"I'm more ashamed of them than what I'm wearing. Not reaching past the window ledge. There's a view of life that we're not sharing. 'Cause they won't walk out to the edge." The Bangles from "I Got Nothing"
The nurse laughed at me as she walked in to give me my meds. The reason for her hysteria was obvious. She knew what I didn't, that I had nothing to write about.
I'm sorry for the shortness of this blog, it was a late night and it's being followed by a very early morning. This work thing is cutting into my blogging, there's no question about that. Which leads me to my first cop out.
When I was growing up SuperMom used to enact a thing she called "Five Minutes Free Time". It was a five minute period in which any of her children could confess to an atrocity without the fear of punishment. What was said in "Free Time" was completely nonpunishable, and as if that wasn't the coolest, she created an interesting side rule.
She could ask any question and we were to be completely honest. So, I offer you all "Five Minutes of Free Time". Any question that you pose to me in the comments section of this blog I will answer with one hundred percent honesty. This may rub you the wrong way, if you're not prepared to hear the real truth, you may want to carefully word any and all questions. So. I get off work at about 7pm this evening. I will come home and my first order of business will be to answer the questions, all of them, no matter how many each of you asks, no matter how long it takes. This, hopefully, will make up for me not being able to get to comments yesterday.
Okay, the clock starts....now.
Dixie Cup of Love: The Person That Buys My Script and Gets Me Out of Working A Real Job.
Friday, May 16, 2008
High Wire Days
"I'll shine up the old brown shoes, put on a brand-new shirt. I'll get home early from work if you say that you love me." Cheap Trick Live at Budakon from "I Want You To Want Me"
When the nurse came in to give me some new drugs she had a backstage laminant from some band called Bob Knows Best or some other such nonsensical name hanging around her neck. As the pass dangled above me it occurred to me that some security guard most of gotten one helluva a blow job in order to let the nurse backstage. There must have been more attractive groupies there, ones that survived house fires or had their noses eaten clear to the bone from flour bag size loads of coke. How did my little whore of a nurse rate a backstage pass? Behavior at concerts makes no sense to me.
My first concert was epic. Not in scope or spectacle, but simply because it was the first time I stepped into Universal Amphitheater with the strict purpose to hear music. I won't bother defending the show, because it was the 80's and it was free. Untouchables opened for, are you ready,. The Psychedelic Furs. Ska meets Nu-Wave as only the age of the skinny tie could deliver. We won thickets from KROQ the greatest radio station in LA for years. Even as I grew older and started to find their constant shilling for the Red Hot Chili Peppers to grate on my nerve like a cat in a blender, I still listened to them from time to time just to stay loyal. Besides they were the only radio station in the City of Angels that spun Boingo, that and that alone vaulted them like Mary Lou Retton into a pantheon all their own.
My former brother-in-law was capital M, METAL. He went to shows by Judas Priest, WASP, Metal Church, shows that people showed up to in copious amounts of iron studded cow hide with a grimace on their faces, defying, begging, wanting to get in a fight. I never did understand the idea of paying $40 a ticket to go somewhere and be pissed off. I could do that at home and I didn't have to pay for parking, well most of the time. One day, back in the day, I took him to see Oingo Boingo. A vibe that was decidedly different than he was used to . At Boingo shows people laughed, they high fived as you walked by, the danced manically in the aisles. My sisters husband was slack jawed like Cletus the Yokel on the Simpsons. He couldn't believe the amount of pure joy that the collective displayed. There were no high fives at a Judas Priest show, there was no dancing to Pantera, just banging and moshing.
Boingo concerts to the contrary there are rules that must be followed. Holding your lighter lit and aloft through the entirety of Wanted Dead Or Alive, acceptable. Using your super glam dates hair spray in conjunction with said lighter to create the Aqua Net Fireball, unacceptable. It is acceptable to jump on your chair from time to time, however not during a 45 minute acoustic set by Elvis Costello. Taking a hit off the joint of the hippies next to you, totally cool. Taking the acid of the dirty hippy that has been to more Grateful Dead shows than Jerry Garcia will assure you end up in the first aid tent drinking Orange Juice while talking to a tent pole that sounds a lot like Morgan Freeman. It is okay to do a stage dive if: A) You do not weigh over 165 pounds, and that's pushing it. B) Don't stand up on the stage dancing like Courtney Cox in a Springsteen video, she was a plant, you look like a ficus. C) Don't try to sing a few bars with Billy Joel, we paid to hear The Piano Man, not you.
