Sonny

Once upon a time in 1992, there was a live show I was involved in called “Seventies Celebration” or something like that. A lot of music and TV stars from the 70s were involved including me and several other Bradys. We were doing a "comedy sketch" which Barry Williams co-wrote. Florence was supposed to be Sally Jesse Raphael and I never did figure out what I was supposed to be. I couldn’t remember the lines because they came out of nowhere and made no sense to me. I just knew the thing sucked and I began to get performance anxiety like I've never felt before. I was sure that I would pass out on stage and make a fool of myself. It was hours between rehearsals and show time which was live on stage at the Wiltern. 

I was feeling pretty insecure which is something I really do have a talent for. Then I saw Olivia Newton John which didn’t help. Not that I don’t like her, on the contrary we had worked together and I found her to be wonderful in every way. I had done an illustration job for her. She and her psychic were writing a children’s book to teach kids about the environment. I had designed and illustrated the proposal. They loved what I had done but the publisher wanted to go with their own in house art department. It was one of those “Gee Susan, we’re really sorry but they have the final say…” things. It really wasn’t a bad thing but still mildly embarrassing and I just didn’t want to hear her say again, “I’m so sorry about what happened…” I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable mostly because that would have made me more uncomfortable.

So I was mildly avoiding Olivia Newton John which made me a little hyper aware of faces. I became aware that I was seeing the Bee Gees pretty much everywhere I looked. This was strangely unnerving, but everything was unnerving. The whole thing started to get very surreal with all of these oddly familiar faces. It would take a while to register if I actually knew these people around me or just knew them from TV. I think everyone was feeling that way so to play it safe they all acted like long lost friends. It was really very nice. Meat Loaf gave me a hearty “Hello” and I had no idea where I knew him until he started rehearsing and I realized who he was and that we’d never met. Coupled with the surreal hyper awareness anxiety imparts, it began to feel like I was coming on to a hit of acid. And there were those darned Bee Gees. It seemed that everywhere I looked, there was a Bee Gee – sometimes two. I was studying their faces and the brotherly resemblance. I know there were only three of them but it seemed like 20, maybe 50.  It was like they were inter-dimensional and could be in two places at the same time. I’d start to feel a little better and then I’d look up and see another Bee Gee. Totally nice guys but they were freaking me out. I was sitting in the Green Room, humming a little mantra to myself for comfort. “Bee Gees Bee Gees everywhere, in the green room, on the stair…” then someone said “Hi Susan”. It was Sonny Bono, always a friendly face. I had met him a couple of times before, but we weren’t what I would call friends.  Our mothers were in a club together and knew each other well, maybe that’s why he knew my name. Since most people don’t bother with our real names, having him say “Hi Susan” surprised me and drew me to him.

“Your sketch is cute, it will go over well.” He said. Poor guy was just making small talk and didn’t know that he was in for an interrogation. My nerves made what little social grace I have fail me, I just blurted my thoughts..

“Really?” I shouted.

“Sure, it’s funny.”

“REALLY, Sonny?”

“…Yeah?....Why, don’t you like it?”

“It’s terrible! I don’t even understand it! Do YOU think it’s funny?”

He could have lied again and walked away but instead I guess he sensed my distress and he came over to me with compassion. He nodded his head from side to side as if to say he’d seen worse – point being, no,he didn’t like it either. But he smiled and said, “Hey, it really doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad. The audience will love it no matter what you do.”

“I’m really nervous, I’m afraid I’m going to pass out on stage.”

He laughed and said, “Even if you did, you would still get a standing ovation! No matter what you do, the audience will be on their feet. You can do no wrong, relax.”

“Really?”

“I guarantee, they will give you a standing ovation when you walk on stage and won’t get quiet enough to even hear the skit.There is absolutely NOTHING to worry about.”

What a sweet guy. He made me feel better.

“I promise, it will be great. I PROMISE!” He extended his arms to hug me.

I hugged him and I saw another Bee Gee over his shoulder.

“The Bee Gees are freaking me out.” I blurted.

“What?”

“Everywhere I look there is a Bee Gee.”

And it was like he could read my mind and now he decided to mess with me like one messes with someone who’s high; he leaned in close and whispered, “They’re EVERYWHERE!”

We did our bit and Sonny was right. The crowd was on its feet and never heard a line of dialogue. When we came off stage, God bless him, Sonny had come to the side to watch.

“See Susan, what did I tell you?”

I hugged him so hard I may have hurt him bad.

I got a little taste of what Sonny might have been like as a Dad, and I felt a tiny portion of what Chaz must have felt when he passed away so suddenly.

To prove this was not just an acid flash back:

Cattyland

I live in Cattyland. It's as sweet as Candyland but smells a lot worse. When I decided to get back into art I found that living with foster kittens and cats made things fairly impossible. I knew my life had changed the first time I tried to knit my son a scarf and I had 12 kittens in the house. I doubt I need to explain that scenario much further. I'd been messing around in Photoshop on my computer for years and pretty much got my artistic jollies that way; but a friend of mine had an idea that he wanted me to illustrate in watercolor. It had been years since I'd painted and it would seem the cats wanted to keep things that way. I had moved and no longer had an office where I could shut them out. Painting was impossible and dangerously messy. Many pigments are poisonous. Another friend had the answer; "Get a Wacom Tablet." he said. I followed his advice and am experiencing the enjoyment of painting that I haven't had in about 20 years. It's a digital, simulated experience but I still like it. Maybe one day I will have a studio where I can get back to painting the old fashioned way but will I ever want to?  For now I really like the fact that I'm not making the enormous messes I used to make. And of course the best part of painting digitally is that I can ERASE!!! I'm not terribly savvy with the tools of photoshop (I don't even use Photoshop, just Elements). So digital painting is pretty straightforward, Wacom tablet "pen"set to round brush covers 90% of what I do.

