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Embrace Your Inner Sociopath

     (loosely inspired by the book of 

     the same name by Jenny Mollen)

If you’re Jason Biggs’ wife, don’t
just write a book about hair, I
believe she’s saying. Hair is
somehow related to sociopathy,

it would seem. One learns a
lot more on YouTube these days
than one (at least I) bargains
for. Just a few new musical

talents would wet my whistle,
having been a pariah of society
for so long now, and attempting
to un-pariah myself, slowly but

oh I certainly do hope surely.
But I can’t stop listening. I
Have the same problem with
almost all news related to

our president and the soap
opera he so entertainingly
spins from surreality. That
thought makes me con-

tinue to watch Ms. Mollen,
who shows everyone in the
studio audience how to
properly breastfeed. “One

must make sure the curtain
hangs open at least enough
on the mound not being
sucked that it is visible.

We call this showing off
our voluptuous.” There
is a pause as if this must
be truly taken in. “And if

you happen to have two
going at once?” an aud-
ience member goads.
So Ms. Mullen demon-

strates that the volupt-
uous results in such a case
can be awe-inspiring, if not
entirely too compelling to wit-

ness by a generic human (and
I’m exhausted by the fact that
she must mean people of all
sexes; makes me glad I never

had one of the little devils).
This double-do of course is
double-voluptuous, not
dissimilar to the Wrigley’s

Spearmint Gum twins. And
because of them as well.
God it sounds so tongue-
in-cheek, but I do love

celebrity gossip (unless
the celebrity is celebrity
due to participation in
a sport; or is one of the

Kardashians). I truly am
taken with this Jenny Mollen
Biggs (yet why she doesn’t
appropriately add her hus-

band’s surname, given the
topic of voluptuousness and
all, is truly beyond me). But
nothing shatters the fact

that she’s so damned CUTE.
And to top off this cuteness,
she cuts into a story (is it
in the book, is all I keep

wondering) about how she
dropped her son on his head
when he was a toddler, fract-
uring his skull, in fact. There

is an entire school of guilt,
it turns out, regarding this
apparently common and
worrisome event that hap-

pens at least once around
toddler-hood. This guilt.
Well, sure. I suppose I
get it. But more than

anything else, this phe-
nomenon underscores,
personally, for me, how
celebrity kids are not much

different than you or me
(not being much of a cel-
ebrity, of course; at least
not yet, anyhow). It seems

that there would be excep-
tions to that little rule,
though. So, are we then
to get psychopathic with

any and all toddler-aged
kids world-wide? I’m so
sold. Even thought I’m not
quite sure yet what the key

word in the title, which,
whoops, is sociopath and
not psychopath, to which
I’d just alluded. My bad.

And, I’m also more than
a bit in tune with how
influenced I am by this
amazing martyr of a wo-

man who just happens to
be married to the perhaps
underrated but too over-
stated Mister Jason Biggs.

That verity rises above the
crown of my head to form
the shape of a dizzying halo.
Which seems more than right.

I nevertheless look forward
to embracing my own opinions
on the matter, of course. At
some point. I’m sincerely hoping

that it isn’t just one more thing
from which us guys are vehement-
ly exempt (read, disallowed) from
doing or in participating in any way.

It does sound nurturing and
a perfectly awesome way
to get in touch with our
feminine sides (sparse as

they may be in some of us).
But she sticks with the
story of dropping her son
on his noggin, repeating

the moment’s scene incess-
antly. And, sadly, I don’t
believe noggin-fractured
kid is even Biggs’ boy.

