Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Culture Clash, Politics

Donald Trump Isn’t Real REAL


“The brightest memory fades faster than the dullest ink.” ― Claudia Rankine

Ma says I should be more active. Blog more. Write more. Say things that mean something, especially since it’s 2016. She’s afraid that if I don’t write, things will change for the worse. In other words, she’s afraid she’ll be erased from existence. Get lost to the cosmic dust of Internet obscurity.

[For those of you just tuning in: ma and I aren’t real. We are make believe. Learn more about us here.]

That’s the thing with ma. She’s hard to understand and doesn’t understand this: she’s an invention. A figment of my fictitious imagination powered by a mind that’s flawed and unreliable, yet ma’s as real as the scar on my chin, a chin that doesn’t really exist nonetheless. Ma is the boot in the face of a face that doesn’t exist. And the boot, well, it doesn’t exist either. 

“And that’s the thing,” ma says. “You’re too psychological. Things like that shouldn’t concern you. Even the ‘real’ are delusional. Whether you’re real or not, doesn’t really matter any more. What matters is what you got to say even if what you say isn’t tangible or touching.”

I tell ma we’re not real just like our words are not real–and no matter how hard we try to mean something and to make that something become meaningful–our lives don’t matter.

“That’s fucking bullshit,” ma says in her piercingly unreal voice. “Our lives don’t matter. That’s why it’s so goddamn important that you make sure they do matter.”

It’s Sunday. Ma is drinking a warm can of Murphy’s Stout. Its caramel skin coats ma’s imaginary esophagus as I sit across from her studying the scars on her face. These postulates correspond to some truth hidden buried in her face. A kind of magical, twisted intellect informs her inappropriate worldview. Her wig is sad and ageless. Her only face since as far back as I can remember.

“Donald Trump isn’t real REAL,” ma says. “We make him real. We give him the time and space to exist in our culture, our politics, and we grant this to each and every one of us. We give him airtime and air hockey. We give him meaning out of all other possible meanings that could exist in his place. Use that space to create new possibilities.”

In many ways, ma is right even though she is flawed. She’s like the women left in these photographs. (Go ahead, click the link. It helps illustrate what I mean.) Without ma, or her words, even though those words or conjured up in the mind of a menace, at least she (sort of) exists. Occupies a finite space that could be occupied by someone else even more self-serving and maniacal.

“For now,” ma says. “Keep writing even though you feel like you’ve got nothing to say because nothing is something that silence can’t trump.”

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Family, Politics, The Mother, Themes

New Mexico: Capilia de Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe

When mom and I were in New Mexico we visited Jesus Christ @ the Capilia de Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe. The little church is located in the old town section of Albuquerque, which is pronounced Albuquerque. It wasn’t really Jesus in person, but a painting of the young Christ, stud like and gorgeous as he must have been in old Jerusalem. Mom said he looked hot. I told mom she’s nuts. Mom wrote him a note and left it for him. Just in case, she wrote. 555-759-2011. Collect calls gladly accepted, your Sexiness.

Jesus Christ by Neil de la Flor
Posted in Almost Dorothy, Amanda Bernstein, Characters, Family, Themes

