Mother May I Sleep With Donna?

I love my mom. Times I said that, I would’ve been lying. Now, we have a delightful relationship. Even if she made my home life unsatisfactory at times, it was nothing compared to her childhood. Where there’s love, there needs to be grace too.

Last year I invited Mom to a storytelling showcase I was doing during a visit to hometown Kansas City. Theme was “Teenager of the Year.” The first few performers told stories of horrible, drug-addled mothers. As I was welcomed onstage, my mother whispered, “She’s not going to tell a bad story about me, is she?”

I didn’t. How awkward—airing Mommy issues to a crowd, Mommy included? Save it for a therapist, or the shitty poetry you write and show to no one. Or Barbara Walters, who confronted Tori Spelling on a recent airing of the View.

Tori, like me, took the high road, saying it should be settled between herself and Candy, widow of Aaron Spelling, producer of one of my favoritest shows ever, Beverly Hills, 90210. 9-0 is Tori’s biggest claim to fame for role of virtuous, booty-short wearin’ Donna Martin. Tori. Gob love ya, but my father doesn’t call you “Jo-Jo the Dog-faced Boy” for nothing.

Tori wouldn’t talk about her moms with Barbara, but she didn’t have a problem dishing in her recent “book,” Mommywood.

Now a mother of two, Tori shares the joys and woes of rearing little ‘uns, hoping she doesn’t fuck up their lives as much as Candy fucked up hers. All young Jo-Jo wanted was a normal childhood, not a daddy producing Dynasty and Love Boat, or a house with 400 rooms or a mom named Candy, who constantly reminded Tori what a dog-faced little girl she was.

The line at Tori’s Columbus Circle Borders book signing was surprisingly immeasurable. I didn’t stay (it was a Friday night, c’mon), but I did pass Tori and husband Dean talking to press. I must say, while homegirl was stupid skinny (People at the Borders’ register shows an indignant Tori, caption “I’m not anorexic!”), she was actually kinda cute. Seriously.

Tori’s book tour comes on the heels of her recent guest stint on horribly revamped 90210. The original never won a Peabody, but at least Dylan was a fucking fox and even if you hated Brenda, it was an enjoyable sort of hatred. Annie, the neu-Brenda, portrayed by lolli-pop head Canadian Shenae Grimes is intolerable at best. The show’s blatant Dr. Pepper product placement (they have pregnant teen Arianna, the only likable character on the show, downing Dr. P in her third trimester) is the strongest plot staple. They’ve raped the memory of Jackie Taylor, mother of Kelly and Erin Silver.

If in need of an evil mother, Felice Martin would’ve been fine. Gawd, Donna’s mom was a sanctimonious shrew. Like when Kelly, Donna, Brenda and David tried to sneak into Color Me Badd’s hotel room, and Donna discovered her mom in the arms of a man who was not Dr. Martin? What a hypocrite bitch! I digress.

Tori and Donna both had shit moms. On Candy Spelling’s web site, she more or less blames Tori for Aaron’s death, even though dude was like 107 years old. Not cool. Though we’ve had our rough spots, my mom would never do that to me.

–Megan Metzger

Pomp Goes Global: Mom Writes from Chile, Valparaiso

Querido Mijito,

Greetings from Chile's charmingly seedy second largest city! No Big Macs, I order "guaton" a triple decker 5 inch round sandwich layered with meat, melted cheese, lettuce, tomato, and guacamole. Taking a launch boat in the harbor I motor past ocean liners, tankers, the Chilean armada, and sea lions basking on buoys.





My calf muscles aching climbing the city's 45 hills, I turn a corner and there's a street art version of your psychedelic dream girl. My favorite, winding through a maze of streets with only my camera. Do the colors of the houses match the cars or is it the other way around? The streets play tricks on me. Last week I passed the statue of the national poet and a local look-a-like was posing with him. This week, on the poet's birthday, they painted him silver, turning him into Elvis!







The hundred year-old indoor markets remind me of the Lower East Side's Essex Street Market when you were a toddler in the ‘90s, except for marisquerias on second floors, where proprietors beseech me to try caldos de mariscos while stray cats scrounge for scraps.





Street marionettes performing tango music lured me to Teatromuseo - a puppet and clown museum. I can take a funicular for around 20 cents, I hop one of these vintage cable cars to ascend the hills and then take the stair path down checking out graffiti.





