Babydolls, holy shit. That’s the best Broke-Ass can come up with for an introduction. Holy shit–and lord, has she missed you.
So, just where the fuck has she been? Broke-Ass, as is known to some, lives under the same metaphysical roof as Susan Gregory Thomas, as they are, in fact, the same person. Susan Gregory Thomas, the writer and author, has just come out with a book called In Spite Of Everything: A Memoir (Random House: July 12, 2011) and has been writing for, and doing interviews with sundry esteemed media outlets. All have yielded positive, albeit exhausting, experiences. Which is a great deal for which to be grateful. None, however, has yielded much in the way of money.
It is one of those surreal circumstances of cognitive dissonance that is so difficult to square in one’s mind: How can it be that a person speaking with Matt Lauer on The Today Show, having an hour-long interview on NPR, writing a front-page story for The Wall Street Journal’s Weekend section, and more, still find herself as essentially penniless as she has been for the past four years? It doesn’t seem right. Surely, that reasonably-dressed, basically coherent person is rolling in it. Aren’t all reasonably-dressed, basically coherent people invited to speak on morning television and NPR and write for The Wall Street Journal at least solvent?
Not if they’re idiot writers like BAG-SGT. Writers like BAG-SGT seem to write stuff that people like to hear about, or read about, but not actually read. Perhaps this will change. Wiser folk than this profoundly retarded duo have counseled that it’s still too early to tell–that the book may yet become a big-seller. Perhaps, and if this does come to pass, no one will be happier than the schmushkies, who are so worn out by their stress-puking, addled mother that it practically makes her stress-puke again just looking at their worried, lovely faces. But, sadly, it looks as though this day will not land soon enough.
Babydolls, Broke-Ass has to sell the ranch. Literally. The Rancho del Broke-Ass is on the market, complete with chickens, post-recession Victory/Failure garden, and all its good witchy and homey vibes. The blunt-edged truth is that Broke-Ass just isn’t making it in Brooklyn. Although she’s had her three children here–and has spent her entire adult life in New York–she just cannot afford to live here anymore. In spite of living on beans, fresh eggs, and canned anchovies. In spite of seeming to be getting a bunch of great press for her book. In spite of everything. Also, in spite of everything, it looks as though the one place she may have a shot of making it is outside Philly, where she spent one hell of an adolescence, as chronicled in the book and periodicals mentioned above.
Frankly, it’s so damned heart-breaking, she’s finding it hard to complete this entry. What can anyone say? As Broke-Ass has often irritatingly been known to advise the schmushkies, all the misery in the world comes from not accepting reality. There it is.
Broke-Ass will find a way to make it work. At this point, it’s something of a specialty. But it still seems awfully sad. At this point, Broke-Ass will listen to David Bowie’s beautiful “Rock and Roll Suicide,” say the rosary because it is so transporting, and head to bed. What a life, eh?
But it’s true, you know: Oh, no, love, you’re not alone. Thank God for those schmushkies. Thank God for all of you.