Sunday, October 26, 2014

On Birdman, Illusions, Hope and I'm NOT 65!

There is always hope...

I’ve written more than once my reluctance to engage with convenience store cashiers, particularly at Rite-Aid. I don’t know if part of their job requirement is to engage but I don't like it This particular encounter was about MY need to engage. With a kid. Tides are changing.

Last night I was feeling friendly, open, had just seen Birdman with a close friend and we were all over the map in multiple conversations about life, ourselves, movies, kids, work, the world,  the meaning of life, technology, kosher gummy bears, the dangers of pork fat, preservatives and toxic friends. 

This is how we talk, lots of subjects overlapping but after 20 years we have rhythms and circles and understand exactly the other. If we hit on a particular subject of interest, we’ll stay there for a while, exhaust it, then move on. We were stuck on the kosher gummy thing.

KOSHER ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Riley is my only friend I have this relationship with, that is, we both think so fast and are somehow on the same wave, our entire universe can be jammed into 30 minutes at Rite Aid.

Meanwhile, here I was at the checkout by myself with a young girl, perhaps 17. Riley had run off to grab another item, which I had predicted. The “I’m only running in for one thing!” girl.

Me: Oh, she always forgets something. But she has a mind like a steel trap. So smart, always thinking ahead.  Such a smart girl.

The checkout girl was grappling with the 20 pages of coupons Riley gave her.

Me: Can you believe this? I don’t know how she does it. Somehow finds, saves, then compartmentalizes coupons for the proper store on items that are already inexpensive. Where does she find the time?? What, with a huge job, runs her own company!  She’s raising an amazing son, travels the world, helps others, oversees the construction on her home, is kind, lovely and adorable and yet organizes coupons. See, this is why she has money and I don’t.

I toss my sponges and a Hershey’s bar onto the counter.

Checkout girl: Wow, you really raised her well. You must be so proud. 

Me: Excuse me?

Checkout girl: Your daughter. You raised her so well.
Me: You think I’m her mother?

She looked at me as though to confirm.

Checkout girl: Well, yeah. My mom brags about me too.

Of course I had to dig deeper because I love self-abuse.

Me: How old do you think I am?

Now, we all know this is basically a trick question and you get what you deserve, but I thought she might say 49… at the high end. She was already delusional.

Checkout girl:  Um… 65?

Me:  65? Are you serious? I look 65? Do you keep a gun under the counter?

Blank stare. This is what I think 65 looks like. ^^^^

This is what 65 looks like being fabulous.  Still, I feel I look at least 20 years younger than Susan. Seriously! This girl should get fired.

This is me on a sloppy day. I was in heels and pearls for cripes sake! I don't care that I'm aging, I mean who isn't?  But hold up calling me a grandma until I am one!

Riley comes rushing up, her long hair flowing all over the place, gorgeous face, all legs, then shoving tons of items she “forget” onto the counter.

She even looks like this girl ^^^ In fact it might be her.

Riley: Sorry, I couldn't find the toxic free paper towels. We need to stop at Trader Joes.
Me: Okay, get this. The cashier thinks I’m your mother.
Riley:  What?
Me: Because I raised you so well miss coupon collector.

You’d think the check out girl would show a little humiliation, maybe slight embarrassment, but no. Not even, “I’m not good with ages.”

Like I give any shits.   ^^^

I grabbed my sponges and chocolate.

“Just get me home so I can scrub the house and shame eat. Can you help me to the car, honey.”

We were laughing too hard to strip it all down but Riley, who truly does look 20, needed to try and shore me up.

Riley: It’s the hair. She didn’t even see my face.  We’re the same age!

Me: Who cares? She saw mine. 65? My mother doesn’t look 65 god rest her soul.

By now we are hysterical with laughter throwing perfume free toilet paper into the car. I gasped.

Me: What the hell is that?

I didn’t realize our windows were open.

Riley: Oh Jesus.

Basically Sasquatch was pacing in front of the car, wearing only tight underpants, his giant balls spilling out on either side.

Riley: Is that a girl?
Me: No, Riley. It has a dick. I need to get a picture and Instagram him.
Riley:  Hurry! 

