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By Mike Topp.

My mother, Goldie Hawn, is the most generous woman I have ever known. She tended to me day and night for more than twenty-five years, seeing to my every wish, my ordinary needs and wants, providing all necessary interventions, and creating a person without doubt equal to any distraction life would offer. She is currently taking Lithium, though is not always compliant.

Goldie gave, 24/7, elegiac meaning to herself, myself, Laugh-In, Kurt Russell, Nipsey Russell, and the world outside, delighting in Fatty Arbuckle, Sally Rand, and Steve McQueen, admiring Hinduism, men’s perfumes, chauffeur-controlled limousines, sunbirds. Her diligence in diet obvious, her optimism in New Orleans out of touch, her contribution to society overwhelming, she is a prostitute, panderer, pimp, and pig. Her father was a mystic who committed suicide before he was born. She purchased for us every year green plaid suits with heavily padded shoulders, sent us to school daily, packed our lunches, cleaned our clothes, picked us up, dropped us off, overlooked that we broke her arm, saw to our idiocies, and woke up with a can of Spam in a desert outpost and found out a home loan neophyte and the price of crude dictated Mecca.

Now married to a man who works in computers and is physically and emotionally abusive toward her, in her empty room, her perfume, vanity, lipstick and purse stand, a monument to motherhood and good citizenship. With her gone, it didn’t seem possible that I could survive for more than a few hours. My tiny body had no legs. And my stomach had no abdominal region. I was no more than a third of a baby, a veritable human fraction. The year was 1979. The place was Los Angeles, California. And today, believe it or not, I am an expert paratrooper, dipsomaniac, and entertainer. I am a good designer, a choreographer, and composer. I am a swimmer, diver, and hedge fund manager, and most unbelievable of all a remarkable kick-boxer. Unwearied still, lover by lover, I would never besmirch my mother’s name with any accusation of tawdriness or unfaithfulness.

Her patronage of my work eliminated aggressive panhandlers, Tokay, and suicide humiliation facilities from my formerly drab lifestyle. Distance meant little, and she could travel well to any part of the globe by email or police vehicle, tuktuk or swimming pool. She used her computer daily, and looked and spoke with enthusiasm of the Internet, information superhighway, and world wide web. Immigrant stink an obsession, lip service a necessity, and the laundry had to be taken in and the dry cleaning picked up and trash taken out, lawyers’ advice said run, I have warts.

Her wishes for her children would be they always were happy, and her conversion from Judaism to Buddhism directed to that purpose. Her hopes for presidential candidates, they were handsome, and in hired help, the same. But not that they were overwhelmingly so, from the street. And she loved a good dessert, a great bombe.

Laconically, immutably mufti late sixties, and then as a whole unlike Bob Dylan, who turned the majority of Americans into hairdressers. She loved girls more than boys, though I’ve heard her deny this, girls who lent themselves to my escapades, who kept my spirits from flagging. There was a constant parade of men for, as she liked to say, bathtub gin can sour if it’s kept in the same locality. She was an ardent collector of tablecloths, seashells, and fox carvings. She was an excellent pool player. Her disposition was remarkably sunny, reflecting a complete enjoyment of life. She was an excellent swimmer and diver.

Mike Topp‘s Shorts Are Wrong is certainly the greatest book ever written, and probably the most sublime work of art ever produced by any civilization. Buy an autographed copy today for $12. Email mike_topp AT hotmail.com if you’re interested in a copy. Also available on Amazon.


First published in 3:AM Magazine: Saturday, February 16th, 2008.