I am often visited in my dreams by a sober, handsome Dean Martin. When he appears to me, he is always wearing a black tuxedo and smoking a Chesterfield cigarette. He takes my hand, smiles at me, asks me how I am doing...and I tell him. Good or bad, he listens without judgment. Sometimes he belly laughs with me -- and sometimes he dries my tears. But, always...the sound of his warm, smooth, velvety voice comforts me.
"I was out to dinner with three strong, capable, intelligent young women the other night and all they could talk about was men. I was like, 'If you don't change the topic in the next five minutes, I'm leaving.' My life is not going to revolve around any guy." -- Chloe Sevigny
"All the problems we face in the United States today can be traced to an unenlightened immigration policy on the part of the American Indian." -- Pat Paulsen
I've noticed that Comic-Con has a strange effect on people -- in that sort of like Garrison Keillor and a "Prairie Home Companion", everyone says they really love listening to it because they THINK they should really love listening to it -- but NO ONE REALLY DOES LOVE LISTENING TO IT. Do you know what I'm saying? Because it's actually a cloying, cornball, piece-of-shit that, if you really think about it, makes you want to kick ass when you're listening to it...OR, take a dump on the floor as a social statement.
As I've written elsewhere...despite just the worst kind of bastards always going on and on about how fabulous it is, COMIC-CON MAKES ME WANT TO BEAT ASS. I swear to christ, in the three times I've gone, I was there not 15 minutes before I wanted to cunt-punch a XENA and take a gottdamned dump on the floor as a social statement. Comic-Con is OFF TRACK.
Yeah, motherfuckers are gonna lose their shit when I say it, but since when has that EVER stopped me? So, say it I must: I've been three times in the past few years...and I beg of you to trust me when I tell you that COMIC-CON IS COMPLETELY OFF TRACK. All the fat, AWESOME 27 year old Asian guys dressed like Picachu are the only good thing about it.
Last night, Gregory and I spent an amazing evening at the STUNNING Hollywood Hill-top music studio/cat temple/sanctuary/home of our friends, Ronnie Pontiac and Tamra Spivey, whose band, Lucid Nation , will open both your eyes and your heart to the truths all around you -- and change your motherfucking life.
Aside from the glorious food, company, and conversation, we were privileged to be among the very first people invited to hear the music from their latest project, "Mommie Dearest the Musical", which will undoubtedly be a HUGE success when unleashed onto the world (the incomparable Bruce Vilanch wants to direct!). Needless to say, we were completely BLOWN AWAY.
Ronnie and Miss Tamra...thanks so much for allowing us to partake of the awesomeness of yourselves and your colleagues and compadres. The evening was one we shall not soon forget. I can't wait until the rest of the world has the chance to revel, delight, and stand awestruck in the brilliance of what you guys have created.
Thirteen glorious, BELLY LAUGHING hours on set yesterday filming the opening scene of our latest Charles Band EPIC, "Gingerdead Man: Saturday Night Cleaver" (think Brian De Palma meets Mel Brooks meets John Waters)...and those who have read the script are already bellowing, "CULT CLASSIC!" Now up and drinking coffee and washing my vagine in preparation to go and write on yet another piece of work.
"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won't hurt." -- Hunter S. Thompson's suicide note, 20 February, 2005
This morning, my old friend -- the awesome, intrepid artist, Gabriel Liston -- posted simply the following as his Facebook status update: "muffybook"...to which I curiously inquired if he were referring to me...or to some hot, new, vaginally-inclined social networking site. To this, he responded: "I lay in bed while Danielle reads me your notes from her iphone. That is what I do. Everything else is gloss."
I have to say that this might just be the nicest thing anybody ever said to an old Fresno hooker like me. Thank you for such sweetness, Herr Liston -- I adore you no end. Now...pack your youngest child on ice -- you know, she who sends her crazy Auntie Muffy the VERY BEST birthday wishes of all! -- and ship her out same-day airmail so that I might feast on her tasty little Freddie Flintstone foots this very gottdamned evening.
My god, Dom DeLuise was a BONAFIDE GODDAMNED GENIUS. Watch this and marvel, my friends. Even though every blasted second of it is sheer brilliance, please know that when he uses his scepter to casually scratch his GUNT at :45, I am SCREAMING WITH BELLY LAUGHTER. ALL HAIL DOM!
Oh, my god, I am the only one awake in this house and I just went in and made my fatass some REALLY GOOD, REALLY STRONG French roast and while it was a' brewin', I did a bit of washing up...and then headed back towards my room to see if the two little sniveling piglets had yet arisen in bed with Gregory and whilst I was heading back here I realized I was actually walking and wiping my hands on a white, cotton tea towel...and just for a moment, I felt like Olivia Walton, as played by Miss Michael Learned -- who always seemed to be walking into some room or other, drying her careworn hands on a tea towel with a concerned look on her face...though, to be honest, the only thing I am concerned about right now is that I wish Gregory would wake up so I could kiss his sweet face.