Other than those simple rules, feel free to act the fool, show your boobies, sing a long at the top of your lungs, and by all means, ladies, do whatever you have to do in order to get backstage, stage hands need love too.
What behaviors to you exhibit at concerts? Does the wild thing come out in you?
Dixie Cup of Love: Danny Elfman and the Boys.
When the nurse came in to give me some new drugs she had a backstage laminant from some band called Bob Knows Best or some other such nonsensical name hanging around her neck. As the pass dangled above me it occurred to me that some security guard most of gotten one helluva a blow job in order to let the nurse backstage. There must have been more attractive groupies there, ones that survived house fires or had their noses eaten clear to the bone from flour bag size loads of coke. How did my little whore of a nurse rate a backstage pass? Behavior at concerts makes no sense to me.
My first concert was epic. Not in scope or spectacle, but simply because it was the first time I stepped into Universal Amphitheater with the strict purpose to hear music. I won't bother defending the show, because it was the 80's and it was free. Untouchables opened for, are you ready,. The Psychedelic Furs. Ska meets Nu-Wave as only the age of the skinny tie could deliver. We won thickets from KROQ the greatest radio station in LA for years. Even as I grew older and started to find their constant shilling for the Red Hot Chili Peppers to grate on my nerve like a cat in a blender, I still listened to them from time to time just to stay loyal. Besides they were the only radio station in the City of Angels that spun Boingo, that and that alone vaulted them like Mary Lou Retton into a pantheon all their own.
My former brother-in-law was capital M, METAL. He went to shows by Judas Priest, WASP, Metal Church, shows that people showed up to in copious amounts of iron studded cow hide with a grimace on their faces, defying, begging, wanting to get in a fight. I never did understand the idea of paying $40 a ticket to go somewhere and be pissed off. I could do that at home and I didn't have to pay for parking, well most of the time. One day, back in the day, I took him to see Oingo Boingo. A vibe that was decidedly different than he was used to . At Boingo shows people laughed, they high fived as you walked by, the danced manically in the aisles. My sisters husband was slack jawed like Cletus the Yokel on the Simpsons. He couldn't believe the amount of pure joy that the collective displayed. There were no high fives at a Judas Priest show, there was no dancing to Pantera, just banging and moshing.
Boingo concerts to the contrary there are rules that must be followed. Holding your lighter lit and aloft through the entirety of Wanted Dead Or Alive, acceptable. Using your super glam dates hair spray in conjunction with said lighter to create the Aqua Net Fireball, unacceptable. It is acceptable to jump on your chair from time to time, however not during a 45 minute acoustic set by Elvis Costello. Taking a hit off the joint of the hippies next to you, totally cool. Taking the acid of the dirty hippy that has been to more Grateful Dead shows than Jerry Garcia will assure you end up in the first aid tent drinking Orange Juice while talking to a tent pole that sounds a lot like Morgan Freeman. It is okay to do a stage dive if: A) You do not weigh over 165 pounds, and that's pushing it. B) Don't stand up on the stage dancing like Courtney Cox in a Springsteen video, she was a plant, you look like a ficus. C) Don't try to sing a few bars with Billy Joel, we paid to hear The Piano Man, not you.
Other than those simple rules, feel free to act the fool, show your boobies, sing a long at the top of your lungs, and by all means, ladies, do whatever you have to do in order to get backstage, stage hands need love too.
What behaviors to you exhibit at concerts? Does the wild thing come out in you?
Dixie Cup of Love: Danny Elfman and the Boys.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Finding Pennies
"I am aware, I've been misled. I disconnect my heart, my head. Don't wanna recognize when things go bad. The things that you'll accept, Except that I am finding the words" Jack's Mannequin from "I'm Ready"
Oh the nurse, the poor lonely haggard nurse. As she doped me up the tears poured from her sockets. Not that I really cared but for my own amusement I inquired as to what was the cause of the water works. She opened up to me like I was Dr. Phil and she was a soulless guest who wanted desperately to know why her alcoholic meth addicted daddy didn't love her. It was a pathetic display brought on by her lack of success in procuring male attention without a stripper pole and a ridiculous cover charge. Out of terror that she might actually continue talking, I asked if she had ever tried online dating. The look she gave me stunk of loser and superiority.