The tablet made all the difference. I was doing collages before but couldn't call them paintings. I use the Intuos 4 and so far have not explored the many options that it offers. Still, the desire to have the tactile physicality of a brush will always be there. I use it just for painting and not for drawing. So far, for me, there is no digital substitute for pencil and paper and I see no need for one. True, the cats will carry a pencil away in their mouths but there's little harm that can be done to them or the work. (It always baffles me, do my cats live such boring lives that EVERYTHING I do is that fascinating for them?) I make a sketch on paper and scan it into the computer.
I thought I would share what went into this latest piece:

The inspiration for Cattyland is the board game, Candyland. Being food obsessed, it was my favorite game as a child. Over the years I have seen incarnations of the board illustrated in  a way that I find so inferior to the original. I am old school when it comes to cute. I just don't understand what passes for cute these days. I didn't even when I was a kid. I always loved Hugh Harmon and Rudolph Ising cartoons, and found the Muppets gross. (I know - sacrilege!) I like the way our readers were illustrated in the 1950s and I certainly prefer the version of Candyland that I played with as a child. In looking for the different boards I found this fabulous history, complete with slide show. There has been a different board each decade. Check it out:
http://www.hasbro.com/games/en_US/discover/candyland_history.cfm

This is the board I grew up with, so it is my favorite.

sketch

I wanted to make it for cats so each area was re-created with a cat theme. The peppermint stick forest replaced by "Catnip Fields" etc. All "lands" were done as separate illustrations. I start with a sketch and scan it into the computer. 

color gets added in layers

Then I start painting over it using a Wacom tablet and Photoshop elements. No waiting for paint to dry, just start a new layer!

When each piece was done, it got set into the larger  layout which contained the trail.

The most important stop for feline players

In total, there were ten illustrations combined. Although each one was flattened, it ate up lots of memory. My computer coughed and wheezed through this and in the end, the final piece was nearly 700 MB. I got to the point where I just had to stop because my computer was crying.

And all combined, it looks like this:

This and others are available as part of a line I am offering for purchase to help raise funds and awareness for animal rescue. For more info click here

http://susanolsen.tv/Susan_Olsen_s_Animal_Art_TW.html

The Last Photo of Susan

I found this shot in with some old photos I’ve been meaning to scan. This really should have been the last photo ever taken of me.  This should be the picture that evokes, tears , regret and deep pain. Minutes after this was taken I should have died.

But I did not (as is evidenced by my writing this) Rumors of my death have persisted and appealed to my macabre sense of delight. And as with Mark Twain, they have been great exaggerations, but this one is not a rumor nor is it even known.

We were at my mother’s friend’s house for a barbecue. I could not swim and was told exactly where the shallow end ended and that I was not to venture any further. There was a little sea horses on the side tile and I was not to go beyond  it. I remember having this cavalier sense that the grown ups were wrong, as usual, and I was probably a great swimmer but just never had the chance to demonstrate this. After all I had taken dozens of baths and felt quite confident that my aquatic skills honed in the tub would prove to be sufficient for any other body of water.

I was wrong.

Grasping the side of the pool I did not think much of the fact that I was, indeed going beyond that sea horse. After all, I was hanging on to the edge in spite of the fact that I knew there was nothing to worry about. I was a fabulous swimmer but just to keep Mom happy, I did cling to the side. My Dad was sitting next to the pool talking to a male friend and now and then he would say, "Get back to the shallow end". I would but then I'd go back past that sea horse, making my way across the pool, sideways, like a crab.

I lost my grip.

I remember all of this very vividly. Right after going under and not being able to come back up something became undeniable: I really CAN’T swim. Who knew? Oh yeah, I guess they knew. Flashbacks of this moment stayed with me for many years and made me far less head strong than I might have been. Now I’m struggling and the worst of this is that I can hear my Dad who is supposed to be watching me. He’s talking about golf with another guy. They are sitting in chairs only a few feet from where I am drowning and I can hear them. Part of me wonders if he can’t see me and another part wonders if he doesn’t care. I got to the point where I was breathing water, in and out and it was painful and held no satisfaction. It was impossible not to, it was a reflex to breathe but it hurt. Then I felt somebody grab me and pull me up.

According to Mom, she had an instant flash, like she heard me mentally calling her. I think Mom gave me this explanation because it made her seem magical but my sister’s is likely more accurate. SHE saw me. Anyway they both did and screamed and a friend said she knew lifeguard techniques and jumped in and got me. 

The friend was Sandy Descher, daughter of Audrey who's house we were at. She claimed she knew what to do and she really did. She got me on the patio and began pumping the water out of my lungs.  It was just like in the cartoons; water was shooting out of my mouth like a fountain. I thought this was really embarrassing. My sister remembers watching and thinking “Oh how embarrassing for Susan.” Self conscious freaks that we were, we would have considered death over looking foolish. My brother, Larry was no different. He was caught in a rip tide as a teen and absolutely refused to shout for help. I've since gotten over that and actually seek ways to look foolish. I also remember being equally embarrassed over her taking me back into the water to make sure I wasn’t afraid of it. I felt patronized by this. Looking back, Sandy was really remarkable. She handled the whole situation with such expertise. I think she was only nineteen years old.

I loved Sandy even before she saved my life.  She was 16 when I was born and 19 when I began admiring her. She was always so good to me. She bought me my first heart shaped box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day. I loved her delicate features and her turned up nose. Sandy was not unlike most of the people in my world; she was also a child actor. I knew she had been in a film with Elizabeth Taylor which was very cool. She was in “The Last Time I Saw Paris”. This was very cool but not nearly so cool to me as another film she did, the  Sci Fi classic, “THEM”.  Now THAT was an enviable role. There was also this little number which I remember seeing on TV - "Space Children", most intriguing. 

Sandy, third from left, in a bathing suit no less!

Great Look!

Now that I’ve wasted loads of time looking her up on the internet, I would assume, from my findings, that my Mom and her Mom met on the set of Vincent Minelli’s “The Bad and the Beautiful” where she worked with my brother, Chris.  They both had small parts. I especially like her look on this film.

Yes, Vincent Minelli was Judy Garland’s husband and Liza’s father. Liza used to come to the set and she and Chris would catch tad poles in the murky MGM swimming pool. Liza would often tag along for lunch and was known by my mother as “That homely little girl with all the nervous ticks. “Of course, in the years to come,  my mother would be amazed with how well that little girl turned out.  In fact  she made her a lesson. If we saw her performing Mom would say “You would never know she was the same person!  You wouldn't have thought she would ever amount to much and just look at her! She’s come so far! Look at her grace and poise! That just shows what hard work and dedication can do…” 

But my ADD digresses. I did not die that day but my father may have wished that he had. The guilt he felt over being right there and not realizing that I was filling my lungs with pool water must have been overwhelming. The thought of what might have happened plagued him. I would have an occassional nightmare about it where I could hear the water over my head. Dad would just get sick about it. Oddly enough I didn't ever go to the hospital just to get checked up. I mean I had water in my lungs but Sandy must have gotten it all out. Good job Sandy! 