This Muffy Moment brought to you by Starbucks coffee and the chilly, gorgeous, grey sky that currently exists outside my bedroom window and inspires me like nothing else...except maybe a kiss from a cute, snoozy Jew boy and dos BOSS chihuahuas.
I've decided that I no longer wish to think. I just want to sit my fatass in a big fat gilded Roman throne and take one bite out of a turkey leg and throw it back over my shoulder before reaching for the next one...and when my subjects are brought before me, I wish to give them a quick once-over, before simply announcing (with no explanation needed beyond just my unquestionable judgment):
Though I am a fervent, passionate, longtime supporter of gay rights -- and, in fact, tend to be surrounded by magnificent gay men at all times, aka I AM THE EMPRESS OF HAGS -- I still feel very strongly that the following MUST be said: Whenever you hear him speak, how much does it sound like awesome gay Congressman Barney Frank (D-Mass) IS STRUGGLING TO SPIT THE WORDS OUT AROUND THE HUGE DICK THAT'S PARKED IN HIS MOUTH?
Oh, wait. I cannot believe I forgot to include THE GRAND POOBAH of all my worst fears -- the one that actually landed my fatass in a mental health facility on suicide watch at one point, way back in the delightful mists of my scandalous past: LICE.
I'm sitting at a Dodgers game with my boys, Otis and Gregory, and every five minutes I quietly pull up this photograph of my beloved boyfriend, DFW, on my iphone and pretend to make out with it...and ol' Otis is slowly being driven mad. As a mother, my work here is done.
Even though all good children know that the TRUEST, MOST SHIMMERING BRILLIANCE in Big Star actually dwelled within Chris Bell...that doesn't change the fact that I'm STILL IN LOVE...WITH THIS SONG.
GODDAMNIT, I loathe Summer. I need a CHILL BREEZE blowin' across my vagina for me to be a happy and productive person. The searing heat that is currently Los Angeles is STRICTLY OFF TRACK.
What I need right now is for the disembodied piece-of-ass that was Paul Newman, circa 1962, to rise up from the grave, slowly remove the tasteful white shirt he was buried in, and strut around up in through here like there's no tomorrow. Mama needs to take her mind off the fact that her undercarriage currently feels like the surface of the sun -- AND NOT IN A GOOD WAY.
This morning as I was waking, the following profound realization floated into my head as I gently crossed from that place into this one: I am FAR more a GAY MAN...than I am a STRAIGHT WOMAN. And now that I really think about it...I'll be goddamned if I don't move through this world like a POWER QUEEN -- just like all the fabulous, amazing men by whom I am constantly surrounded.
Sometimes it is the smallest, most seemingly insignificant moments that bear witness to the passing of an epoch.
This morning, I was casually going through the pantry, getting rid of stale boxes of Cream of Wheat and expired cans of jellied cranberry sauce from 2005. I grabbed a big box of Cheerios and opened the top to see how much was left (not much)...and then I saw it. I slowly sat down on the linoleum floor and wept big, sad, silent tears...all by myself.
Nestled alongside the cereal bag at the bottom of the box, in a sealed plastic wrapper, was a little black and yellow toy race car. Untouched. Unfought over. Unstashed. Untreasured. No sticky little raccoon fingers had eagerly dug it out, with absolutely no intention of eating the accompanying grain hoops. No bickering had ensued over this small, 10 cent piece of plastic. No one had fought to the death to possess it, like the legendary Plastic Battles of days gone by.
It is mine now, this little toy race car. It will sit in a place of great honor on my desk...to remind me just how fast it all goes by.
We have an old friend -- a BRILLIANT, HILARIOUS ol' queen who has been a successful casting agent for probably damn near as long as my fatass has been sashaying about on this planet -- WHO HAS FUCKING SEEN IT ALL. I live to hear his scandalous tales of all the FAB male movie stars he and his partner have slept with over the years. SO COMPLETELY ON TRACK!
Anyway, because NO AMOUNT OF SKULLDUGGERY WILL EVER BE ENOUGH FOR A CURIOUS OLD HOOKER LIKE ME, a few years ago I asked him if they'd ever nailed any of the celebrity broads they worked with and he told me that, even through all the delightful decadence and debauchery of the 1970s, he'd only slept with ONE woman.
Tasting blood, I then asked how he liked it...and he looked thoughtful for a moment, took a slow sip of his Screwdriver, and, with a face as serious as Stonehenge, answered: "Well, the actual fucking and sucking part wasn't so bad...but I'll tell you, honey, I haven't been able to eat Lobster Bisque since."
I always know it's time for a gottdamned haircut when I look in the mirror and see Marcia Brady's pencil sketch of George Washington -- the one for which she got roundhouse kicked in the taco, sent to detention, and stripped of her slumber party privileges.