I'm not say that the online world is for everyone. But being the new kid in town without so much as a Rutter man let alone a solid wing man, I have to allow my mind to be open to other avenues of finding some female companionship. And without plunking down cash for a tumble with the three fingered hooker, I have decided to write about the success, see I'm being optimistic, or abject failure, realism over rides, of the proceedings. First step for me was choosing a site from which to find my Penny Lane.
When it comes to amoreous onlineous I don't necessarily think you get what you pay for. The object here is multiple options not a stellar portfolio consisting of eight million questions all leading up to the grand conclusion, which I already know or why would I be trying to find love on the Internet, that I am completely incompatible with the entire female populace of the The Slow. I don't need some quack TV shrink giving me advice on dating and relationships, he's getting a divorce anyway, so who the fuck is he to dispense wisdom on the subject? No, I decided on a cheaper service without celebrity endorsements for my soul mate search.
Next came the profile itself. What does one say about themselves to be honest and still be found attractive all in one paragraph? I didn't want to send out misinformation, but I needed to reel the truth in a bit. Somehow I didn't imagine "Eternally single male blog writer seeks big breasted woman for dirty, hot, immoral sex, movie companionship, and only occasional conversation. No Cats. No Tom Cruise Fans." was going to rake the ladies in like a twenty point in a row craps run at Caesar's Palace. So, if you have any suggestions about how I should sell myself, by all means, let me hear it.
As for the photo, well, I went ahead and used the default I have on this profile. It says alot, that photo. Yes I smoke, yes my hair is traced with gray, no, I'm not entirely serious all the time. That was really the easy part for me.
So I started fishing with a nice introduction letter that I sent out to 5 eligible ladies I found on the site. To keep you up to date I will call the potential bachelorettes by brief descriptions. #1 - The Short Cutey #2 - The Rocker Chick #3 - The Home Run Swing #4 - The Silly One and #5 - The Bobbie Queen. Those are the top 5 players on the program. I'm sure that I will never hear back from at least 3 of the 5, so after one week of no contact I will try to call up another player. Game on.
If at any time one of you would like to pull me out of the game, become the muse and heart of my world, feel free to apply. I'm equal opportunity.
Ever done the online thing? Do you think less of me for this attempt?
Dixie Cup of Love: I'm really routing for the Short Cutey.
Oh the nurse, the poor lonely haggard nurse. As she doped me up the tears poured from her sockets. Not that I really cared but for my own amusement I inquired as to what was the cause of the water works. She opened up to me like I was Dr. Phil and she was a soulless guest who wanted desperately to know why her alcoholic meth addicted daddy didn't love her. It was a pathetic display brought on by her lack of success in procuring male attention without a stripper pole and a ridiculous cover charge. Out of terror that she might actually continue talking, I asked if she had ever tried online dating. The look she gave me stunk of loser and superiority.
I'm not say that the online world is for everyone. But being the new kid in town without so much as a Rutter man let alone a solid wing man, I have to allow my mind to be open to other avenues of finding some female companionship. And without plunking down cash for a tumble with the three fingered hooker, I have decided to write about the success, see I'm being optimistic, or abject failure, realism over rides, of the proceedings. First step for me was choosing a site from which to find my Penny Lane.
When it comes to amoreous onlineous I don't necessarily think you get what you pay for. The object here is multiple options not a stellar portfolio consisting of eight million questions all leading up to the grand conclusion, which I already know or why would I be trying to find love on the Internet, that I am completely incompatible with the entire female populace of the The Slow. I don't need some quack TV shrink giving me advice on dating and relationships, he's getting a divorce anyway, so who the fuck is he to dispense wisdom on the subject? No, I decided on a cheaper service without celebrity endorsements for my soul mate search.
Next came the profile itself. What does one say about themselves to be honest and still be found attractive all in one paragraph? I didn't want to send out misinformation, but I needed to reel the truth in a bit. Somehow I didn't imagine "Eternally single male blog writer seeks big breasted woman for dirty, hot, immoral sex, movie companionship, and only occasional conversation. No Cats. No Tom Cruise Fans." was going to rake the ladies in like a twenty point in a row craps run at Caesar's Palace. So, if you have any suggestions about how I should sell myself, by all means, let me hear it.
As for the photo, well, I went ahead and used the default I have on this profile. It says alot, that photo. Yes I smoke, yes my hair is traced with gray, no, I'm not entirely serious all the time. That was really the easy part for me.
