Regarding Mackenzie Phillips’ bombshell revelation that she had been raped since childhood by father John Phillips (of the Mamas and the Papas), a situation that somehow became an ongoing “affair”:
Fuck me running.
When I first heard the story, I laughed. Not in that “I just watched ‘Ron Burgundy: Anchorman'” kind of way; it was a nervous laugh, more the result of abject discomfort than anything passing for amusement. Fact is, we humans don’t have a natural reflex for when we hear stories about parents plying their children with drugs and then systematically raping them for years. When a story like this comes around, it’s so sad, so horrifying, and so enraging, there’s no default emotion to share. Hence, my nervous laugh.
Some friends and I got to talking today over lunch about the notion that “truth is stranger than fiction.” In the past three years, we’ve seen one Governor cop to keeping an Argentinian mistress and another (himself a righteous crusader for ethics) outed for a high-priced hooker habit. We’ve heard the story of the Idaho Senator cruising for gay sex in an airport bathroom. Closer to home, we were all shocked by the ghoulish digging up of 200-300 graves at Burr Oak Cemetery. And, today, the chick from “One Day at a Time” creeped the living shit out of us with nightmarish sex and drug allegations about her late father who died eight years ago. I don’t necessarily believe that any of this is stranger than fiction (I read books about zombies and intergalactic travel), but it sure is surreal.
I double dog dare ya to ever think of this song in the same way again: