gilmore: Hamburger, eggs, a baked potato, coffee and three shots of whiskey.
* Timothy McVeigh: Two pints of mint chocolate-chip ice cream.
* Stanley Tookie Williams: A glass of milk.
* Perry Smith and Richard Hickock: Shrimp, french fries, garlic bread, ice cream and strawberries with whipped cream.
* Adolf Eichmann: Half a bottle of Carmel (a dry red Israeli wine).
* Bruno Richard Hauptmann: Celery, olives, chicken, french fries, buttered peas, cherries and a slice of cake.
* Velma Barfield: A bag of Cheez Doodles and a can of coca-cola.
* Morris O’Dell Mason: Four McDonalds Big Mac’s, two large fries, two hot fudge sundaes, a hot apple pie and two large soft drinks.
* Henry Martinez Porter: Steak, refried beans, jalapeno peppers, flour tortillas, salad, ice cream and chocolate cake.
* James E. Smith: A small cup of yogurt.
* Richard Lee Beavers: French toast, barbecued spare ribs, scrambled eggs with bacon and sausage patties, french fries, three slices of cheese, two pieces of chocolate cake, and four small cartons of milk.
* Leon Jerome Moser: A large cheese pizza, cheese slices, cold cuts, pasta salad, iced cup cakes and a 2-liter bottle of coca-cola.
* Gary Haidnek: Two slices of a cheese pizza and two cups of black coffee.
* Joan of Arc: Holy Communion.
* Aileen Wuornos: Declined, but received a cup of coffee.

So, my question to you is...what would be on the menu for your Last Meal?

Also, I just gotta say, whoever she was and whatever she did...Velma Barfield sounds like she was my kinda girl: Real goddamned trashy.


To paraphrase the words of the brilliant Doug Stanhope: Why would you want to wash away your sins? YOUR SINS ARE THE MOST INTERESTING THING ABOUT YOU MOTHERFUCKERS.

Use the first letter of your first name and make a list of ten things that start with that letter -- all to do with YOU (I did 12 because I'm a REBEL BITCH):

This entry brought to you by...the letter "M"

Miniatures: I am obsessed with all things small -- and always have been. The vast majority of my dreams and daydreams before the age of about 13 involved something to do with me being 2 inches tall. You cannot drag me out of a dollhouse shop to save my life (just ask Gregory) and at flea markets and thrift stores, I can go through bins of little plastic dudes for hours. For hours.

Mommy: As in me...not mine. It's what I do.

Mel Brooks: Along with Buck Henry, he is one of my greatest professional influences. Another is...

Madeline Kahn: Two words: Eunice Burns. That is all.

Mary Magdalene: This is the broad I pray to when I pray. A mother AND a whore. My kinda dame.

Mammaries: After a lifetime of suffering under their insidious weight, as of 2005, they are gone, baby, gone. And I don't miss them one little bit. Goodbye, Beavertails.

Mirth: It's what else I do.

Mafia: "The Godfather" -- My obsession. My joy. My inspiration. My family.

Mary Poppins: My most favoritest Disney movie of all.

Mandarins: As in oranges. My favorite scent.

Monocle: I want to wear one, strut about, and act a pretentious prick.

Monkeyface: Billy and I have been doing the Monkeyface since the very beginning -- with several variations on it emerging as time has passed (i.e., "Monkey looks to heaven and sees god.") Whenever I am on location, I make every single person I work with take a Monkeyface picture for me. I show them the face and then make them do it -- I don't give a shit how big a fucking movie star they are. As a matter of fact, the bigger the star, the more I am determined to get my shot. Lance Henriksen's is especially funny -- he and I even took a stacked Monkeyface totem pole pic together in Romania that completely rules. Maybe someday I shall publish a Monkeyface coffeetable book.

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i like to keep it real spooky

Apparently, the Charlie Band movie we shot in a genuinely haunted Italian castle earlier this year -- 'DEMONIC TOYS 2: PERSONAL DEMONS", directed by the amazing William Butler -- is now available on iTunes to buy or rent! Get your fatasses a clickin', motherfuckers!