Probably because of Sandy's wise insistence that I get right back in the water I was not left with any fear of it. I do, however, have a fear of fathers watching their children. I know it makes me sexist but I do think women are wired more strongly to see danger in everything and to be diligent. I don't think men worry as much - which can often be a good thing - but I also don't think they pay as much attention. My own parenting experience with my son's father verified my feelings a thousand fold.

Of course my little tale of thinking I knew better than my parents has been retold ad nauseum to my son. But it's the kind of lesson you really can't describe, you have to live through it. I'm glad I did.

The Hazards of the Mosh Pit for the Elderly

My son and I have been attending local bands’ gigs for a while now. While not always impressed with the level of musical ability I have been impressed with the fact that the original nature of the punk scene seems to have made a come back. These kids these days do put a value on integrity and there is the old feeling of appreciating where everyone is coming from. I have seen bands of all ages and varying styules and ethnicities on the same venue. Most of all they understand that they are continuing something that was started by old folks like myself.

My son has never been embarrassed to have his Mom along and I have always been greeted warmly and often with the kind of manners that would impress June Cleaver.  I admire anyone with the guts to express themselves artistically and some of these kids are pretty darned good. My son’s favorites tend to be mine as well, we do lean towards the same taste. He smells hypocrisy immediately as well as commercial hype, always has. That's my boy. One band, Chemi-kill has a song that I think is pure genius. It’s called Glass Jaw and it’s so simple and perfect angry anthem. Now I know it’s a teenage tradition to offend you mother with your music and since we have such similar taste I have deprived my son of much of that fun. Nevertheless he will find truly suck ass bands and play them loudly. It takes a lot to offend me but bands like Anal Cunt do the trick.

So when Chemi-kill announced their CD release party, Mike and I wanted to go. I decided to invite my friend, Elliot too. Elliot and I met in high school; he was a pioneer of the punk scene in Los Angeles back in the day. He even has the spoon that Germs singer, Darby Crash, used to O.D. with.  I wanted Elliot to see how the scene is today. So Elliot joined us saying that he couldn’t think of a better way to spend this “holiest of days” (4/20)

Elliot has let his hair grown long and it is white so he has the look of an ancient sage. Needless to say we looked quite different from the rest of the crowd.  Mike always says “Please Mom get in the mosh pit with me!” I protest that I’m too old, I’ll break a hip and I don’t have health insurance to cover it. I never liked moshing anyway or as we used to call it: slam dancing. But on this night I did not go to the mosh pit, the mosh pit came to me.

Maybe I was having a senior moment and stumbled too close to the pit but before I knew what was happening I was down.  My son claims he wanted to gently push me but somebody fell into him and I went over like a bowling pin with him on top of me. I’m sure the kids were thinking “Oh look the old lady fell over!” but all were sweet in picking me up off the ground and handing me my bent glasses. Mike apologized profusely. 

For the rest of the weekend I was fund raising for Precious Paws at an autograph show with a black eye and painful (possibly fractured) rib.  Other Bradys (Chris Knight, Mike Lookinland and Robbie Rist) were there as well as celebs I hadn’t seen in years like the Hudson Brothers; so there was a lot of hugging going on. Ouch! Of course everyone thought it was great fun that I was suffering from mosh pit injuries. I must admit I agree.

Animal Rights Groups Get New Mascot

Animal rights groups have a new plan for teaching children about animal cruelty this Easter holiday. While many are familiar with the legend of the Easter Bunny, animals rights groups want to replace him with their own mascot, the Draize Test Rabbit (AKA: “Mr. Testy”). We spoke with Petard leader Elizabeth Dickfree about the new campaign.

“The legend of the Easter Bunny is morally offensive. Here you have an animal being forced to hop down the bunny trail bringing candy to greedy and corpulant children. In France they have a bell that flies through the air bringing gifts to people which at least makes sense. Of course Americans base their folklore on expecting animals to be our slaves. We want to show children the real role of rabbits and how they are used in animal testing. Mr. Testy is designed to look like a rabbit who has been through several experiments. Some of his wounds actually ooze blood when functioning properly.”

The campaign nearly didn't see the light of day for Easter of 2011 due to manufacturing problems with the five Mr. Testy suits the company will be sharing with other animal rights groups.

“Due to Union specifications the costumes had to be made at one location while the full head masks were made at another” Dickfree reveals. “There was confusion, the people at the mask company did not realize the measurements were in inches rather than centimeters. It is very difficult to find people with heads small enough to fit into the mask.”

“We have had to employ microcehalics to wear the costume.” adds Tofu Brainphuk director of publicity for the organization.

“There again..” interjects Ms. Dickfree “Modern science and animal testing has all but made these beautiful anomalies of nature dissapear. We've had to go to Pakistan where pinheads are worshipped.”

The result is that most of the employees in the suit do not understand any English and are profoundly retarded. They often misunderstand what is happening and become violent, sometimes throwing the children on their laps several feet into the air. But according to Ms. Dickfree this is nothing to be alarmed over and adds to the child's experience:

“Our research has shown that children learn best when frightened. We want them to be affected by this experience for the rest of their lives. When we hear them screaming we know they're getting it.”

“We are making an impact” adds Tofu.

“Sometimes we will have a very good natured toddler who is resistant to fear. One of us will have to rush up behind him and scream to startle him. We'll do whatever it takes because we know that if they are not hysterical, we're just not getting through to them.”

“But when we do get through it is so rewarding.” Says Tofu with a warm smile. “We know it's working because immediately after the children have spent about ten minutes with Mr. Testy we offer them a bottle of shampoo. they want nothing to do with it. If we hand it to them, they will even throw it at us. It's simply amazing, ”

I asked if this was similar to the results that they have had with their prenatal vegetarianism program.

“Oh yes!” Elizabeth proclaimed triumphantly. “We've had amazing results with that! We project images of vivisected animals on the bellies of pregnant women during the last month of gestation. When the babies are born we offer them a steak. In five years not a single infant has had any interest in the steak, not one!”

“We call that success.” crows Tofu who then sums it all up:

“When the children are taken away in their parents arms crying and kicking, it breaks our hearts a little but we know that most, if not all of them, will never use shampoo or soap. When we go home to our cats, we can feel good about that.”

Mr. Testy will be appearing in selected Walmarts and True Value Hardware stores throughout the Inland from March 28 through April 31.