So I started fishing with a nice introduction letter that I sent out to 5 eligible ladies I found on the site. To keep you up to date I will call the potential bachelorettes by brief descriptions. #1 - The Short Cutey #2 - The Rocker Chick #3 - The Home Run Swing #4 - The Silly One and #5 - The Bobbie Queen. Those are the top 5 players on the program. I'm sure that I will never hear back from at least 3 of the 5, so after one week of no contact I will try to call up another player. Game on.
If at any time one of you would like to pull me out of the game, become the muse and heart of my world, feel free to apply. I'm equal opportunity.
Ever done the online thing? Do you think less of me for this attempt?
Dixie Cup of Love: I'm really routing for the Short Cutey.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Under My Skin
"I've got you under my skin. I've got you deep in the heart of me. So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me. I've got you under my skin." Frank Sinatra from "Under My Skin
When the nurse came in to feed me the gel caps of bliss I couldn't help but notice that her left bicep was wrapped in cellophane, the international sign for "I just got a new tattoo." It would shock no one that the nurse was inked up heavier than an 80's hair band bass player. Her new piece looked, if my trippin' eyes didn't deceive me, like her. She got a tattoo of herself, in full nursing regalia. It was a work of art that I was sure she would one day come to regret, like a tramp stamp on a college sophomore.
Tattoos are stories. At least that's how I have looked at them since the first day I walked into an inkslingers studio. See, in my youth, like everyone else, I thought that tattoos were for bikers and sailors. Yeah sure Popeye had anchors inked on his massive, making Judi hot, forearms, but he was a sailor. Bikers, well they weren't in SuperMoms friend set, so they too were looked on with undeserving scorn. Yet, I was no sailor, nor Hell's Angels member, but at 18 I found myself one sleepy day, sitting in my ink man's chair while I watched an old black and white episode of the Andy Griffith Show, getting my first piece. SuperMom was unthrilled to say the least, but she couldn't argue with the picture. I now have three, and like Lay's Potato Chips, I wanted more once I started.
The first piece, my virginity breaker, is located on my right shoulder. It is a facial portrait of Marilyn Monroe. Growing up, and still to this very day, I have found Ms. Monroe to be the epitome of Hollywood. She strove for acceptance at every turn only to be seen as nothing more than a sex symbol, boy can I relate. But seriously, watch the movie "Bus Stop". It's one of the greatest performances I've ever seen. So getting Marilyn symbolized to me my desire for a career in LaLaLand, in my belief that the life I desire is attainable, and that dreams sometimes come true. That's what she's there to remind me.
Tattoo number two is one that no one believes I have until I prove it. On my left shoulder blade, on my upper back, there is a colorful rendition of the Animaniacs Logo. The Warner Bros crest, banner across it that reads "Animaniacs" and all three: Yacko, Wacko and Dot. Was it my favorite cartoon? No. That would be Scooby Doo. But as I was setting out from California for my Minnesota adventure, not knowing if I would return, I was leaving behind two of my best friends, Wayne and Kelly. Together the three of us were like the cartoon trio, with just as much singing and shenanigans. It's there to remind me of the friends that one often leaves behind, but never forgets. It marks a time in my life. As does my latest ink.
Under Marilyn in bold thick font are the letters "WWTSD". They are there to remind me of another group of friends, another time I would never want to forget. At a small apartment in Orange, California a tribe of friends with nicknames like Newman, The D, Buddy, Smitty, Atomic, Vash, The Boy, Big Mike, and the unnicknamed Chey would meet in total or lesser numbers each Sunday to watch The Sopranos. We cooked Italian food, we theorised, and we had more fun that should be possible. The tattoo is there to remind me, the letters stand for "What Would Tony Soprano Do." Gotta love a guy with a fictional mobster as a spiritual leader.
Do you have tattoos? What's the story? Do you want one? Why? Totally against them? Fascist?
Dixie Cup of Love: Shawn, the slinger who inked my Animaniacs.
When the nurse came in to feed me the gel caps of bliss I couldn't help but notice that her left bicep was wrapped in cellophane, the international sign for "I just got a new tattoo." It would shock no one that the nurse was inked up heavier than an 80's hair band bass player. Her new piece looked, if my trippin' eyes didn't deceive me, like her. She got a tattoo of herself, in full nursing regalia. It was a work of art that I was sure she would one day come to regret, like a tramp stamp on a college sophomore.