About a half hour from the city, I visit Laguna Verde - a green lagoon surrounded by mountains where awkward and mysterious, masked birds congregate. A two hour bus ride takes me to Horcon, a seaside town, where men on horseback pull a fishing boat to shore.





I visit the home of Pablo Neruda, the Nobel Prize winning poet and national hero, at Isla Negra, with Neruda's many collections; old glass bottles, masks, wooden ships' figureheads, butterflies, naughty postcards. A sailboat in his side yard never entered the water. He traveled farther in his imagination.

Abrazos y besos,
Mom

Delayed Reaction

At twenty-one, I hated interning for a political newsletter in DC. I was stressed out all summer, convinced my boss thought I couldn’t do anything right. In my quest to be a serious reporter, I tripped and fell on the floor of the capitol building in front of five congressmen. I asked Jesse Jackson “How’s it goin’?” blowing any opportunity to get exclusive quotes. When Florida’s democratic congressman Wexler asked me if I had any questions following a press conference on off-shore drilling, I panicked “No, sir. I just wanted to thank you.” I was nervous and nauseous, my editor was pissed. It took a year before I was able to appreciate all I learned: how to bounce back and work under pressure.

In a society valuing speed and instant gratification, people don’t have patience. We text on our i-phones while speeding down highways in SUVs. I enjoy a slower pace. It’s nice to be able to take my time. I love the small details, tiny moments otherwise overlooked. During a hike in the Adirondacks I saw a small, grey mouse in the underbrush alongside the dirt trail. I stood and watched, wondering weather the tiny creature would find adequate food and safety. I named him Gus-Gus. Far ahead, no one else saw.

The future comes fast enough. I knew people who were looking forward to the senior prom as sophomores in high school. As juniors, they looked toward college. When their college graduation day arrived, these habitual hurriers had already picked retirement homes. It’s not that I don’t plan for my future. As an unemployed would-be journalist, I’m always dreaming of deadlines. I truly believe sometimes 24 hours is not enough time to get everything done.

However, at the risk of sounding like a meditation guru who’s had a little too much ganja with her morning cup of hibiscus tea, I think we should all take a deep breath. Take another. Notice nothing happened. The world did not end because we took a few extra seconds to live.





-Carly Okyle

Overheard In NY

Pomp always listens to popular demand. Two girls in sweatpants, clutching Gucci bags hallway of LaGuardia high school.

Girl 1: Alien movies are totally retarded.

Girl 2: I know, like if aliens are so smart they can build spaceships and travel to Earth, how come they don't know how to speak English?

One-Uppers, Delinquents, Hood rats, Bougie chats, Subway skirmishes. Let us know what you've overheard in NY and we will take it public! pomponline@gmail.com

Pomp Out West

-Charlie Koliha

Scandal Sheet: Anything You Can Do, They Can Do Better

If you’re good, they’re great. If you’re great, they’re unbelievably fantastic. Things escalate to high levels, fast. The One-Upper gets nothing out of this besides momentary attention and long-lasting branding as a pathetic prick who needs their ego stroked whenever masturbation won’t cut it.

They can never take a backseat to somebody else’s good fortune. It’s selfish and infantile.

ONE-UPPER: “Oh, you saw Sean Penn in a restaurant? That’s funny, I just spoke to Tom Hanks, John Cusack and Kevin Spacey in a bar, and bought them drinks. Now we’re all best friends, and it’s going to be totally fun hanging in the Bahamas next weekend!”

Even more perplexing than what motivates the One-Upper is how to deal with this person. Do you acknowledge the higher stakes? Do you ignore them and switch topics? My favorite thing to do is engage in a duel of exaggeration.

ME: “The Bahamas, huh? That’s cool. I’ll be stopping there myself, three days into my two month cruise around the world with John Stamos, Will Ferrell, America Ferrera, Jack Black and the Dave Matthews Band.”

Sure, it’s sinking, but mildly amusing fun. Actually pretty exciting. OK, I confess, it’s the best way to spend time!


-Carly Okyle

Open-minded

I just had to post the video clip of something that just about made my weekend. My forays into the Indian reality television show, Dance India Dance, have been met with kind and talented judges, a sympathetic "grand master", and super-talented and sweet contestants. It's certainly no Top Model, but there is this one amazing dance that is done by two (apparently) straight boys in drag. It's kind of amazing. (The song lyrics are basically saying "my happiness killed me, killed me, killed me...") It get's started around 3:30, totally worth the watch.



-Kastoory