I’m scrambling for my camera, then realized he was staring at us, our windows were down. Was I really just going to take a picture of a nearly naked mentally ill man? What was wrong with me?  We had just seen Birdman.  We were about to become the very people the film illuminates, forget reality, forget human emotion, but get the picture and make it go viral. 

Me:  Let’s go, this is crazy.
She was staring at her phone.
Riley:  Look at this, he's still in line!
Me: It’s a big deal, great actually. People wait for hours.
She had been keeping track of her son who was waiting for the over-the-top scary Hayride in Griffith Park.

As parents our children are now little red dots on our smartphones, we know where they are at all times. Soon we will be able to hear their conversations.

I had stopped counting birthdays after I turned 40, so oddly if you ask me my age; I just grab a number from the air.

Me: Why 65? Why not say, 80!
Riley: You know kids, They think everyone is old.
Me: That is true. My girls (11) think my son (25) is an old man.  I wonder if she thought I looked GOOD for 65.
Riley: You look amazing. Stop it.
Me: We’re so much more than our faces. Yet, wouldn’t it be great if there really was a fountain of youth? I’d be bathing in that business.

Riley: There’s one in Rome. I found them all.
Me: Unicorns. Ever notice how they are all water based? We are water? Theoretically we could just take a bath. I’d rather get a blood transfusion. I should drink more coconut water.
Riley: Do you think he died or flew?
Me: That’s the entire point of the movie, our interpretation.  He already flew into the sun. One of the recurring themes. He’s free. Finally. He says fuck you to the Birdman monster then controls his own fate. To me he integrated and ended it himself.
Riley: I want to believe he flew away to maybe a tropical island. I mean his daughter smiles and looks up.
Me: For me, they finally bonded; she was smiling because he was at peace. Why look at a crumpled, bloody body when she knows his spirit is soaring?

Riley: Yes but I want to believe he is off at some topical island, free that way.

Me: He'd drown himself. Anyway, this expands the point, that is if he flew away to someplace real, we as a society are being taken over by a viral reality, so soon there be no such thing as reality. May as well enjoy this one.  

Of course we are now both checking our cell phones.
Since age seven, I too have a  Birdman voice that enjoys reminding me I’m a loser, no talent, worthless, fat, ugly cow that has nothing to offer so really, why try.  

But you do.

One of the things I love about Riley is her honesty, and how she doesn’t give up. We are similar this way.  The self-doubt, the anxiety over our kids, and the impossibility of it all, then we end up laughing. The conclusion is we are humans in an insane world looking for good.  And if someone tells me I look 65, and I see a hairy fat man in his stained underpants smiling at me with a toothless grin, while contemplating the 25 layers of brilliance that is Birdman, I will call that a good day.

I finally arrive home, and settle into my comfy bed, channel flipped until Prisoners, a movie I love so much I can recite all the dialogue. I fall asleep eating my chocolate bar, so I’m guessing today I probably look 67.

Rhonda Talbot weighing in on brilliant Birdman, Michael Keaton, self-doubt, aging, life, humor, parenting, friendship, laughter, mirages and hope.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

How Are We Alive? (A short story written by my mother, rediscovered after her death.)

Hello my friends, have been busy with work, kids, the eternal quest for summer activities, sensible vacations, etc.

I came across something my mother wrote in 1976, which I vaguely remember. This was published in the Detroit News, then quickly forgotten. Mom must have pulled it back out, reworked, and published again in a Washington State Lit Journal just before she passed away. She was an artist of many avenues, writing being one. She died before finishing her 2nd dissertation and sadly I have very little of her work.

Here is an excerpt of The Joy of Six, the only time I said yes to a "guest" blogger.

Mom a few years after we hit the road.^^

Of the daily challenges presented to a single mother of many children, none equal the energy expended in the perpetual search for money. A woman can either work two or three jobs at minimum wage or try to sell her body for a slightly higher scale of pay.  With the relatively sexless body of a nine-year old boy, I could not imagine anyone buying it. Since I lacked promiscuity, education, a base of salient skills, and had six children under ten, I began to realize I was nothing more than a target.  This particular target set out a few decades ago to find a job, become educated, and raise those kids alone. 