This is the seance scene -- starring the stunning Miss... Selene Luna, whom I worship and adore. And yes, the EVIL, TWISTED, HIDEOUS, BELLOWING DEMONIC BELLY LAUGHTER YOU HEAR IS MY VERY OWN. I'm like a poor man's Ursula. Also in the film are the awesome actors Alli Kinzel, Elizabeth Bell, Leslie Jordan, William Marquart, and Michael Citriniti, with Miss Jane Wiedlin as the delightfully demented voice of Baby Whoopsie. Yet another BRILLIANT casting extravaganza by that industry legend, Miss Frances Rhyne. God bless her.

big men in the boat


Sometime last year, I happened upon a story about the Discovery Channel reality show Deadliest Catch, which just recently aired its 5th season series premiere. Gregory and the babies and I LIVE for dragging out some cozy blankets, poppin' up some cone, and gathering around the ol' telly together to watch the latest exploits of those rough and tumble fisherdudes who run straight outta Dutch Harbor on their dangerous, neverending quest for crabbies. We have been riveted since episode one -- and judging by the unimaginably high ratings the show consistently delivers up, we aren't alone. Though I'm sure no one could have predicted it from its likely initial pitch to network executives ("Okay, so check it: we put cameras on crab fishing boats -- and, then...well...we watch them fish.") the show is an unquestionable cultural phenomenon.

Anyway, the story is that there was apparently some creative editing going on during one episode of the show -- from what I can gather, editing for continuity's sake -- and now there are a few puny voices whining in the wilderness that this fact somehow undermines the integrity of the show. To this I say: FUCK OFF, ladies. If the producers made the decision to re-shoot a particular sequence for the sake of the overall flow of the story, that does not take away from the fact that these guys are still out there earning a living by performing one of the most dangerous jobs on the planet -- all so my privileged fatass can plop down in a nice, warm seaside restaurant and proceed to get elbow deep into the yummy, four pound carcass of an Opilio Queen crab. This show is so awesome, so amazing, so riveting, so charming, so exciting, and so...ummm...HOT.


Allow me to explain. As regular readers know, despite the impeccably groomed (okay, bathed) and unincarcerated dame you see standing before you, I come from deep, hardscrabble, working class roots -- families headed up by industrious men who perform grueling physical labor while exposed to the grinding elements, drink cheap beer after the whistle blows, and smoke pack after pack of non-filtered cigarettes with rough hands that are never quite clean, no matter how many times they hit 'em with the 'ol bar o' Lava.


This is the archetype of a man that was branded onto my soul. This is what raised me. This is what I had babies with and promised to love and obey when I was little more than a child myself. This is where I come from. This is what I know. This is what I am. And despite the fact that I am now blissfully (and permanently!) married to an extraordinary fellow who wears Brooks Brothers khakis to work, appreciates Woody Allen films, and has softer hands than mine, there is still something alluring for me about a man with a blue collar, a hearty smoker's laugh, and a union card; I guess you could say it's in my ears and in my eyes. There is no escaping it for me.

So, that's my logical, intellectual explanation for my draw to this program and the men who people it. Now here's my primitive, visceral one:


I really, really, really want Captain Sig Hansen to pull my hair, slap my face, call me a dirty whore, lash me to the bow of the Northwestern, and drive my fatass to Cleveland. He and his brother Edgar are HOT, BRUTISH, SEXY working class, middle-aged, modern-day Viking motherfuckers and I'll walk their planks any old time.