New Mexico: The Kidnapping of Me


Mom kidnapped me from Amanda B.’s house and locked me in the trunk of her car, which is really just the backseat of the car, which is a 1980s yellow Volkswagen beetle bug. Actually, the Volkswagen sounds like a beagle and doesn’t really have a trunk. I wished mom wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t sure where mom was taking me, but I saw a  Fodor’s guide to New Mexico, so I guessed New Mexico or Fodor, which isn’t really a place on a map. It’s just a book with maps and ‘Best of’ lists. In record time we made it to Albuquerque. Mom supercharged on caffeine and beer and other stuff. We only stopped for gas  twice and shared a hot dog with sauerkraut. Shoplifted a bottle of Coors Lite. I’m watching my figure, mom said like she always says. I think we’re headed for a rebirth in our relationship because mom mumbled something while sleep-driving between New Orleans and Dallas. She babbled something about Los Alomos and the Virgen de Guadalupe, the value of a nuclear family and keeping your legs shut. She wants to reorganize or revirginize me. Scrape the boys out of me. I heard a dog bark when she dumped me in the backseat as she sped away from Amanda B.’s house while Amanda B. held on to mom’s hair for dear life. It’ll grow back mom said as Amanda B., the B is for Bernstein and the B is always silent, shrunk to nothing in the rearview mirror. We’re not a family without the B., I said, as we spend away from Amanda B.’s. Bobo the Mutt backseat barking like a good dog. I was blind-folded and I couldn’t see anything and thus, therefore, I was able to see right through mom. Right through her plot to save my soul from Amanda B.,  to split us up into separate camps, and to show us she loves us even though she shows us something else.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, The Potty Mouth Interviews

Brent Goodman: The Buddha System

The Brother Swimming Beneath Me

Brent Goodman loves Bubba Gump. Brent Goodman loves the universe. Brent Goodman is a sassy man. Brent Goodman is not Brenda Goodmen. I don’t know why he agreed to be interviewed by me, but he did, and I promised I would do everything in my power to ruin his reputation. If you haven’t read Mr. Goodman’s work, or Mrs. Goodmen’s work, or never tasted Bubba Gump shrimp, it’s time you get on board. Take a bite. Wrap yourself up and let him swim inside your head.

Almost Dorothy: Dear Buddha, if heaven is not an ecosystem, then what makes a field of dreams?

Brent Goodman: I’m sorry I thought I made that crystal. In the fire ants’ trail of footprints, raindrops river the forest floor. Sometimes a kid in a little league uniform with thick lenses peers down into the grass, focusing the sun into a ribbon of smoke. A praying mantis stops praying. In heaven they call this “good weather.”

AD: Do you dream in color, black & white, in language & text, or a combination of all the above?

Continue reading “Brent Goodman: The Buddha System”

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Themes, Travel

Almost Dorothy Is Not a Trucker

I had to hitchhike home from Denver because I lost my identification card. The TSA wouldn’t let me on the airplane because they thought I would cause problems, like put my tongue in the pilot’s ear or trip the stewardess as she passed out gin and tonics. I’m not a jerk, I’m a kid. I really think the TSA are jerks and stink really really bad. However, I’ve forgiven them. On my way home,  I discovered what I will be when I grow up. For example, first of all, and foremostest, I want to be a trucker because truckers drive trucks, and trucks are awesome. Trucks have wheels and a horn that toots really loud. I also want to be a hooker, but that’s because they get to hang out with truckers often. But hookers don’t have trucks, at least not the big big trucks that I want one day. I also kind of want to be a Taxi driver but I hate the color yellow. I love the color purple but someone said I can’t paint my taxi purple because no one will want to ride in my taxi. I also want to be a mechanic. I like tools. I like grease. Enough said about that. I’m also considering a career in cow farming, or herding, or whatever it is you call it when you raise cows and turn them into milk. It’s fascinating. I always thought milk came from breasts. Anyway, when I got home, mom was pissed cause I arrived like 4 or 13 days later than she expected. She said she almost called the cops but changed her mind because she wasn’t sure how she’d explain why she sent me away to Denver in the first place.  Mom didn’t want to get arrested, again. In any place, I’m home. Mom is home. Bobo the Mutt is home. Amanda Bernstein is home. The phone is off the hook and I definitely don’t want to be a hooker now that I think of it. I really like to drive trucks. I don’t want to be tossed out of ’em at the end of the day like most hookers are tossed aside like a piece of meat, or cow tongue. On second thought, maybe I’ll start a labor union for hookers and fight for safe working conditions for  all hookers, and even non-hookers, or friends of hookers, like teachers. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll open up a union for hookers and maybe then women will finally get the respect they deserve. Truckers are jerks. They’re big fat fucking jerks.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Amanda Bernstein, Characters, Family, The Mother, Themes