I am Not a Man From Kazakhstan!

I started playing MMROPGs (Massive multiplayer, role playing games) in 2004. It all started innocently enough with Disney's Toontown, a game designed for seven year olds but notorious for luring their parents to play and become hopelessly addicted. I made friends that I knew only in the gaming world, friends I played four different games with over the years. I grew tired of waiting for Toontown to get new content and began exploring other games. I eventually ended up in the black tar of gaming addiction: World of Warcraft (AKA: WoW).

WoW was a real game with real battles but it was no Toontown, it was difficult and yet I hear that it is a relatively easy game. (This makes me feel very stupid) I started out rolling a Mage (creating a character who's profession was to be a mage) and I really sucked at playing. Glutton for punishment, I didn't give up. I loved the world of WoW. It had great graphics. I could get on a bat and ride in the moonlight and do lots of things besides dying in battle. Now and then, I would go back into Toontown and see my friends and be a big toon who was well respected. I'd fill myself with the swagger of success then go back into WoW and be just pathetic. Lacking any victory to give me a thrill, I decided to engage in the kind of behavior that could at least provide me a laugh: role playing. Being a huge fan of Da Ali G Show I created a character based on Sacha Baron Cohen's Borat. This was before the movie.

My Borat was a Tauren, which is an enormous species in the game that is a half man, half cow hybrid. I walked around the beautiful scenery of WoW as my Bovine Borat harassing women while learning to play the game. Eventually I got better and I was asked to join a guild.

A guild is a group that goes on quests and raids together. Guilds can chat while playing and I thought it would be real fun to stay in character. The Borat movie was in the works, I knew eventually these people would know what I was doing but for now I thought it would be fun to make it seem real. I told them  that I was a journalist and the 2nd most famous man in my home country. I was here on a mission to gain “Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan”.  I had a lot of fun with my Borat character in WoW. The guys I played with seemed to be college students, mostly male and I was surprised that nobody caught on to what I was doing. It seemed that nobody had seen “Da Alli G Show”; but I knew in time the movie would be out and that would sort of be my punchline. I let my guildies know that they were making a movie about my mission and that I would soon be famous in America. “I will be movie star! You will be so proud you know me! You will tell all your friends! You will tell your sisters!” They reacted to that like I was just some weird, foreign guy telling tall tales.

I never did play well but I was funny so they liked me and would bring me along on raids for my limited healing ability and comic relief. Since all these guys had leveled way beyond me, I didn't engage much in battle but stayed back to heal them. The result of this is that if the team “wiped” (were all killed) I would be left alive because I had never posed a threat to the boss - the big enemy that it is the mission to kill. They would be dead and I would be alone with this creature. I would then narrate my sexual exploits with the creature while my comrades ran from the graveyard to find their bodies and resume the battle. I remember going into great detail about how I was finally left alone with this dragon we were fighting. “Oh she like me! She have very bad breath but she good kisser, I like fork tongue!” They would type “Eeew gross! Borat don't fuck the dragon, you don't know where she's been!” etc. My guildies liked me and I've always enjoyed the company of young men. I was having fun.

When we got a web page for us to organize our group endeavors we needed to use pictures of ourselves as avatars in the forums. Most of these guys used photos of their character or a favorite band. I used a photo of “myself”. It was a picture of Sacha Baron Cohen as Borat wearing a large cowboy hat. I started getting comments in game.
“Hey Borat is that you in your avatar?”

“Yes, is me! I have handsome, yes?”

One guy named “Darigaz”, kept saying “Man you look like a pervert!”

I would insist, “No that is my cousin Bilo, he is pervert. I am nicest guy!”

Dari would comment every now and then that I was just plain creepy looking with my mustache. I posted other photos of Borat that were even creepier just to mess with Dari.

I would tell them my movie was coming along great but sensed that they didn't really believe that I was soon to be a star of the silver screen. I decided to really flesh out this farce by looking online to see if there were any photographs of Sacha as Borat with the cameras around. I wanted to post something on our forum board to prove I wasn't making things up. When I looked around, I found something much better; I found stills from the now famous scene where Borat and Assamat are naked and fighting. This was wonderful! Borat and a fat guy, naked. This was just way too good! I had to send it to Dari to really freak him out. I decided not to share it with the guild but to send it to Dari by private message, that would make everything all the creepier. I included a note saying, “This is me and my good friend, Assamat, having recreations. I hope some day to meat you. Kindest Affections From Your Friend and Guild Mate, Borat” (note spelling of the word, “meat”)

Later that day I was in the game and some other guildies came on. I could see their dialogue in the text scrolling past me. They were discussing mathematics. After a while it seemed clear that they were working on some homework.
“Hey are you two in a class together? I asked
"Yes"
"Oh so are you in college?"
"No!"
Oh dear, these guys are still in high school? They're just kids! Wow, that's a surprise. The game I had played just before WoW required people to be over 21 and this WoW was harder. I never thought these might be kids.
“So you're in High School?”
"Not yet."

<gulp>

“How old are you??” I asked in fear.
The reply for both was “14”. I asked what I was afraid to ask, “You know Dari in real life don't you? Is he only 14 too?”
“No ...he's 13”
Oh dear God in heaven. I have sent naked pictures to a child! I will get banned from World of Warcraft! Damn, I might get in trouble with the law! I had to do something. I had to tell them what I'd done.
 “You guys I have something to tell you! I am not a man from Kazakhstan! I am a middle aged MOTHER!” They thought I was kidding. After going on about how Borat can't be a Mom I finally got them to believe me. I explained what I had done and asked if they could tell Dari to just delete the email I sent him and we can all laugh about the joke. Now I understood why Dari kept saying he thought I was a pervert, poor kid, he was actually concerned!

“Dari's going on vacation and he uses his Dad's computer.”

Sweet buttered Jesus! That's it, there is no hope. The tabloids will love this! “America's sweetheart trolls the internet posing as a Russian man sending naked pictures to young boys” As if my career wasn't sad enough, this will kill it. I was panicky. The leader of our guild was a really sweet boy who I always assumed was a man because he was so fair and diplomatic and a good leader. He was 14 as well and he got on later in the day and told me that he was Dari's neighbor. He assured me that he met him after school and got him to delete the email before they went on vacation and before his Dad saw it. Of course they opened it up together and had a good laugh.

