Sunday, November 13, 2005

Outrageous Mother

"Hey Man, lets go shopping."
"Mam, why’d you call me man?"
She dressed in skin-tight, blue jeans and a Die Hard, white vest, her cleavage bursting and hair hanging loosely over her sun spotted shoulders. She came across as immensely fuckable, and if a child was any indication, she was. The telltale earphones of an ipod slinked up her side, from her hip pocket, and dangled around her neck like a fashion accessory but it was more, because she listened to all of the hippest, newest bands. Some so new as to only have one song that was really a cover, but they put their backs into it and totally meant it and they will write their own material really soon, but first they need to lock down a genre.
Mom drives a fast car, her son tied tight to the passenger seat with a four-point, rally style seat belt, choking him around corners. Her car CD changer held only best ofs and then only of bands older than twenty years and with less than two albums, their best-ofs really being an accumulation of their entire catalogues. Her son snorts as Marquee Moon begins, his tinnitus denying him the absolute pleasure of Tom Verlaines’ wicked guitar playing. His mother howls into the wind, the convertible top down and her wild, bleached hair whipping out behind her unattended.
She has no qualms removing her top in the Gap. Totally uninhibited and wearing a flower printed bra, she tries on random tops, each one free from the confines of sleeves and necklines, each one highlighting another positive aspect of her natural body, round and happy. Her son hides behind other women; praying that he will be snatched away by one of them, each one in a dress suit and a hurry. His mother spins and laughs, striking a pose and calling her son.
“Hey hun, come here, come here. Whatcha think of this top?”
He covers his eyes and shakes his head.
Hopping down the street in her new clothes, her old ones donated to charity, mom buys a balloon, giggling like a girl her sons’ age. She writes “HAPPY HERE!” on it in big, red, round letters and lets go of it, pointing as it floats over a shop building out of view.
“Come on”, she grabs her son, “lets chase it.”
“No mom, lets go home!”
“Don’t be like that, big puss. Lets see where it goes.”
“Mom, not here. Not with me.”
He tugs his arm free of moms grasp and stands strong, resistant to the fact that the person he is squaring up to is his mother.
“You’re always doing this to me mom, embarrassing me in public. I’m sick of it, having to hide myself around you, afraid that one of my friends might see me with you. You’re not cool mom. You just not cool. Despite how hard you try, you will never be cool.”
She knows it is never anything to do with cool, so she smiles.
“Hey, what to go see a matinee of Rock Horror Picture Show with your mother?”
He sighs.
“Okay mom.”
He loved her really.


  1. How did you cope as a child?

    That explains a lot.

    Verlaine is a master. NO question.

  2. I'm not sure this is Mammy Meehan that's being referred to.

  3. Sure are a lot of boobies mentioned here these days. Pictures wouldn't hurt; just random boobs from your hood or mummy boobs or man boobs. Anything would be good, actually.

  4. I'm not a fan of bands committing their artistic endeavour(s) to a single genre.

    I'm not in a band - not because I'm incapable but because I don't care about things a gret deal, at the height of which is practicing something to be good enough to perform it in public, like flawlessly hitting a triangle in order to make it sing like a triangle - but if I were in a band I'd be doing music of every imaginable genre, much like sex on stage if it pleases the court.

    I've been listening to a lot of The Flaming Lips lately (hence the avatar [me loves that word]) and they're all over the fucking place, like wooooooeeeeoooaaaah and shit.

    Actually, I've spent the last four days watching the download meter increase in bulk as it downloaded nine of their albums. I didn't even know they had nine albums.

    But, yeah, just to reiterate: boobs.