Tattoos are stories. At least that's how I have looked at them since the first day I walked into an inkslingers studio. See, in my youth, like everyone else, I thought that tattoos were for bikers and sailors. Yeah sure Popeye had anchors inked on his massive, making Judi hot, forearms, but he was a sailor. Bikers, well they weren't in SuperMoms friend set, so they too were looked on with undeserving scorn. Yet, I was no sailor, nor Hell's Angels member, but at 18 I found myself one sleepy day, sitting in my ink man's chair while I watched an old black and white episode of the Andy Griffith Show, getting my first piece. SuperMom was unthrilled to say the least, but she couldn't argue with the picture. I now have three, and like Lay's Potato Chips, I wanted more once I started.
The first piece, my virginity breaker, is located on my right shoulder. It is a facial portrait of Marilyn Monroe. Growing up, and still to this very day, I have found Ms. Monroe to be the epitome of Hollywood. She strove for acceptance at every turn only to be seen as nothing more than a sex symbol, boy can I relate. But seriously, watch the movie "Bus Stop". It's one of the greatest performances I've ever seen. So getting Marilyn symbolized to me my desire for a career in LaLaLand, in my belief that the life I desire is attainable, and that dreams sometimes come true. That's what she's there to remind me.
Tattoo number two is one that no one believes I have until I prove it. On my left shoulder blade, on my upper back, there is a colorful rendition of the Animaniacs Logo. The Warner Bros crest, banner across it that reads "Animaniacs" and all three: Yacko, Wacko and Dot. Was it my favorite cartoon? No. That would be Scooby Doo. But as I was setting out from California for my Minnesota adventure, not knowing if I would return, I was leaving behind two of my best friends, Wayne and Kelly. Together the three of us were like the cartoon trio, with just as much singing and shenanigans. It's there to remind me of the friends that one often leaves behind, but never forgets. It marks a time in my life. As does my latest ink.
Under Marilyn in bold thick font are the letters "WWTSD". They are there to remind me of another group of friends, another time I would never want to forget. At a small apartment in Orange, California a tribe of friends with nicknames like Newman, The D, Buddy, Smitty, Atomic, Vash, The Boy, Big Mike, and the unnicknamed Chey would meet in total or lesser numbers each Sunday to watch The Sopranos. We cooked Italian food, we theorised, and we had more fun that should be possible. The tattoo is there to remind me, the letters stand for "What Would Tony Soprano Do." Gotta love a guy with a fictional mobster as a spiritual leader.
Do you have tattoos? What's the story? Do you want one? Why? Totally against them? Fascist?
Dixie Cup of Love: Shawn, the slinger who inked my Animaniacs.
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Tiki Amulet
"When you believe in things that you don't understand, then you suffer, Superstition ain't the way" Steve Wonder from "Superstition"
As the nurse fed me my morning dose of jitterbuggery I noticed that there was a small pendant on the end of her necklace. Yeah, I noticed it because of the way it danced in the cleave of her unnatural bosom. Like a tongue with attention deficit disorder darting from one silicone balloon to the other. When I asked her about the pendant, not the boobies, she said it was a good luck charm that she had worn since grade school. I had a hard time imagining the nurse being superstitions, though I had no trouble imagining her in a little school girl outfit.
There are certain things that I do the same way out of habit. I clean my left ear before my right. I start shaving from my left side and work my way across. I put on my left shoe first. These are not superstitions, they are habits, I'm left handed after all. Which is not to say that I don't have idiosyncrasies that baffle the mind.
When I prepare to write my blog I must write it by hand on a yellow legal pad, it can't be longer than two hand written pages, and I never include the song lyric in the hand written text. Why I don't include the lyric text is beyond me, I just don't. Granted I don't always precisely know what I gonna use. Superstition play a part, I didn't plan it that way and yet it seems to work so why change it.
When I push a yellow light, stepping on the gas instead of the brake, I rub the index and middle finger of my right hand across the roof of the car, twice. Why? Don't know. I'm sure it has something to do with Wayne and/or Don but I have no clue why I do it, but I do it without fail.
Before I write a screenplay I fill three or four legal pads with complete randomness about the plot, the characters, certain events that I would like and things I don't want to do. Some would call it being prepared, but these notes are generally things like "Steve eats macaroni and cheese every day." it's never in the script, but I will always know that about Steve, even if I knew his favorite food was Pastrami on rye, the Mac and Cheese is a habit.