The final result is that we all had a good laugh and if anything I was maybe even cooler because I was a middle aged Mom who played WoW. They also now understood why I sucked so bad at the game: because I'm a middle aged Mom who plays WoW. Nice boys. My Toontown Friends soon joined WoW and we made our own guild “The Lords of Kazakhstan”. I felt safer knowing these people were old farts like me and I could be as lewd as Borat wanted to be. But I liked my little pals. Every now and then I would see one of them and they would tell me they saw the  Borat movie. They would ask if I had screwed any dragons lately and I would say “Yes! I liiiiike!” None of them ever knew that I had an identity beyond that of a middle aged mother and that I was also a little girl with a lisp that they could see on TV.

I think that would have been just too much.

The Youngest One in Curlers

Yes indeed, that is me at the age of two at the beauty salon, getting a perm. 

Our mother couldn't love a cat with short hair. A prerequisite for any kitten we acquired was that it would grow to have a long beautiful coat. Mom liked pretty things. No stray cats for her, and no stray hairs. Everything was well coifed and beautiful. Mom was a beauty herself. Appearances were of obsessive concern to my mother who made sure that she was well groomed and had full makeup on when she delivered her children. She was greeting us looking her best and it was hoped that we would do the same. Our appearances were a source of pride for Mom; having beautiful children was her claim to fame. We were all so nice to look at that we got hired to be put in movies and TV so other people could look at us. One can't help but wonder what might have happened had my mother given birth to <gasp> an ugly child. It seemed that with me, her fourth and last offspring, she had done just that. I was not a pretty baby. My fathers exact words when seeing me for the first time were, “We should have quit while we were ahead.” Then he softened the remark with “Well, she's not our prettiest baby but she sure is sweet.” Dad was not obsessed with appearances at all. He was just very innocently and brutally honest. Fortunately my countenance improved day by day so my mother never had to consider the heart wrenching choice of leaving me on the doorstep of an ugly family so that I could be raised by my own kind. 

As much as she couldn't love a cat with short hair, she seemed unable to tolerate a child with straight hair. Her first born had beautiful ringlets like a cherub. Mom was determined that we all be that beautiful. While I know this makes her seem terribly superficial and she was obsessed with appearances, she was also the deepest, most profoundly wise and wonderful person I've ever known. The contrast of her obsession with appearances coupled with a true ability to see beyond all physical matter into the spiritual essence of everything provided a gentle but persistent confusion that made me have to think harder and I am grateful for it. I saw the world in layers before I ever got my hands on a copy of Photoshop. I knew from an early age that things are not always as they seem, you have to look closer, you must look deeper. If you only look at the surface, you are missing all the important stuff. Still my mother's philosophy was that nobody would ever look beyond the surface if that wasn't as good as it could possibly be.

And in her defense I must say that when I grew up and fulfilled my rebellious desire to have a short haired cat, my mother loved him as much as any grandkitten. So I would assume if need be she could have found it in her heart to love a child who's hair did not curl - but why bother when there are such things as curlers to correct this unfortunate situation? With the same sense of mission one would have clamping braces onto the legs of a crippled child, my mother put curlers in my hair in an effort to correct nature's hideous mistake. When I had grown just enough hair to cover the circumference of a curler, one was was installed. The look was called “The Boston Curl” It strongly resembled the style worn by members of the Lollipop Guild in Munchkinland. As I grew, so did my hair and my mother's dissapointment in it. While it was blonde like my brother, there were no lovely ringlets. Something had to be done. 
  
What you see in the photo is me getting a perm at the age of two.Well it only made sense, I had an agent by then and was doing commercials. It's difficult to get a baby to sleep in rollers and questionable to risk burning them with a curling iron. Pouring chemicals on Baby's head would seem to be the safe and sane solution. In the photo I am demonstrating the temperament that got me jobs – I was not fussy. On my first job a bee stung me on my lip. I never cried. The director told my mother to put champagne in my bottle that night because I had been such a pro. (I doubt she carried out his instructions) I don't remember being praised for my behavior during this “first perm” but I clearly remember my second. I sat with a towel up to my face trying to keep the fumes away. My eyes burned, I cried, I became very “fussy” My mother admonished me lamenting over how good I had been before. With the hindsight of an adult I realize that the distress I heard in my mother's voice was not anger directed at me for my temperament, it was concern that she was doing something wrong. But I didn't know that. I thought she was angry. I felt ashamed for being a big baby, I wanted to be brave and strong but the fumes were overwhelming me. I tried, I really tried my best but I just couldn't handle it. I remember her and the beautician discussing how it was the same formula that had been used before and all had gone so well, why was it all so different now? The choice was made to neutralize me before the timer went off. My relief had a price, for the next few weeks I had to listen to Mom complain about how that perm just didn't “take” because we neutralized too soon and this is why I had to sleep in curlers. So this was my punishment for not enduring the sting of amonia vapors.

My hair would become an analogy of my life, Sleeping in curlers assured that not only was my hair being curled but my subconscious mind as well. There was a constant need to look act and be different than who I was . The focus on my appearance contributed to making me who I am today – a miserable slob. Wouldn't you know I would become known to millions as “the youngest one in curls”. But my hair is straight dammit! At last the truth can be told! By the way, there are no violins playing in the background. This is not a sad story. Begging for coins to get enough to eat is a sad story of childhood. Sleeping in curlers in middle class America is nothing to get fussy about.

My Facebook Holiday Note

During this holiday season many people seem to have a problem with Christ being forgotten in Christmas and while most who know me know that I am not a fan of any religion, I find myself curiously agreeing with these people. I am fortunate to have what I think are great instincts but I often takes quite a while before I can understand my feelings enough to express them. I am learning to trust them without explanation a little more. Enough to be intuitive but not so much that I am driven by emotion without reason.

So I see fewer manger scenes and must admit this bothers me too. I want the religious symbols but I want them all. I want plenty of menorahs and dreidels. I want the pagan roots of the Christmas tree to be celebrated as well. Our cultural and spiritual customs are good when not taken too seriously. They make life rich. I even create them out of nonsense (Fake Jan Day is coming!). When my son was little it was imperative that I include a manger in with our Christmas decorations so that my son would know that this wasn't Santa Clause's birthday. I also wanted him to be able to celebrate Halloween but that practice was taken away by the very Christian community that I live in. A community which is foolish enough to feel threatened by pagan celebrations so nobody gets to have anything more specific than “Fall festival”. In my opinion that would be better named “PC Bullshit Day”. The idea that we all have to be the same in order to avoid conflict makes as much sense as buying all of your children the same gift so that nobody gets jealous. Do we really have to water life down that much? Are we really that incapable of handling our own human nature?

