The Legend of Spooky Mama

It seems appropriate to end the year with the dark and twisted origin tale of “Spooky Mama.”

Many years ago, my bff, Melette, knowing that Halloween is my favorite holiday, sent me a huge care package filled with a delightful assortment of All Hallow’s goodies.  One item stood out, however.  A pair of socks.  Halloween socks.  The kind of holiday-themed socks that you’d only wear with a holiday-themed sweater.

Black cats, full moons, witches, and ghosts cavorted with wanton abandon on these socks, mocking me with their diabolically cheerful expressions and vivid colors.

At the time, I was in the company of my other bff, Sean Bagley, to whom I held up the socks and said something much like, “What he fuck?”  He slowly took in the socks, one eye twitching like a German sub commander in a WWII film who knows that he and his crew are headed straight for Davey Jones’ Locker, and then shrugged and said: “Melette must think you’re a spooky mama.”

In that instant, I became Spooky Mama to friends and family.  It’s really appropriate in many ways, and as a nickname, I’ve come to own it.

I suspect that people (who know me) find me scary in general.  Possibly because the governor in my brain was dismantled by the Warner Brothers’ Gremlin long ago, and I’m likely to say anything that I believe needs saying.

Another excellent friend, Mike Walsh, once referred to me as “Jozzgul” in an attempt to liken me to the Nazgul which have been terrifying readers of Tolkein since 1954.  I immediately made that my Instagram account name.

Lord knows what other names float around out there to describe me, but know this: I AM the spookiest of Spooky Mamas.

Don’t the the door hit you on the way out, 2017!

I can’t remember looking forward to a year as much as I’m looking forward to 2018.  2017 was like inhabiting every freaking character in Valley of the Dolls simultaneously for many Americans, but no stay at the Betty Ford Clinic will ever help us out of this particular valley.  I’m hitting 2018 hard and fast, first with a journey to Banff and Lake Louise in January with my beast childe, and then going immediately into pre-production on Young Frankenstein, which I’m directing for Theatreworks New Milford.  I’ve decided that the fact that my manuscript for The Seven Tears didn’t come back from it’s first date with an editor Milo-style complete with sarcastic comments that essentially read: “You’re so stupid that I can actually just sit here and type ‘you’re stupid’ over and over again and you still won’t understand that you’re stupid and your ms. is a complete waste of time,” is a good thing.  All my brother and sister writers, can you feel me?   So, Banff, Young Frankenstein (or steen) and completely rewriting my book should take me to – yep right up to 2019!  In the meantime, I’ma hashtag pretty much everything and keep the terriers close, because it’s freaking COLD.

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