(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 day
than one (at least I) bargained
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 reality. 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 caused
by participation in some
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 ubiquitous 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 side (sparse as
it may be on 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 as
an obvious display site
for the interview, behind
and to the left of the ladies
at the table, front and center.
He’s on 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 where
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 Orange
Is the New Black look that is
exacerbated by the obviously
intentional 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 (to these
eyes, I should appro-
priately 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 attribute
this confusion must be test-
osteron-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
incrediby alarming thing for
all involve. 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 encouraged such ex-
pansion of thought. And
this isn’t even TMZ (which,
truth be told, I never watch,
anyway—which my wife
loves to repeated remind me
that this 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 ours 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 deep into the
disturbing parts (I’m easy
to tune out, you see, and
quick on the draw with re-
gard to such matters). I
picture the folks 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 deeper
confusion somehow equal
a relatively higher 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 to one of these town hall
meetings is that life, you know, is
honestly a total gamble. Don’t
you think? I certainly do.
