marksbury

On YouTube, you have to be 18 to see “Fire in My Belly“, the recently censored piece from Hide/Seek:

On the other hand, Juggalo stuff is free for all, because this is America, duh! Sure, makes sense. I’d much rather the kiddos hear “Santa’s a Fat Bitch” than be exposed to a visual artist’s stunning portrait of loss and grief. Because, aaaaagh, ants! No ants! Blaspheeeeme!

the title pretty much says it. i have been listening to “elmo’s song” on repeat for the last hour. it does not improve with time, though i no longer fear death. sweet, warm, elmo-less death.

This is awesome. BUT WRONG! Marry Buscemi, F (Because this is a family blog that two people read) Imperioli, Kill Gandolfini. That’s right I said it! Two enter, one leaves, Gandolfini!

Dear woman at daycare who wanted to let me know that when you were born you weighed only 2.5 pounds and had to be dressed in socks with armhole cutouts for months: please will you please be quiet before i punch you in the boob with brutal force, please?
my son was not premature, and when you asked me that with that terrible patronizing nose wrinkle, i answered you clearly. i told you that he was not, he was just small for his age, and it would have been a good time for you to stop talking about how little he is. and yet you continued with your sock monologue, attempting, i think, to identify with my “he’s just sooo tiny” son through your brave story? again, be quiet.
yes, i am very very sensitive about this subject. i would like it if people did not feel the need to share their completely banal, thoughtless comments on my son’s size with me. yes, i know he is small, i am his mother. no, he was not premature, nor are there any “issues”. i feed him, a lot. he is perfectly healthy, and developmentally, he is a little star. do i say your baby is morbidly obese? no. do i say, oh man, he is soooo big, did he break your vagina when he came out? no, again, i do not, that would be awful.
so please, just please stop. there are plenty of fantastic adjectives for babies without resorting to comments of size, so break out the baby thesaurus if you must. and if you really must comment on my baby’s size; if his stature somehow demands some on-the-record opinion from you, noted daycare mom, then please, dr. sears, please feel free to offer it to me in exchange for a very clear rundown of my opinions on: you, your mothering, your child, your pea-sized brain, your stunning lack of sensitivity, and how much better your face would look if i straightened out that nose wrinkle with my fist.
see you at the next potluck! xoxo

I really, really love this song; it is exceptionally beautiful, and moving, and tender, and hypnotic. Except for the caw-caws.

So I wrote a piece for Salon, which you can see here
The title they plopped on there is totally cringe-inducing and not at all the point of the article, and there were some edits that maybe snipped a bit of my sense of humor out, but all in all I’m pretty happy with it, and am genuinely touched by some of the thank you comments I received. I would also like to inform the trollish commenter who urged me to “grow a pair” that if I could do that, I’m preeeeety sure I could get at least a 1,000 words out of that, and then you’d have to read my stuff even more than you are already forced to do (which is a lot, obvs). So, you know, be careful what you wish for, internet mean guy.

So, obviously, my son is going to be a hugely talented singer, actor, and tween musk designer. And I am going to profit from his talent, because I am a great mother, duh. But before we pack the bag for Encino, my son has got to work on his chops. His toddling may play on the field where he plays, but it will not cut it in Branson, or in High School Musical 4, Electric Bugalour. So we’re going to start running this tape, working on his box step and awkward line-readings, coaching him on weird grammy-kissin’ and premature assertions of lady-lovin’, and deepening his dimples with gentle (but firm) poking. Also maybe some veneers. Nickelodeon, here we come! Thanks Uncle David Roth, the Writer!



god, this is so true. the worst is when she (the winsome, manic, hat-designer/grifter/cupcake baker*) teaches some dysfunctional old man-boy (richard gere) how to function/enjoy life before she selflessly and beautifully dies, leaving him to enjoy the life he does not deserve. i’m looking at you, sweet november.

*in the gq comedy issue, mindy kaling says that in the opinion of hollywood pilot producers, every young’n'sassy female character in a sitcom should work in an adorably twee bakery making cupcakes.

if i didn’t work with children, i might consider using this screensaver, for real.

What is a couched and fat-ankled preggo lady supposed to do while half watching Midnight Run in the late afternoon? Why google the past, obvs. And sometimes you come across charming discoveries like this, which my friends put together a long time ago, when I was not yet a fat-ankled preggo lady, but just another fat-ankled ingenue/writer/drunk with big New York dreams.
Also, there is this, written by one of my favorite people of all time, a bridesman at my wedding, a collector of ephemera and bittersweet oddities, a man who entitled an email to me “hells yeah i’ve had sex on a tire swing. and that shit was good”, a tenderheart, my true friend and personal physician, Mark Whoslastnamemustnotbenamed.