Well are we?

People are individuals. We also have a sense of wanting to fit in. It is a good balance, we need not mess with it. Individualism need not be feared if it is expressed with some level of responsibility for others. That said, Socialism need not be feared if applied appropriately. We need certain things to form a society. If we had to do everything for ourselves we wouldn't get very far. Try building yourself a car! In our early beginnings we found that we could get far more done if we pooled our talents. This is society, this is social, this is socialism and it's fine.

We also need to be individuals because if we don't have individual talents then what do we have to pool together? What would be the need to listen to another human being? Where would art be if everyone had the same talent? Sadly, there is a bad side to all things. The individual in his desire to be fulfilled becomes greedy and takes from others. Socialism creates frustration because it does not fulfill the individual. 

We have shown in this great country of ours that we can have it both ways. We have a blend. We have a successful blend the likes of which has never been seen before. We can combine individual talents to create social structures and we have roads and schools and many examples of socialism working well for us. Sure, all of these systems have also become corrupted and we need to fix that. But for the most part our way of life has worked well and has been adopted by many of the European countries from which we fled.

The greatest example of this freedom of the spirit is our freedom of spiritual practice. What better time to celebrate our ability to have freedom of religion than now during the holidays? To have people of different faiths spreading their own brand of joy should be the greatest thing. Sure some of these holidays are a bit of a stretch to give other cultures something akin to Christmas which is really a Pagan seasonal festival. Undoubtedly their roots are more deeply entrenched in the capitalism of Hallmark than real tradition - but so what? It's still a chance to celebrate in unique and diverse ways.

To claim that any religious symbols are an insult is just plain bad sportsmanship. Most of the intelligent atheists I know do not begrudge the symbols why should they? Well... sometimes they should ...Sometimes we all should. There is a time for religion to be seen as very offensive. That time is when religion crosses the line and gets mixed into our laws.

Then we ALL have something to fear.

The separation of church and state is in my opinion the foundation of this country It is the building block that if taken away makes the whole thing topple. (I know many people incorrectly believe is a Christian nation but I won't go into that here; please show the same restraint) It is profoundly important in keeping the peace and maintaining any freedom of religion. Without that separation you can not andshould not have freedom of religion. Without that separation any religion can, through law, be forced on another person and that is where everything becomes extremely UNHOLY!

As many of you have noticed I do drone on quite a bit about one particular religion. It is not so much the religion that is bothersome, it is that part of the religion that is not a religion at all. It is a political system that gets protected under the premise of being a religion and this is just wrong.

Political Islam represents such a perfect example of what can be wrong with religion. It is a demonstration of where that line is being crossed. It is all about crossing that line. And while the majority of people don't really practice this religion the way it is written, it is still written with the submission of all others in mind. It's very name means “submission”. It is a religion where there is no separation of church and state and it's laws are forced on non believers. There is no better example of what is wrong with religion and what needs to be stopped. I know I come off as a hate monger because I yammer on so much about this. It is not my intention to create hate. It is my effort to point the hate out. Unfortunately this becomes very much like smelling gas, you can't help but be accused of being the one who passed it.

Why is this so important? Am I being hysterical? I hope so. I really do. I would be more hopeful that I am wrong were it not for how small this fragile blue Christmas ball of a planet has become and how very easy it is just to blow the whole thing up. When certain ideologies are understood, the role of nuclear weapons takes on a greater meaning. The destruction of the planet fulfills the scriptures of more than one religion. We human beings are at a point in our evolution where we most definitely will NOT survive our religious differences and when we go, we will take the whole planet with us (which certainly wouldn't be fair to the nicer species that inhabit this place now would it?) I am not a bit happy to be of the opinion that we are at the zero hour. It is high time to start basing our morals and ethics on something more substantial and practical than myth and to take a look at the world around us with honesty unfettered by political agenda.

We have so many people who are committed to small thinking. We think with our egos, more concerned with being right than finding the truth. We think in terms of political parties. We think in terms that separate us in the hopes of being "better than". We will eagerly acknowledge the threat of Sarah Palin on the separation of church and state. I would agree with that but then why completely look the other way when it comes to something so much more threatening? It is like watching somebody standing on a chair to avoid a mouse in the room while ignoring the rabid dog that is poised to pounce. Just because there are many religious right wingers who are against Islam because it threatens Christianity's monopoly on faith does not mean that there is not a threat to everyone from POLITICAL Islam. This attitude is suicidal and take a good look at where this has gotten the other half of Western civilization: Europe (AKA Eurabia).

Violence ensues in Norway from political Islam being offended by Christmas lights but streets are illegally blocked off in France for Islamists to conduct their prayers. Danish children are not allowed to put any symbols of their country's flag on their clothing or backpacks because it will offend immigrants and they will get beaten up. This is human nature at it's most revolting. On one hand you have the offensive arrogance of a barbaric ideology seeing how far it can get by using intimidation. On the other hand you have the spineless who allow this to happen. The leaders of these countries are like weak parents who allow burglars into their homes and offer them a chance to rape their children in the hopes that they will be satisfied and go away. Both are examples of a disgusting failure to reach the higher levels of the human spirit. This is not about right and left, it is much bigger than that, it is about right and wrong. And unless we can get ourselves united in some way as human beings first and political parties and religions second, we don't stand a chance.

In view of mankind's inability to handle religion in a manner that makes it beneficial, it's more than tempting to say that it ought to be done away with entirely. We need to base our ethics and morals on something more appropriate than ancient man made myth and superstition. Charming as it can be, it isn't doing us any good.

Still, I hope we don't really need to do that. I hope that we can be grown up enough to handle religious freedom. Taking away a person's faith is an act of cruelty and many people actually DO use it for good! We just need to take our religions and keep them to ourselves. If everyone can take their own spiritual practice, be it Christian, Hindu, Wicca, quantum mechanics, non political Islam, etc. and let those beliefs create inside them a link to a higher self where we are all united, there would be no need to proselytize, we would be together. We might actually learn to love each other and we might survive ourselves.

In the mean time, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanuka , Joyful Kwanzaa and above all: REASON'S GREETINGS.