In a strange set of circumstances, due I am sure, to my physically overstressed, and deliriously stretched-out mentality I began to recognize the presence of more than just my own brood.  

There began to appear on a daily basis, metaphysical personifications with actual personalities distinguishable by their behavior. In spite of my intensified attention to their detailed intervention into my life, I found it strangely satisfying to attribute their unusual activities to that of my children. As such, I began to refer to them as "The Bodies"-- Nobody, Everybody, Somebody, and Anybody. 

While learning their names and idiosyncratic proclivities, I discovered my favorite among the strangely non-physical beings temporarily inhabiting my home. Nobody. Nobody loved vegetables.  Nobody completed assigned homework, and Nobody followed my organizational chart. Nobody was polite and cheerful and Nobody washed dishes. Nobody picked their clothes up from the floor and Nobody claimed ownership of the jeans thrown there. Nobody did everything.

In spite of my reasonable and pleasant nature, I was surprised by the specious presence of Somebody who lost my cashmere sweater, misplaced my opal ring, removed the covers and Down pillows from my bed, and in fact was a suspect in the loss of my favorite champagne flute, an elegant piece of crystal stem-ware I especially loved. 

I often envisioned a world in which I might own two of them, and regularly hid money in a sacrificial sugar bowl, hoping to find a duplicate. The bowl, the money, and the flute were simply missing. The rhetoric went something like this: 

"Somebody broke my champagne flute, ravished my sugar bowl, and absconded with $3.42!"  True, I was somewhat hysterical, and may have been screaming, however I demanded an immediate resolution. My eldest countered with her inherited ideological preference for non-biased accusations: 

"Why blame Somebody when it could have been Anybody?"  Daughters two and three agreed, arguing for the defense, insisting that Everybody had access to the cupboard, and Nobody may have actually been the culprit. 

"Nobody?" I was stunned. "How could it be Nobody?!" 

It was obvious to me that Somebody took these things because they were in fact gone, and perhaps had broken my one and only remnant of another, more promising life. For reasons beyond my control, the children blamed Anybody and Everybody, an outrageous accusation, however, I could imagine such an act of agrestic behavior by unscrupulous persons such as those referred to by my children. 

Since Everybody hung out at the mall, stayed out past midnight,  smoked cigarettes, talked incessantly on the telephone, and our home became a dance hall to all their friends, I could easily be swayed. There were, in fact, dozens of their pilfering pals whose fingerprints were wiped away daily. 

The miscreant might just be Anybody, a mysteriously vague personification, not entirely trustworthy. At the end of the investigation, Nobody claimed responsibility. 

Since Nobody confessed and with the evidence removed, we concluded that Nobody should be punished, however, when Nobody is liable, nothing gets done. When I confronted them, my children assured me that I was biased against Everybody, their favorite of the strangely iconoclastic representational bodies residing in our home. 

"Since, as you say, Everybody always behaves badly," daughter's two and three proclaimed, "and Anybody could be guilty as charged, Somebody might consider your conclusions slightly confusing". 

The clarity of my argument took a mercurial drop as my children turned it against me and I seemed to have lost another battle. Nobody seemed interested in the issues, and with Nobody as an ally, Everybody seemed to be satisfied. 

When our dog produced eight puppies, Nobody came to my aid and Everybody hid behind Anybody with an alibi. 

In a moment of unforeseen frustration, I ran screaming through the house in an unprofessional, albeit succinct, non-prejudicial rant.

"I'm throwing all of these blue jeans into the garbage!"  I stated further that, "Persons owning these jeans and those who knew the gender of that dog must be held liable for their actions."

Emboldened, I added, "People must ultimately be held responsible for their actions." 

Unbelievably, daughters, four and five engaged in a strategy that included youth and innocence as a viable defense against sexual knowledge.

Everybody said, 'It's your fault since we didn't know this stuff."

Everybody claimed a significant victory. As for the jeans, Nobody claimed them and I laundered them in silence. 

The dog, apparently a female, was named Gretchen as my children seemed to think she was a "Dutch Brady Terrier," a previously undiscovered breed, and bestowed upon her a fabricated pedigree. 

Gretchen, a dog with neurotic tendencies, was terrified by the presence of the children and slowly but surely, and unbeknownst to me, deposited all eight of her offspring under my bed. 