In the meantime, stow yer weapons and welcome aboard the good ship Electra Complex!

an announcement from the pole position

"Chewbacca Buffet" is my new stripper name.

the worst post i have ever had to write

I have now gotten more than a few requests asking me if I might re-post this blog entry that I originally made elsewhere on February 25, 2007 -- on what was honestly one of the darkest, most painful, most horrific days of my life. Because I never, ever get tired of talking about my awesome little sister, here it is in its unedited entirety...written exactly as it came out that awful, awful day:

My younger sister, Julia, is one of the most kind-hearted people I know. She is the sort of person who will give you anything she has, without a moment's hesitation -- even when she has nothing. Her heart is strong and true.

Although she was married once (to guitarist George Lynch) she has never had any children -- instead choosing to lavish all her abundant love and affection onto her four cats. These kitties are so well loved that when their mother is away from home for any amount of time over just a few hours, she lets them know they're adored via a method that always makes me belly laugh out loud whenever I think of it: She leaves the volume on her home answering machine turned all the way on blast and she calls and talks to them...calls them over by name to tell them hello and that mama is coming home soon. This practice amuses me no end, as I always imagine those fucking cats hauling fat ass to the kitchen counter and mewing and rubbing up against the answering machine when they hear her sweet, dulcet voice echoing throughout the house.

As my regular readers know, I have several sisters (5 or 6, I always answer when asked. I never can remember exactly) all lovely -- but none so lovely as Julia. Not a week goes by that someone doesn't comment that she looks like either Phoebe Cates or Talisa Soto. She also has big, gorgeous jugs and an exquisite body -- all covered with smooth bronze skin. She is as beautiful outside as she is inside.

Along with those looks, she has also been blessed with a voice like an angel; in fact, in her late 20's, she spent several years singing in various nightclubs in Tokyo. She used to send me funny letters and postcards documenting her journey -- and was always accommodating when I would make ridiculous requests of her, asking to see pictures of the all-talent pink plastic Japanese appliances in which she washed her clothes and dishes, as well as the interesting assortment of wacky foodstuff peppering the shelves of her local grocer.

Lest you think that Julia has a life of ease and perfection, I need to tell you that along with her many virtues and gifts, she was also cursed with a very perilous, incurable condition: Bi-polar Disorder (Type I). This means that along with all of the joy and love in her life come many trials and difficulties. In her quest for respite from the relentless onslaught of her mental illness, she has spent the past few years self-medicating with alcohol. This has led to episodes of depression so deafening that, in the past, she has attempted suicide on five separate occasions.

But, last year, after her doctor told her that although she is only 34, the alcohol was starting to take its toll on her body, she went to an AA meeting and hasn't looked back. She has been sober for over eight months, gotten on the necessary medication to control her condition, and has been successfully working hard to get her life back on track. We are all so proud of her.

My sweet little sister's body was found this morning. She is dead.

I am dead.

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it's like looking in a mirror, for chrissake

I'm sorry to gloat here, but I just really, really feel the need to say the following:

Just exactly how awesome is it that the sexiest bastard on the entire planet -- Clive Owen -- is married to a broad who looks exactly like me?


This picture just made my gottdamned day.

I love you, Clivey. Call me, baby.

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Use the 1st letter of your name to answer each of the following. They have to be real places, names, things...nothing made up! Try to use different answers if the person you ganked this from had the same first initial. You CAN'T use your name for the boy/girl name question.

Famous Artist/Band/Musician:
Mother Maybelle Carter
4 letter word:
TV Show:
Muppet Show
Boy Name:
Girl Name:
Alcoholic Drink:
Something you wear:
Mirren, Helen
Something found in a kitchen:
Maraschino cherries
Reason for being late:
Cartoon Character:
Marvin the Martian
Film Title:
Mists of Avalon
My Maria
Character in a movie:
Mary Poppins!


My, my, looks like those good ol' fashioned Republican Family Values shall triumph once again. The interesting part about this announcement that he and his wife are divorcing is that all this time...I thought Karl Rove was a dirty cocksucker. No, not a political and behavioral cocksucker, because we all know he's definitely that. I'm talking about AN ACTUAL CHOKIN' THE POPE COCKSUCKER.

from the archives: "bravo, charlie simic!"