Now you all know that I don't believe in voodoo or any of that hocus-pocus, so how is it that I have these silly superstitions? Can't really say. It's one of lifes unanswerable questions like how does Keanu Reeves get to keep making movies or what exactly makes Lindsey Lohan's sister and mother worthy of a television show? As far as unanswerable questions go, I'm sure my case of superstitious behavior is right under Oprah's dietary behavior in the grand scheme of worthless information. But for some strange reason that's something I thought I would share today. There is this nagging stubborn urge I have to be divulgent about what makes me go clickety-clack lately. Probably has something to do with the new job, newness often makes me think of silly things that got me where I am, it's a habit, not a superstition.
Do you have any peculiar habits? Any strange superstitions?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Lucky.
As the nurse fed me my morning dose of jitterbuggery I noticed that there was a small pendant on the end of her necklace. Yeah, I noticed it because of the way it danced in the cleave of her unnatural bosom. Like a tongue with attention deficit disorder darting from one silicone balloon to the other. When I asked her about the pendant, not the boobies, she said it was a good luck charm that she had worn since grade school. I had a hard time imagining the nurse being superstitions, though I had no trouble imagining her in a little school girl outfit.
There are certain things that I do the same way out of habit. I clean my left ear before my right. I start shaving from my left side and work my way across. I put on my left shoe first. These are not superstitions, they are habits, I'm left handed after all. Which is not to say that I don't have idiosyncrasies that baffle the mind.
When I prepare to write my blog I must write it by hand on a yellow legal pad, it can't be longer than two hand written pages, and I never include the song lyric in the hand written text. Why I don't include the lyric text is beyond me, I just don't. Granted I don't always precisely know what I gonna use. Superstition play a part, I didn't plan it that way and yet it seems to work so why change it.
When I push a yellow light, stepping on the gas instead of the brake, I rub the index and middle finger of my right hand across the roof of the car, twice. Why? Don't know. I'm sure it has something to do with Wayne and/or Don but I have no clue why I do it, but I do it without fail.
Before I write a screenplay I fill three or four legal pads with complete randomness about the plot, the characters, certain events that I would like and things I don't want to do. Some would call it being prepared, but these notes are generally things like "Steve eats macaroni and cheese every day." it's never in the script, but I will always know that about Steve, even if I knew his favorite food was Pastrami on rye, the Mac and Cheese is a habit.
Now you all know that I don't believe in voodoo or any of that hocus-pocus, so how is it that I have these silly superstitions? Can't really say. It's one of lifes unanswerable questions like how does Keanu Reeves get to keep making movies or what exactly makes Lindsey Lohan's sister and mother worthy of a television show? As far as unanswerable questions go, I'm sure my case of superstitious behavior is right under Oprah's dietary behavior in the grand scheme of worthless information. But for some strange reason that's something I thought I would share today. There is this nagging stubborn urge I have to be divulgent about what makes me go clickety-clack lately. Probably has something to do with the new job, newness often makes me think of silly things that got me where I am, it's a habit, not a superstition.
Do you have any peculiar habits? Any strange superstitions?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Lucky.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
I've Been Called A Mother...
"If you could Coddle the infection, They can amputate at once. You should have been, I could have been a better son." My Chemical Romance from "Mama"
It's not my place to know if the nurse has any demon like offspring. As a bride of Satan I can only imagine that she has spat at least one little Damian from her loins, but of this I have no proof, course if she was my mother I would breast feed for life. So seeing that the jury was still out I decided not to wish my medicator a happy Mother's Day. Who knows, it might have offended her.
To all those with children, cats, dogs, fish, real-dolls, and imaginary tykes I wish you a happy Mother's Day, but this shouldn't be a day for mothers, simply popping a puppy out of your womb should earn you no special recognition, it should be a day for Mom's. Like SuperMom. Women that take the time to teach, love, and support their seeds. Extraordinary women who accept responsibility when their "little cuties" are wailing so loudly in a restaurant that Marlee Matlin starts to complain. Amazing women that don't let their children use the aisles of the grocery store as their own personal playgrounds. Magnificent women who understand that discipline and child abuse are two entirely different things.