"Mrs. Denton? Or a hippopotamus? Or that old hooker, Muffy Bolding?"
"You know, when I first went into the movies, Lionel Barrymore played my grandfather. Later he played my father and finally he played my husband. If he had lived, I'm sure I would have played his mother. That's the way it is in Hollywood. The men get younger and the women get older." -- Lillian Gish
"When you're 50 you start thinking about things you haven't thought about before. I used to think getting old was about vanity -- but actually it's about losing people you love. Getting wrinkles is trivial." -- Joyce Carol Oates
My 16 year old son, Otis -- the intellectual sports savant who wants to be a sports journalist and has been a DIE HARD Yankees fan since he was a toddler and first fell in love with the history and mythology of baseball -- is in the other room, still slumbering peacefully. He has not yet awoken to The News. I've decided to give him one last night of dreams, miracles, massacres, greed, triumph, scandal, and legend before he awakens to the reality of a world without Georgie Steinbrenner. Sleep well, my beautiful, beautiful boy -- and dream.
"Not only does society suffer from racism and sexism but it also suffers from ageism. Once you reach a certain age you're not allowed to be adventurous, you're not allowed to be sexual. I mean, is there a rule? Are you supposed to just die?" -- Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone, 51
I am always careful to wave back at little kids who wave at me from bridges, overpasses, trains, cars, monorails, ferris wheels, fair rides, Big Wheels, rickshaws, tugboats, and strollers. When you are small, having a grown-up return your wave is such an amazing affirmation of your existence, influence, and power in the world. Never, ever forget that.
“If you think I’m going to sit here and pass judgment on Miley [Cyrus], you’re wrong. I think she’s beautiful. I love her. She’s trying to grow up, you know. I remember when I was horny and young.” -- The INCOMPARABLE, IRREPLACEABLE Dolly Parton
“Effeminate men intrigue me more than anything in the world. I see them as my alter egos. I feel very drawn to them. I think like a guy, but I'm feminine. So, I relate to feminine men.” -- Madonna
“Every single person has at least one secret that would break your heart. If we could just remember this, I think there would be a lot more compassion and tolerance in the world.” -- Frank Warren
Blimey! There is some SERIOUS ASS harvesting goin' on all up in through this motherfucker lately. Tell me, has anyone else noticed an increase in THE FACEBOOK HARVEST around these parts?
Well, no matter -- in honor of such ruthless gleaning, I would like to post a religious icon of The Patron Saint of The Facebook Harvest. Trust me, wherever there is shameless name gankin' goin' on...THIS RIGHTEOUS BITCH WITH THE "DELETE SYMBOL" GOUGED INTO HER FOREHEAD IS THERE:
When I first heard Mia Farrow -- who in recent years I've pretty much only thought of as the mousy, long-suffering actress who lost a daughter to the SHORT EYES of her then-boyfriend, Woody Allen -- say this aloud on some cheesy, late-night biography show called "Intimate Portrait" about five years ago, I immediately felt the earth shift on its axis and my life was forever changed. In the middle of the night, right there on the couch, wearing my favorite Target schmata, the now FAR from mousy mother of a dozen mostly disabled children and FIERCE political activist and champion for the people of Darfur passed along to me the lesson that it had taken her a goddamned lifetime to learn...and for me, it was The Answer to all things, a way to move through this world both FULLY ARMED and FULLY OPEN...and for that, Miss Farrow, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
So, my own advice to you? Keep your own heart wide open at ALL times -- wisdom and enlightenment often come from unlikely sources -- even cheeseball shows on The Lifetime Channel at 3 o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday. You just never know when your own mantra will drift down as a gift from She Who Hears The Cries Of The World. It is, of course, deceptively simple -- as are almost all of life's most valuable lessons:
"I get it now; I didn't get it then. That life is about losing and about doing it as gracefully as possible...and enjoying everything in between."-- Mia Farrow
Muffy Bolding is a mother/writer/actor/knitter/radical feminist/withered debutante who likes the smell of asparagus pee, and remains obsessed with the bathroom hygiene of her three children -- despite the fact that they are 23, 19, and 16. She is blissfully married to a cute Jewish boy who looks like Willie Wonka, but remains tragically in love with the dead poet, Ted Hughes. Ms. Bolding lives in Los Angeles, where she enjoys typing words, making movies, and plucking the rings from the fingers of the dead. She was the co-creator and Editor-in-Chief of the award winning satire zine, Fresno Lampoon, and in between writing screenplays, carnival barking, and savagely threatening her trio of darling larvae with a wooden spoon, she currently publishes the zine, "Withered Debutante." More of her work can also be found in the anthology, "Mamaphonic: Balancing Motherhood and Other Creative Acts", as well as in The Cortland Review and hipmama.com. She is currently writing and producing for film and television, and working on a book of essays entitled, "Inside A Chinese Dragon." She has slept around, but not nearly as much as she would have liked.