From August, 2007:

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It was announced today that one of my favorite living poets, Charles Simic, was named the 15th poet laureate of the United States by the Librarian of Congress. Speaking as a writer and a poetry fanatic, I find this news both delightful and heartening, as Mr. Simic penned what I consider to be the seven greatest lines in all of literature.

An excerpt from his poem, Breasts:

I insist that a girl
Stripped to the waist
Is the first and last miracle,

That the old janitor on his deathbed
Who demands to see the breasts of his wife
For the one last time
Is the greatest poet who ever lived.

It doesn't get any better than that, kids; that poem is not about an old red barn, amber waves of grain, or the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill. That poem is about what it fucking means to be alive.

Congratulations, Charlie. Trust me, right now, more than ever before, the world of American letters needs an O.G. pimp like you to show us the way.

Well done, Old Sport.

fave movies

My fave movies of the past decade? "Little Miss Sunshine" and "Slumdog Millionaire" -- 2 films that felt "small"...and yet both made my spirit soar. As I sat in a dark theatre watching them, I recall looking at the delighted, rapturous faces all around me and thinking, "THIS is why I come to movies -- and THIS is what movie...s CAN and SHOULD be: extraordinary characters, extraordinary story."

Optimus Prime can suck my dick.

A young Brooklyn Family going for a Sunday outing, N.Y.C. 1966

I love this Diane Arbus photo more than I can even say. It's so quintessentially American.

He looks like Duckie Dale, and she looks like Boy George.

With the freedom of their youth fading away under the grinding crush of responsibility, the silent resignation shows in their weary faces.

And their beauty is unending.

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"i adore anyone who adores anyone who adores emerson."

A. List seven habits/quirks/facts about yourself.
B. Tag seven people to do the same.
C. Do not tag the person who tagged you or say that you tag "whoever wants to do it.

1. I absolutely love grocery shopping. I also love doing dishes and washing and folding laundry –- although I loathe actually putting said laundry away. Mopping a floor is my least favorite household chore. And my main, all-purpose cleaning product? Baby wipes.

2. My favorite car when I was little was a Nash Metropolitan. I was completely obsessed with them, and used to have recurring dreams that I was driving one through the air high over the English countryside. My Grandma Marge had a little aqua and white one that I used to sit and play in for hours when she came to visit. She later sold it to an Ethiopian foreign exchange student for $60. I have never forgiven her for it.

3. I have never been lonely for one second of my life; I don’t even understand the concept.

4. I have never been shy for one second of my life; I don’t even understand the concept.

5. I am positively obsessed with left-handed men; if you are male and left-handed, you've definitely got my attention. If you're male, left-handed, and hung like a Clydesdale...please tell the concierge to have you shaved down and brought to my room.

6. Whenever I go to the post office to pick up my mail, I always always always look for the Jack Chick religious tract booklets that some local fundie dolt occasionally leaves on the counter, apparently hoping to miraculously convert demonic bastards such as myself in a postal setting. I am genuinely disappointed when I don’t find one.

7. You know how sometimes a friend shows you a picture of themselves when they were little...and it looks nothing at all like them? Well, I am one of those people who look exactly like I did when I was five.

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And yeah, yeah, yeah, I read the goddamned memery rules and I still it if you want -- and if not (wait for it...)

Fuck off, lady.


"Do not fear me, gypsy...all I want from you is your tears."


One of my favorite songs of all time and one that I have requested be played at my bacchanalia/wake when my fatass finally exits-stage-left for scandalous and delightful regions beyond. I AM a highwayman.

"I fly a starship across the Universe divide, and when I reach the other side...I'll find a place to rest my spirit ...if I can. Perhaps I may become a highwayman again. Or I may simply be a single drop of rain...but I will remain -- and I'll be back again, and again and again and again and again..."

The world is a poorer, much less interesting place without Johnny Cash in it.


Words I absolutely live by: "I try to always come from a place of love. But sometimes you just got to break it down for a motherfucker." -- RuPaul

kicky cut? be gone!

