separated at motherfucking birth?


axl rose at the 2002 VMAs



albino reggae star yellowman

My mother fit bras for a living. Now, I thank my lucky stars that she gave that affair up a long time ago but I will always remember that glorious era during which my mother had her "clients" and her "clients" needed "help". Every successful business person has a partner. My mother's partner was my grandmother. They both fit bras. The bras came from a manufacturer up north (I believe) by the boxloads and my mom would set herself up in the front half of my grandpa's tailor shop. Needless to say, the business was a smash. Ladies came by the hordes seeking out the perfect brassiere to implement the “tits at attention” look formerly believed to have been outmoded after the 1960s but ressurrected with a bang in El Segundo, 1984. Praise be to mom. I'd gaze in horror as my mom and grandma put woman after woman through a half-hour bra fitting session: breasts of all shapes and sizes and some that even I, at the young age of 6, could assess were in desperate need of my mother's care. My mom held nothing back. "Oh my goodness!" she might say, "your tits are almost down to your knees! You look horrible!" Another bra sold! It was like magic. While shopping, she'd hiss at all the department store bras with the uttermost hatred and spite. "Not enough support," she'd say, shaking her head...for shame, for shame. "You may as well go without a brassiere if you're gonna go buying that crap."

Having re-transformed almost half the busts of El Segundo's 60+ demographic, some might say my mother was a local heroine. But she couldn't change the world. Women's neglect for their figures grew out of control for my mother's humanitarian effort. The 80s brought horizontal stripes, legwarmers, leotards, and cut-up t-shirts into the fashion world and encouraged women to let everything hang. For shame, for shame. My mother's greatest defeat came the day she tried to force my sister into her titty harness. "You don't want your tits to sag!" she pleaded. Defiant, my sister came back with, "I don't want to look like you with your tits pointed in the air!" [insert Pat Benatar tune] Yeah, so I remember feeling sorry for my mom at that instance. And I think I also remember taking a silent vow to myself that I would wear my mom's bra with pride come blooming time for me. Somehow I lucked out of that one. She just stopped selling them.

In an unfortunate turn of events, we had to clean out my grandmother's house a couple of months ago and I ran across a box of the old brassieres. My mother was absolutely ecstatic. I don't know if it was just nostalgia (or perhaps she's going back into business...) but I'll admit, finding that box of bras brought back a flood of nostalgia. I wondered where my mom's clientele are these days. I wondered if they're still strapping themselves in, going for that Jayne Mansfield rocket-booby look at the ripe age of 78 or 86. Lastly, I wondered if they privately thank my mom and grandmother for keeping their tits off the floor.

No kids, it doesn't get any better than a car chase on Labor Day weekend. I'm sure no one would dare disagree that one cannot truly celebrate labor day without acknowledging the labor of survival. While many of us thankfully survived three consecutive nights of drinking through hellish farenheital highs, two brave men came out of this Labor Day weekend with a reinvigorated perspective of true survival. Ask me if I saw these two fine young men on the night of their fearless endeavor and I will answer 'yes'. Proud I am to have seen the likes of our heroes Jamie Flam and Jason Betrue shortly before they embarked on their memorable 7-11 confrontation/high speed pursuit. And where was I while this was going on? Sleeping! And to think...there I was patting myself on the back for surviving yet another night of heat and drink, tucked proudly between the sheets: an accomplished beer drinker who would wake up the next day sans hangover. I can't help feeling in part responsible for the mayhem that Jamie and Jason proceeded to encounter after leaving my friend's party (which, by the way, only achieved true "party" status during the short period of time in which Jamie and Jason were present) as if it weren't for my greedy cigarette-taxing ways, Jason may not have had to stop to replenish his supply. And maybe if my friend's house had been located elsewhere, they could have visited a different 7-11. And maybe if I hadn't chided poor Jamie and Jason for their lack of gusto in potentially belligerent situations, they might not have sought out trouble at their visit to 7-11. Nevertheless, there may be something to learn from Jamie and Jason's heroic tale such as all coupes should come standard with Driver Controlled Oil Slick or if you have nothing nice to say about someone else's farting noises, don't say anything at all. As for myself, I've finally learned that the world is not on pause while I'm sleeping therefore it is still potentially viable that my stuffed animals speak in the middle of the night.
bullied by Chrissie Canino on 9/3/2002 ::