When my mom died, I had to find a home for her panther. Not an actual endangered wild cat, a lamp.
There is some unwritten statute of limitations on how long one can whine about a crappy childhood, a negligent parent, a few too many chicken pot pies, summers with the grandparents, days spent on Greyhound buses and with dubious caregivers and creepy neighbors. There is just a moment in an adult’s life when the complaining and sad-sacking about how our parents got divorced, or lost custody, or bailed, or otherwise stank up the joint is just kind of pathetic. Let’s face it, that moment had come and gone for me.
I had to look inside myself, which was kind of like looking into my high school locker: moldy half-eaten sandwich, a few loose Starburst candies, heaps of notebooks and burrito-stained gym clothes obscuring the few things of value. Sure, there’s a book of Sylvia Plath poems and a valid bus pass, but good luck finding them while avoiding that festering tuna salad from yesteryear.
I was in seventh grade when my dad took me to see a Turkish movie exploring the lives of five prisoners given a week’s home leave in the aftermath of a coup d’etat.
Being pregnant for the first time I’m scared and I want my mommy. I just don’t want my mommy.
My chat with Pat has gotten far more feedback than any other interview I’ve done in my almost three years as co-host on The Adam Carolla Show. Well, it was really more like Adam Carolla’s chat with Pat, and by Pat, I mean writer and political commentator Pat Buchanan
So, hopefully, despite the fact that I\'m not suffocatingly lonely or in a relationship laced with toxic levels of resentment, I still have a fertile patch of pain from which insights can grow, like that brilliant one I had earlier about leaving the house. What a relief.
I would take my mom against Clint Eastwood in any movie. Sure, he usually plays a grizzled, gunslinger with cat-like reflexes and something to prove, but if you cross my mother, you will find yourself, like the title of Clint\'s greatest Western, \"Unforgiven.\"
At 72, Roth recently became the youngest living author to be honored by the Library of America, which issues hardcover collections of the country\'s most accomplished writers. The first two volumes, covering Roth\'s work through the early 1970s, are out this fall.
Another woman has come into my relationship with my boyfriend, and she\'s the best thing that\'s ever happened to us. A week ago, a 22-year-old Japanese foreign exchange student named Mari moved in with us for the month while she studies English in the morning and hip-hop dances in the afternoon.
Back in the primitive days of male hugging, my dad was what trend watchers might call \"an early adapter.\" When few of the other Little League dads hugged their sons, my dad clutched my older brother any chance he got, Mr. Focker-like, at the drop of a bat.
Is our culture trying to scam us into having kids? This is an epic question and I only have 850 words, so let me start close to home, with my grandma. \"Listen to me,\" she said last week over the phone from Reseda. \"You have to have kids. You\'ll never regret it. It\'s the best thing you\'ll ever do. Listen to your grandma.\" Catch any celebrity parent on a talk show and you\'re likely to hear the same sentiment about the singularly life-changing effects of parenthood. When Jude Law, Eminem, Denise Richards and Esther Strasser agree on something, you have to give it consideration.
In one night, I had dinner at an all-you-can eat salad bar in Arcadia, met my father\'s first girlfriend in 25 years and weathered a nearly disastrous poetry emergency. Sound the onomatopoetic sirens; this thing was a relationship 911. Free verse was about to cost my father the best relationship of his life. And it was my fault. What rhymes with \"Zero tact\"? So there I was, sitting across the table from dad\'s new girlfriend, trying to impress her, using my best table manners, eating forkfuls of canned beets on my self-consciously dainty salad and thinking to myself: \"This is just weird.\"
There\'s nothing inherently wrong with reading celebrity gossip magazines. If you can do it in moderation, I applaud you (and please let me know if Lindsay Lohan\'s dad ever gets his act together). In my case, however, I was a problem reader and I had to put the magazines down.
It\'s Davidson, as in Ronald Davidson, my stepfather. He died yesterday at 62 and that\'s why I\'m at a funeral home out on Charleston Boulevard in Las Vegas. My mom is here, too, and though there are copious boxes of proper tissue in the place, she is clinging to the roll of toilet paper she\'s had by her side since returning from the hospital with nothing but a bag of Ron\'s stuff: slippers, a stack of Louis L\'Amour paperbacks, his watch.
I was headed into a pizza joint for a slice when I noticed a guy whose face looked eerily familiar. I couldn\'t place him but he gave me a subtle nod, frat-boy style. Just as I snapped my head back to make sure it actually was the dude from \"Average Joe,\" he was craning his head back, too.
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