The Joe Schmurlo Incident

In the late 80’s I got a job as a graphic artist for a company called BJ Designs which was located in Malibu. The company operated from a house on Pacific Coast Highway right across the street from the beach and Alice’s Restaurant. It was really an idyllic situation in an idyllic location. In the beginning it was just me and one other artist named Bill. We got along great and became very good friends. He was often amazed at how far the sickness went in my sense of humor and I loved how he kept me laughing with jokes about dismemberment, birth defects and other tasteless fodder that I so enjoy. He was a very talented artist who used a lot of humor in his work; he treated me like his little sister. We happily toiled in a small bedroom of the house that had been turned into an art department with an ocean view. The only access to our little world was a sliding glass door and Bill made sure he had a spot at the window for the view. He wasn’t as concerned about seeing the ocean as he was seeing anyone coming towards our office. He had been the only artist and he had the gig worked out to his satisfaction. The company had no idea what it took to make the designs that he churned out and the less they knew, the less they could ask of him. I tried my best to keep things as lazy as they had been and certainly didn’t want to ruin his cushy deal by demonstrating how productive an artist actually could be. Try as I might, you can’t halt progress; the company was doing well and expanding and I was just the beginning of hiring new artists. Soon we would have an actual art department, and in time, a couple of go getters would ruin everything and set new standards for our performance. For now things were still sweet but the first step of progress was at hand: we needed a Stat camera.

A stat camera is a camera that is at least the size of a refrigerator, you can’t just pick one up at the store; and so a salesman came to our little home by the sea. His name was Joe Schmurlo; he was a nice enough man. He showed us photos of different models and their dimensions and electrical requirements and we pretended to know what he was talking about. We hemmed and hawed and tried to ask questions that made it seem as if we knew what to ask. Eventually we chose two models for our boss to consider using the highly scientific “Eeny Meeny Miny Mo” process of selection. He left behind brochures and his business card and a couple of price estimates on letterhead stationary. He remarked many times about how lucky we were to be working with this wonderful view and the great smell of sea air. We could never have imagined an argument against such an obvious fact. It was as though we had stolen the world. Churning out work at a snail’s pace in this great location made the whole situation like a paid vacation.

“Poor guy” Bill mused as he disappeared from our view. “He’s probably getting back into a hot car and spending the rest of the afternoon stuck in traffic on the freeway.”

“Yeah, that must suck.” I gloated, feeling kind of guilty.

“And it must really suck to work for a company that makes you put your picture on your business cards.”

“What?” I looked at Bill who was holding up the business card next to his face. Yes indeed, there was the man’s picture and underneath it said “Joe Schmurlo” Bill mockingly smiled the same smile. This struck us as funny. We thought it was very odd that he had his picture on his card we wondered if his company made him do it or if it was his own queer idea. In later years it became common for real estate brokers and such to put their faces on their business cards but back then this was weird. It was weird enough that we had to do something about it.

This was before computers and Photoshop or we would never have gotten any work done. We would have done nothing but mess around making each other laugh. We only had a Xerox machine that enlarged and reduced and we had type that we set by hand. I think our fun began with Bill just taking this picture of Joe, blowing it up to an uncomfortably large size and hanging it on a wall in our office. His name underneath made it funnier. People would ask “Who is that?” We’d say “It’s Joe Schmurlo, can’t you read?” And if someone dared to ask who Joe Schmurlo was we would just roll our eyes and tell them that it was too difficult to explain, "Either you know the man and his work or you don't."

Bill and I were both big fans of wacky packages so some fake products were in order. Since Old Joe had commented on “the great sea air” at our office, I made a fake box of “Joe Schmurlo’s Sea Snacks” “taste the ocean in every crunchy bite”  of course I put his photo on the label and altered it a bit to give him a bigger smile and crumbs on his face. The next morning I arrived to find the perfect snack companion: a bottle of “Joe Schmurlo’s Sea Swill” Ah, Bill had taken an empty Pepsi bottle, filled it with some fairly vile gutter water and slapped the home made label on it. He left it on my desk.

This turned into a typical competition / gift exchange between me and Bill. He left work after me in the evenings and I got to work before him in the mornings. I would aarive at work to find another new member of the fine line of Joe Schmurlo products proudly displayed on my desk. I'd be inspired and have something ready for him by the time he came in. Tiring quickly of food stuffs we moved on to sex products. There were Joe Schmurlo condoms “inner ribbing for my pleasure - to Hell with her” and Joe Scmurlo’s “Snatch Scratch” vaginal itch cream to name a couple of our top sellers. We ended up getting the camera directly from the factory and in time found something else to amuse each other with and we sort of forgot about Joe. Time marched on as did business as usual.

Then one fine morning when I was alone at work, I went down to our office and guess who’s there? That’s right, Good Ol’ Joe Schmurlo. It had been months since we’d had any fun at his expense and I’d forgotten about him. “Remember me?” He says. He stepped up to me, continuing, “I was in the area I wanted to see how the camera is working out. Can I come in?" Not thinking, I let him into the office, OOOPS! As he looks at the new camera I can see the various Joe Schmurlo products, kind of dusty and no longer prominently displayed, but definitely noticeable. Oh dear, he HAS to be seeing the various jars and boxes with his face on them. This is horrible! He’s not saying anything but he has to be seeing this. Certainly the 12” x12” mock up of an LP, “Joe Schmurlo, Songs for Lovers Only” must have caught his eye. I continued to make small talk trying to focus his attention on our fabulous ocean view.

What the heck could he possibly think? I can’t explain this! I can’t say “We didn’t mean any disrespect with this Joe Schmurlo hemorrhoid cream or lice removal tonic.” I instantly thought of that scene in “A Guide for the Married Man” where Joey Bishop's character is found by his wife, in bed with another woman. She’s yelling at him and he just keeps saying “What woman?” all the while the girl is getting dressed and eventually leaves with him denying everything and when he says “What girl?" for the last time, she actually is gone.  Yes, that is what I'll do. I'll just ignore what he's holding in his hand and say, "What bottle of douche with your face on it? I don't know what you're talking about." Deny, deny, deny! What else could I do?

Fortunately, he never mentioned anything. He left pretty quickly as he must have been embarrassed because had to have seen something. When Bill arrived, I told him what happened and he convulsed with laughter. We then took everything down, that way if Joe called our boss and said anything, we could really just deny it all.

Of course I can’t help but feel guilt. This poor man may have spent years with this haunting him; wondering what was wrong with him that made him so worthy of our ridicule.