Fight Club: Amanda Bernstein vs Mom

Mom just broke up with Amanda Bernstein. Amanda Bernstein just broke up with mom. No one packs their bags. Mom throws a crockpot at Amanda Bernstein. Amanda Bernstein calls mom a crackpot. The crockpot cracked. They’re in the kitchen and there’s a chicken on the kitchen counter. Amanda Bernstein throws a cornmuffin with chocolate chips at mom. Mom picks up the cornmuffin and eats it. The kitchen is under assault but the chicken is okay for now. Mom calls Amanda Bernstein a bitch. Mom makes oo ooo oo uh uhhh oo ooo monkey sounds in response. Scratches her armpits.  Puffs her chest. Amanda makes monkey sounds too. Puffs her chest and scratches her armpits. The kitchen is a zoo and the chicken is still dead on the kitchen counter. No one moves. Not even the chicken. Ooo oo uh uhh oo oo, I say. Ooo oo uh uhh oo oo, they respond and then we all laugh–except the chicken. He just doesn’t get our humor. Plus, he’s dead dead.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Amanda Bernstein, Characters, Politics, The Mother, Themes

Ryan Sorba Is A _______!

Mom thinks the grounp Young Americans for Freedom is a hate group. Mom thinks all they want is to see her dead. Her son dead. Her lover dead. All of us dead who think all humans should have the same rights. Mom will have more to say on Ryan Sorba later but right now she is in the process of putting on her lesbian shoes. The ones she wears to protest. The sames ones with the high high heels she wears to work when she strips for the Young Americans for Freedom. Mom is going to make breakfast today and wear her high high heels while she makes breakfast. Amanda Bernstein and I called the fire department just in case she burns the house down. We hope Ryan Sorba shows up so we can show him how supernatural mom really is. Like a Clydesdale. Bigger and stronger than he’ll ever be. Even though he has fancy eyebrows we can see right through him. We hope he shows up for breakfast so we can show him how good it tastes.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Politics, The Mother, Themes

Jason Mattera Is A ________!

On February 18th, 2010 Young America’s Foundation spokesracist, Jason Mattera, tells a crowd of horny conservatives that liberals and Barack Obama snort cocaine. (See below and New York Times article written by Kate Zernike.) As a result, mom goes off. See below. Warning: this is a cock rant.

Mom’s favorite song is “Cocaine” but she says she hates cocaine and hates Jason Mattera’s claim that liberals snort cocaine. Mom wants to know if Jason Mattera has ever sucked cock because it’s like snorting cocaine. Mom wants to know if Jason Mattera wants to suck cock because our neighbor is very horny today and she’s busy and doesn’t have time to suck his cock. Plus, he smells. Mom wants to know if Jason Mattera has sucked Glenn Beck’s cock or Dick Cheney’s cock or maybe someone who actually has a cock, like Barack Obama or Rachel Maddow. Mom wants to know if Jason Mattera’s mother loves him. Mom wants to know if Jason Mattera’s mother has ever sucked cock or snorted cocaine. Mom wants to know if Jason Mattera’s father has ever sucked cock or snorted cocaine. Mom wants to know if Jason Mattera’s father loves him. Mom wants to know if he has sucked his father’s cock or snorted cocaine while sucking his father’s cock. Mom wants to know why Jason Mattera is obsessed with cocaine and cock. I tell her she shouldn’t talk about his family like that. Mom tells me she should because words matter and racist motherfuckers like Jason Mattera will cut us down if we let them. That’s the truth, she says. 