Poor Biggs sits at a table
that is placed on obvious
display for the interview’s
television audience, behind

and to the left of the ladies
at the table, front and center.
He’s on a dais a couple feet
in height, so he resembles

a museum exhibit or zoo
animal. With nothing to
do, really, unless he wants
to meed the gaze of a hostile

audience now and again (and
I suppose I don’t spend enough
time on that hostility and from
whence it might have derived);

we, the audience, see him
refer regularly to a copy of
his wife’s book. I notice a
definite Season One of Orange

Is the New Black look that is
exacerbated by the obviously
unintentional bald spots that
dimly light his head. Certainly

there is nothing National
Lampoon (nor molested
apple pie) about this
particular version of

Biggs. Half-listening
to his wife, I begin to
nod my head in agree-
ment (her voice has a

very mesmeric quality
to it) as she lures me
back to the impossible
combination that pro-

vides an incredible all-
ure (and I can see that
I’m not at all alone on
this; plus the guests are

at least eighty-five per-
cent female, at least to
these eyes, I should app
ropriately add). In ess-

ence, the moral of this
story (and presumably
the moral of the book
she is tandemly touting)

is don’t drop your kid on
his or her noggin. Unless
it just happens, in which
case, we all should suppose

“Why not; might as well.”
It’s a bit confusing (and
here, I cognizantly assume
this confusion must be test-

osterone-related) whether
she’s encouraging the prac-
tice or just finding method-
ology to excuse it; to elim-

inate the guilt that surely
surrounds and follows one
after the act of dropping
your kid head-first on the

floor, or god-forbid a con-
crete sidewalk, perhaps.
And, come on, who doesn’t
drop their child on their head

at one point or another? Al-
though I do suppose that mak-
ing a habit of it might be an
incredibly alarming thing for

all involved. I'm not always
the brightest, but even I
know that for real answers
to these burning questions

on this subject I’ve never
given a thought to is that
the entire world population
of mothers should be con-

sulted. Scientifically. As
purely as is convenient.
Perhaps even a random
sampling of fathers, too.

This I think surely due
to the fact that I’d love
to be involved in such
a census; to affect

some world knowledge.
Wouldn’t that be a
kick?! Granted, I’ve
never had a child of

my own—that I know of,
anyway. Well, I’m not
even sure Ms. Mollen-Biggs
is a celebrity or not. But

she has turned out to be
such a delight to catch. And
has encouraged such ex-
pansion of thought. And

this isn’t even TMZ (which,
truth be told, I never watch,
anyway—and my wife loves
to repeatedly remind me that

this fact makes me a complete
celebrity gossip hypocrite). It’s
CNN where I get the brunt of
my celebrity gossip, while try-

ing so hard to skip the rest of
the news altogether. But.
Celebrity gossip. What can
you do? At least when you’re

me. I can attest to the fact
that I never once spent mon-
ey (mine or anyone else’s)
on a National Enquirer. I

can even say with some con-
viction that this is a good thing.
And while I cannot say how
good or bad this segment has

been for anyone in today’s
audience, I do sincerely
believe that it’s not been
a great couple of hours for

our dear Mr. Biggs. Nor,
perhaps, I must sigh, for
CNN, who decided to take
this initial plunge into the

‘studies’ of his psy-
chotic or pathologic or
sociopathic, yet oddly
hypnotic wife and her

unpinpointable cause
celebre. Whatever can
be said, I’ve certainly
had my moment of

growth today. And all
of those in attendance
have surely had one as
well. Even with the ad-

mixture of disturbing
and confusingly comical,
life-threatening stories
such as this must abound.

I am even certain there
will be things that I learned
from this spectacle which
will only be discovered in

hindsight. So, without even
delving too deeply into the
disturbing parts (I’m easy
to tune out, you see, and

quick on the draw with re-
gard to such matters), I pic-
ture the audience departing
quickly up and out of the

theatre doors and into
the mid-day sunlight
as better people for
having experienced a

spare moment or two on
such a confusing subject
(which I am not convinced
is less confusing than when

off she roiled with the first
few words of the evening).
But doesn’t that confusion
somehow equal a relatively

higher level of import-
ance than, say, less confus-
ing stuff? Like Newton’s Law,
I suppose. Anyway, I’d never

even given this subject a
chance; or, well, it is one
that I must admit never once
crossed my mind in the first place.

That is not until today, when I had
the honor of attending this fine
pseudo-political event. Something
that always comes to mind when I

drop by one of these town hall
meetings is that life, you know, is
honestly a total gamble. Don’t
you think? I certainly do.