I’m sorry Joe. Please accept my apology and consider what we did some strange artistic compliment.

Life Scripted

My friend, Brian, recently unearthed some old Brady Bunch scripts while helping clear a friend's father's place. He asked me if I would like to have them to possibly auction for Precious Paws (our animal rescue charity). I eagerly accepted them and when I got them home put them in a box noticing that the one on top was “Cyrano De Brady” This is the episode where Peter, unable to come up with the right words to impress a girl he likes, enlists the help of Greg who hides in the bushes telling him what to say. I didn't have a chance to look through all of the scripts before this one had a magical influence on our household.

My son has a very androgynous look. He's a lucky boy in that both girls and guys find him attractive and at this stage he finds them both attractive too. I would predict that he will wind up being straight but have made it very clear that if he is gay, he'll get no grief from me. God knows there are enough people who think it's their duty to impose any hurtful and stupid judgements that their equally ignorant belief system may have on homosexuals. Since I will never ascribe to such a perverse misuse of human intellect, he is safe with me but I have advised him that a “don't ask don't tell” approach is simply common sense. He definitely likes girls and he currently has one that he is very interested in. In an effort to please and impress her, he agreed to go with her and other friends to a Halloween dance. This group of kids decided they want to dress up as characters from “Rocky Horror Picture Show”. I was surprised that he knew what this was and then he reminded me that he'd seen the movie at the Bonaduce (as in Danny) house. The kids had gotten impatient and he never saw the whole movie. He assumed he was being asked to play the lead role which in his mind would be Frank N. Furter.

He was pretty excited about finding a corset and fish net stockings, I was surprised that he had the courage to be willing to don such a get up. But my son is quite the artist at heart and had he grown up when I did, he might have been in that whole Tiffany theater Rocky Horror scene that several of my friends actually created. I spoke to one of my friends and asked where to get a proper corset for the Frank get up. It seems the market is dominated with a one size fits only large men version that would never do for my slightly built 14 year old son. We discussed various options and when I next spoke to my son I said I was pretty confident that we could pull this off. I showed him pictures of Tim Curry as Frank and Mike said “Yeah that’s the guy, that’s Rocky”. “Well no, “ I corrected, that’s Frank. “She says she wants me to be Rocky”

But this is the star, this is Frank.

You mean Rocky isn’t the star?

No. He’s the creature Frank is making. He’s at the end of the movie.

My son said he’d find out for sure and soon came downstairs saying that he had called another girl to ask details about these costume plans. He isn't calling the girl he likes because he's too shy. “Valerie says that Liz says she wants me to be Rocky, not Frank. She says he's the one at the end of the movie. Rocky. What does he look like?”

Then I turned into Fog Horn Leg Horn. “What... I say what? Let’s get this straight Boy! That! ... I say, THAT is a whole different story!” All of my coolness about my son’s sexuality just went flying out the window and I realized there was a huge difference between “gay” and “just plain faggy ass”. “NO!! I WON'T LET YOU!” Were the next words that flew out of me. I then tried to explain. “That’s just not cool! If you’re going to go out in public wearing nothing but underwear, it needs to be cool!” I explained that dressing up as Frank was taking a big risk, it’s a brave thing to do and even if this girl decides she doesn’t think it’s cool, you will have made a strong statement that you can still feel OK about. Frank is cool. Frank is attractive to both men and women. But Rocky, well Rocky is just a TOOL in gold underpants. TOOL not COOL!

He talked to the girl’s friend who was the liaison for the whole thing. She texted back to him something about how much this girl will like him if he dresses like Rocky. OK now my fears are peaking . I realized that it was entirely possible that my son was being set up. What if they were insisting that he be Rocky just to get him to do something humiliating? And even if this was a simple oversight on their part they will surely realize what a bad move it is after about a minute. This reminded me of the time that the Billboard Awards wanted to reunite us Brady cast members as the Silver Platters. They wanted us to dress up in the old outfits and perform a song. In theory this was fine but in reality it would be glorious for about 15 seconds. The rest of the song would be sufficient time to carry us into irretrievable depths of humiliation. The same would be true for my boy.

“Honey, even if she thinks it’s great, you will be stuck for the entire evening wearing nothing but a spray tan and gold underpants, it will not be pleasant; I can't let you do this. I showed him what the character looked like. He hated it. He went back and texted the friend of the girl to tell her that he wasn’t going to do it. He was willing to be Frank but not Rocky. She replied that it meant a lot to the girl he liked and I suppose she inferred that he would score points with her. He was getting frustrated with me. He wanted to give in but I knew that if he did, it would lead to years of therapy. I knew I could just put my foot down and not let him go but I wanted him to work through this. I was also getting very suspicious of any girl that would try to entice my son to go to a dance wearing nothing but gold underpants. This was making me mad! I told him that he needed to tell this girl directly that he was not going to make a fool of himself. I figured that if she was simply toying with him as I suspect that she is, she really needs to see him stand up for himself and his own dignity. Through the day we went about our regular business while we discussed the matter. While pumping gas I asked him if there was a girl she was jealous of that she thought was really pretty. He mentioned Megan Fox. I said “Tell her that you wouldn’t even dress as Rocky for Megan Fox.” I kept throwing out suggestions until we got home and he handed me his phone and said “Can you just write it?”

That seemed simple enough and so I did. In a minute or two he got a reply saying something to the effect of "you promised now you aren't going to do it, some friend you are! Now we won't include you in any more of our costume collaborations... " This pissed ME off. I discussed his reply but since my ability to word things was better... My fingers were flying as I typed another text explaining that humiliating "me" should not be a necessary element of friendship. "I'd" given a more than adequate substitution of Frank and am now more than a little disappointed in how little respect she had for “my”feelings.

Having done more than my share of meddling I handed the phone back to Mike and told him what had transpired in his texted conversation and what “he” had said. I then left for another errand. When I got back he was beaming. He said she had apologized to him and said she was sorry for not appreciating his feelings. He was very happy. My texts did the trick. I looked at the box on the coffee table and saw the script on top “Cyrano De Brady”. I thought about life imitating art and decided that I'd better stop texting for my son lest this girl falls in love with me through my texts.

So I guess I don’t get to help my son dress up like a sweet transvestite. The kids all changed their minds and decided to dress to the theme of super heroes, Mike is happier because he's going back to his original idea of being a character from his favorite Video game franchise: Super Mario Brothers.

He's going to be Princess Peach.