Note: this memory comes from a conversation I was just having with a friend wherein we were talking about a couple of depressing things in our lives at the moment. His was more depressing and I told him, “Hey, you win!” And then he said, “Yay! The nihilists will send me a card then!” I was like “Wait, nihilists send you cards for the saddest story? They’re really fucking behind! They owe me!” To which my friend said, “Yeah, the thing about nihilist greeting cards is that they never actually arrive.”
Then, boom! Here’s this memory out of nowhere. One I’ve never told or written. And this is what I told my friend.
Bill Cosby – FUCK YOU. Of all the dads in my life when I was growing up, you were the only one I picked and felt safe with. I know it was just a TV show. But fuck you anyway. You lied to a generation of people from fantasy land and you hurt multiple generations of women in the real world I don’t give a shit if you’re 80 years old – I hope you get 10 years for each of the 3 measly charges you’ve been convicted of, and I hope you live to 110 so that you can serve every single last day of that sentence. It’s a paltry penance for all the pain, suffering, and mind fuckery you caused.
And a huge fuck you also to Louis C.K., Sherman Alexie, Harvey Piece-of-Shit-Weinstein, and all the rest of you men who have public respect and great personal power who haven’t been caught yet. Stop that shit now. Go no further. Make no mistake, this is the beginning of a tectonic shift in how the world deals with rape and it isn’t gonna stop.
And, especially, FUCK YOU, MR. PRESIDENT. Continue reading “Fuck You, Bill Cosby. And All the Rest of You.”
A blog is like a snake: if it wants to grow and change, it has to shed its old skin.
My old blog, Excerpts from Ally Sheedy’s Purse, is no more. The name was pertinent, clever, and true for a very long time, but it just isn’t anymore. I no longer feel like sharing about myself, life, or thoughts is analogous to dumping my purse onto a couch and holding those nearby hostage as I force them to look at its perplexing contents. (Hint: I never actually felt that way. It was a joke from a conversation I had with friends. But it’s a great analogy.)
If you’re a reader of this blog, you’ll find that many of my posts have been removed. The majority of those were posts about my sons. They didn’t care one way or the other if I wrote about them when they were littler, but they do care more and more. So, out of respect, I’ve removed all of the posts about them. You know, ’cause consent is a big fucking deal or whatever. (I’ve saved them, though. Oh, yes. Those posts and many other bits of writing about raising these boys. Which I will publish as a book one day. Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed. **drums fingers together delightedly like Mr. Burns**) Continue reading “Major Changes to my Blog”
I am so thrilled to announce that Julietta Boscolo, writer and director of the Australian short film adaption of Let’s See How Fast This Baby Will Go, won the Emerging Australian Filmmaker Award at the Melbourne International Film Festival this weekend.
And the incredible Liv Hewson, who plays me in the movie, was praised for her mesmerizing performance – which, in my opinion, should win every reward ever.
Liv is a force. Watch her, she’s going up, up, up. You can catch her currently as Abby Hammond on the Netflix original series Santa Clarita Diet.
And, of course, I must extend a word of appreciation to producer Eva Di Blasio and the rest of the brilliant cast and crew of this gorgeous film. Thank you all so goddammed much. You have no idea what a powerful experience this has been for me. And there isn’t enough gratitude in the world for how respectfully you handled this very personal story.
To my friends and family: I know you’ve been asking how you can see this film, and the answer is: I don’t know. It is licensed only for film festivals and I’m unclear whether there will be a wide release after it’s made its rounds. I promise to keep you up to date.
It’s late June 2017 and I’m standing at a kitchen sink in Antioch, California cutting mangoes. It’s dark and cool in our rented Airbnb, but outside it’s dry and bright and pushing 100 degrees. Much hotter and drier than our hometown of Portland, Oregon nearly ever gets. Our curtains are drawn, the AC is on, and my twin teenage sons are sweaty puddles on the floor, vegging out after 3 days and 900 miles on the road. Our family road trip – easily the best, happiest time we’ve ever spent together.
We’ve just settled into our new digs, having first checked in, unloaded, then run to the nearby grocery store for supplies. Fruit was on sale, so I bought as much as was reasonable, plus a little. An entire array of delicious, fresh fruits: mangoes, bananas, grapes, and oranges. A welcomed change from the heavy, nutrient-poor road food we’ve been eating. We got the groceries inside, then my sons tapped out, stripped down to their skivvies, and positioned themselves over AC vents on the floor. They’re not used to this heat. But I am.
I’m running a sharp knife over the soft green and yellow skin of the mango in my hand, gently peeling it away to reveal the bright orange meat underneath. The sticky juice runs slightly between my fingers as I peel. Suddenly, I’m hungry for this mango in a way that surprises me. Then, I remember. I remember the hunger for mangoes.