When I think about SuperMom in contrast to the Mom's on TV I am amazed that she is still walking. There was no Mr. Brady and his quarter dozen there to help her with the hard stuff. In my version Carol would have been living in an apartment while Mike Brady nailed every ugly piece of tail with a half a Johnnie Walker buzz. In my version of the story there is no Alice waiting around in the kitchen for Sam the Butcher to bring her the meat. It was just Carol, making a meatloaf and hoping it would last for two days. SuperMom wasn't a Marge without a Homer, A Peggy without an Al. She wasn't Roseanne without Dan, she wasn't even Miss Ramano, because in all those cases the father was at least in the mix enough to be a "without". Even Bonnie Franklin had Schneider. My sperm donor left SuperMom to do it all. And she did it with poise, intelligence, and a sensitivity that is second to none.
Many of you Mom's out there will get tokens and trinkets emblazoned that you are "The World's Best Mom", it's simply not true. I'm sure you're above average, maybe even superior, but SuperMom is the one and only, Champion of the World, Undisputed, Unchallenged, Best Mom that a boy like me could have. I owe her more than just my life, I owe her my respect, my love, and I need to prove to her beyond a shadow of a doubt that I understand all the lessons she taught me. I may not have always been the "Greatest Son on the Planet", I'm still not, there is no S on my chest, but that would never stop SuperMom from treating me like the Oscar was already on the mantle. For a woman who raised three children on her own, for her to support the dreams of the "artistic" child, well that means the world to me. I haven't made her proud enough, in my opinion, but as I was set to shoot the first frame of film on "Poison of Choice" I called SuperMom to thank her for supporting me. And she cried tears of joy. I love SuperMom and wish her a very happy Mom's Day.
Tell me about your Mom, if you want.
Dixie Cup of Love: SuperMom
It's not my place to know if the nurse has any demon like offspring. As a bride of Satan I can only imagine that she has spat at least one little Damian from her loins, but of this I have no proof, course if she was my mother I would breast feed for life. So seeing that the jury was still out I decided not to wish my medicator a happy Mother's Day. Who knows, it might have offended her.
To all those with children, cats, dogs, fish, real-dolls, and imaginary tykes I wish you a happy Mother's Day, but this shouldn't be a day for mothers, simply popping a puppy out of your womb should earn you no special recognition, it should be a day for Mom's. Like SuperMom. Women that take the time to teach, love, and support their seeds. Extraordinary women who accept responsibility when their "little cuties" are wailing so loudly in a restaurant that Marlee Matlin starts to complain. Amazing women that don't let their children use the aisles of the grocery store as their own personal playgrounds. Magnificent women who understand that discipline and child abuse are two entirely different things.
When I think about SuperMom in contrast to the Mom's on TV I am amazed that she is still walking. There was no Mr. Brady and his quarter dozen there to help her with the hard stuff. In my version Carol would have been living in an apartment while Mike Brady nailed every ugly piece of tail with a half a Johnnie Walker buzz. In my version of the story there is no Alice waiting around in the kitchen for Sam the Butcher to bring her the meat. It was just Carol, making a meatloaf and hoping it would last for two days. SuperMom wasn't a Marge without a Homer, A Peggy without an Al. She wasn't Roseanne without Dan, she wasn't even Miss Ramano, because in all those cases the father was at least in the mix enough to be a "without". Even Bonnie Franklin had Schneider. My sperm donor left SuperMom to do it all. And she did it with poise, intelligence, and a sensitivity that is second to none.
Many of you Mom's out there will get tokens and trinkets emblazoned that you are "The World's Best Mom", it's simply not true. I'm sure you're above average, maybe even superior, but SuperMom is the one and only, Champion of the World, Undisputed, Unchallenged, Best Mom that a boy like me could have. I owe her more than just my life, I owe her my respect, my love, and I need to prove to her beyond a shadow of a doubt that I understand all the lessons she taught me. I may not have always been the "Greatest Son on the Planet", I'm still not, there is no S on my chest, but that would never stop SuperMom from treating me like the Oscar was already on the mantle. For a woman who raised three children on her own, for her to support the dreams of the "artistic" child, well that means the world to me. I haven't made her proud enough, in my opinion, but as I was set to shoot the first frame of film on "Poison of Choice" I called SuperMom to thank her for supporting me. And she cried tears of joy. I love SuperMom and wish her a very happy Mom's Day.
Tell me about your Mom, if you want.
Dixie Cup of Love: SuperMom
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