Just a quick note to officially announce that I am entirely over this haircut, ladies:

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Yes, yes, I know, it's real modern and real kicky and all that...but for me, it's gettin' real tired. I understand that just like any other trend in our culture, it started out in the realm of "alternative". I remember going to a Frank Black show about five years ago and standing behind some skinny, tattooed alterna-girl who had bright red dyed hair that was choppy on the back and sides and gelled straight out. I remember smirking to myself at the time because the back of her head looked the the goddamned Heat Miser.

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But now, so deeply mainstream has it become, that you can't turn on the television and see a single commercial for eyeglass frames or feminine hygiene spray where the broad in question is not sporting this 'do. And further, if you watch any type of makeover show, you can bet your sweet ass that right after they deck the mark out in a fitted leather jacket, dark bell-bottom jeans, and pointy-toed shoes, they are sure as hell going to march her right down to some chi-chi salon where the betch will undoubtedly emerge with make-up like Amy Winehouse and this fucking side-spiky coiffure.

It's time to move along, ladies. This ' done.

And if you don't believe's proof. Even hateful, stupid, right-wing, Republican shill dummies are sportin' it.


Done, I say. Be gone!

strictly horseshit

I recently saw The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus and it was in the TOP FIVE WORST FILMS I HAVE EVER SEEN -- and trust me, I have seem some bad movies. Aside from the production design -- which, like all Gilliam films, was positively exquisite -- watching this film was like gazing at an extraordinarily beautiful..., yet boring, and completely insane woman...who hurls her turds at you. I am still not recovered.



from the archives: belly laughing in heaven

After the recent loss of Bea Arthur -- which just about fucking leveled me, I gotta tell you -- in reading this post, it has only now fully sunk in that we are losing extraordinary cultural treasures every day. Along with Bea, Phyllis Diller, Carol Burnett, Cloris Leachman, and Joan Rivers, these are broads who helped me become who and what I am.

Where is my god now, Moses?

From October 1st, 2007:

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Other than the far-too-early deaths of two of my most influential heroes and inspirations, Gilda Radner and Madeleine Kahn (both, ironically, from ovarian cancer), I can't remember when the world of funny women has taken such a monumental hit as this past month.

First Brett Somers, a delightfully bawdy dame I used to hurry home to watch every day after school on Match Game. She made me not only want to grow up and make my living making people laugh, but also showed me that hanging out with fabulous and outrageous gay men was definitely what I wanted to do with my life. The banter between she and Charles Nelson Reilly used to make me scream with belly laughter -- even though I was just a little kid. In retrospect, I know now that my future aspirations were fully coalesced even then: Professionally, I wanted to be a comedy writer and actor, and personally, I wanted to be a fag hag. I am pleased to say that I have made good on both dreams, and interestingly enough both of my daughters seem to have followed my footsteps both into the arts and into the gay clubs. My youngest tootsie is even accompanying a darling gay boy to the Homecoming Dance next month -- and trust me, the talk of MAC eye pencil and Christian Louboutin shoes is epic, even in hell. Hurray for being surrounded at all times by fabulous and loving gay men!

And as if the departure of Miss Brett to regions beyond was not hideous enough, we also lost Alice Ghostley last month, also a hugely important figure in the development of who and what I am. My friend, Billy, is making a film about the life of Paul Lynde, and I learned while editing the script that it was widely acknowledged in the business that Lynde had shrewdly appropriated Ghostley's voice, her delivery, and her schtick and made it his own. But what is not so widely known is that she, in turn, had stolen it from the wickedly sardonic Eve Arden -- the only difference being that Ghostley readily admitted her theft. There is nothing wrong with standing on the shoulders of giants -- as artists, we all do it. The difference is, only true genius will own it. Alice Ghostley was a true genius.

Miss Brett and Miss Alice...thanks for all the belly laughs and for all the dreams. You will be missed.