Mom says she snorted cocaine but that was when she was a registered Republican. That was when her Republican husband, my father, forced her to snort cocaine while sucking his cock. He liked that. She didn’t like that. She became a Democrat because she didn’t want to snort cocaine anymore or suck my father’s Republican cock. I tell her probably most likely Jason Mattera is obsessed with cocaine because it begins with coc just like my father was fond of cocaine and getting his cock sucked. Mom hated when father forced her to do things she didn’t want to do, like suck his cock or be a Republican. Mom says Jason Mattera sucks. Mom says Jason Mattera probably wants to snort cocaine and/or needs to get his cock sucked by a woman (or man) who knows how to suck. Cock. Mom says Jason Mattera makes a great spokesman for the Racist Republican Party. Mom says Jason Mattera makes a great spokesman for everything that is great about America. The freedom to speak gives mom the freedom to know who hates her and where he works. Mom says she lives in America because she was born here. She loves her freedom to suck or not to suck cock, to snort or not to snort cocaine, and to resopnd to those who claim she snorts cocaine or sucks cock. Mom wishes Jason Mattera luck but not too much luck. Mom says Jason Mattera just wants to be loved. Can’t blame him for that. Like me I think. Just like you she says. Mom knows what I think now and then. She also knows men will say (or do) anything to get laid. Like dad did. Like Jason Mattera did when he used cocaine.


Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Family, Squinny

Almost Dorothy: Character

My friend Squinny says my scar gives me character. I show her my Swiss Army Knife and ask her if she wants a scar and she says no way no thanks are you crazy? Squinny has a future in drag racing. I don’t mean the kind of racing done with cars or motorcycles. I mean the kind of racing done with too much lipstick and glitter gloss. I let her wear my training bra to school underneath her uniform. We exchange underwear in the men’s room. She fills the bra with socks. The other kids call her Bob but Squinny doesn’t think Bob fits her figure or her future career in Spandex. I tell her the name Bob gives her character but she says it gives her the wrong kind of character, like the character of a trucker or a retired lawyer. I really think a scar will give her character. When she gets her sex change she’ll have a scar in the you know what. She says no one will notice except maybe her future husband and that’s only if she gets married. She is undecided. She wants kids but can’t stand the smell. She loves men but she’s not a homosexual. I won’t get married till I’m a woman, she says. Fine, I say, be that way. I’m only a child but I know she will go through with it one day, i.e. the sex change. Squinny is my best friend. She looks like Charles Jensen but way younger (not that Charles is old) and she doesn’t have face hair (like Charles), at least not yet. Squinny can’t sing even though she tries “Oh My Darling Clementine”. Squinny is a jerk sometimes, never shares. Has temper tantrums. Loose stool. She just doesn’t eat right.  She’s a character, the kind you find in fa la la land or Las Vegas, not Disney World. Squinny will change the world one day, I know it. She will. One night she’ll dangle above the Grammy stage like Lady Gaga or Bruno in her finest wig and sparkley underwear. She will point me out in the crowd and say this one is for you. And, if she doesn’t, for some reason beyond her control (everything is beyond Squinny’s control), I will commit this story to history. In her honor.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Family, The Mother

Almost Dorothy: Cold Cold Cold

It’s 32 degrees outside and mom won’t take a shower. She’s smoking a cigarette topless on the front porch. The neighbors love her. I do too. She says the cold is the only thing that makes her breasts look a few years younger. She takes advantage of the weather and what it does for her figure. She has a reputation and a shower will only prune her. She says she needs to look good to get a job. Mom is off today but she has a long week ahead of her at the unemployment line. Plus, she has her under the table jobs. By under the table I don’t mean anything sexual, but mom will do what she’s got to do to keep a roof over our heads. We’re not living out of no goddamn car, she says. I ain’t no man’s woman either. I promise I will take care of her one day when I’m old enough. I promise I will help her get the boob job she’s always wanted. I promise her I’ll never be no man’s woman either. She laughs. Lights another cigarette. Waves to Squinny’s dad. You’re never too old, she says. Men ain’t so bad. Just keep ’em off the grass.