Also unbeknownst to me was that I was allergic to puppy dander. Everybody blamed my extreme bronchial distress to the fact that I worked in a bar eight hours a night, and spent eight hours a day in a "sick" office building. 

Somebody suggested I stay home, clean house and make cookies, an excellent, but thoroughly impractical solution. After much discussion, Everybody concluded we must remove the animals. Anybody could see the logic of it and although Nobody objected, the eldest daughter was sent out on her bicycle with a small lunch, a whicker basket, and eight "for-free" dogs. 

I was miraculously "cured," returned to work, and food was on the table again. 

When daughter number five began bizarre episodes of limping, and doctors suggested to me that her behavior was a production of symptoms associated with a psychoneurosis motivated by my neglect of her, I wondered if this child was emulating her sister who had also lost her ability to walk for a period of time. I pulled that one around in a red wagon because she said, "I can't walk anymore." 

That child was often found napping on the sidewalk by neighbors, who actually believed her and considered me an unfit parent. 

There was also a cat. When the cat ran into a speeding car, I was in a hospital attempting to manage the operation of daughter number four, a child who required screws in her thigh. 

The apparent theory for her slipping epiphysis was associated with a congenital factor however under sedation this child admitted to stomping aluminum cans into a kind of "shoe-heel," and stomped on them daily for fun. 

The doctor who performed the operation lost his son on the eve of the procedure due to a broken neck achieved while performing on a trampoline.  I had no money to pay the doctor and the doctor did not bill me. 

Upon our arrival back home, we placed the crutches for my daughter at the bottom of the stairs. The cat, with a broken leg, and also wearing a cast, sat quietly next to the rather large barrier, a sentinel perhaps. 

Visiting children came with their mothers and were amazed by the size of the crutches Tutu was given. She was a rare "Chocolate-Point" Siamese that no doubt was expensive in the past, but had fallen on hard times, landing on our doorstep and scooped up for play by daughter number five who dressed her in frilly doll's clothing and pushed her around in a broken stroller banging recklessly into the furnishings. 

Tutu disappeared the same day as Gretchen, her eight puppies, and a few turtles the kids collected from various streams.

Daughter number five then introduced a Great Dane to our family; a dog so large I thought it must be a horse.  I noticed it while painting the kitchen ceiling tomato soup red, a color that would work quite nicely with the yellow shag rug I had partly destroyed when attempting to create kinetic sculpture, ending in an explosive experiment. 

I snipped the "shag" down with manicure scissors believing that I might manufacture a kind of "short shag," or "golf-link-like, grassy carpet.”

The tomato-soup ceiling was almost a success but had a lumpy appearance, the result of the hardened acrylic thrown by the blast. While drying, pieces of pasta flung previously slipped a bit and created a bas-relief effect, creating an Art Deco over-all arrangement, an interesting almost sunburst look, useful perhaps in Xanadu. 

One of my jobs involved the completion of 8"x10" detailed ink renderings with copy, of fashions shown in local boutiques.  I hung the to-be-drawn clothing from the tomato-soup ceiling and often spent many sleepless nights engaged in the project.

While working off-premises, Somebody removed the expensive dresses leaving me with nothing to render and nothing to return. I was sued of course, but with no tactile resources, Nobody collected, reassuring me that of course Nobody would stand by me. 

In the meantime my children were adamant the Great Dane should live with us, an absurd notion given there was no money for food. Happily, that animal left through the back door a few days after he was dragged through the front.  

I began to look at these creatures as welcomed accidents, distractions to our otherwise impossible living situation. I liked them and remained positive in spite of the negative behavior I attributed to them. I also liked blaming them for unruly behavior as this would buffer further rage toward my children's own unruly behavior. 

With the Great Dane gone and no further incoming pests, real issues could no longer be ignored. 

“Everybody uses drugs. If anyone tells you different, they’re lying.”

This was an ongoing, circulator argument until daughter number one removed herself from the pharmaceutical infatuation. Nobody told her to quit and Nobody was amazed.

Because my children were collectively against anything I advocated, I used whatever measures were available to me to police their behavior, including constant juvenile hall threats.

Everybody was angry, no one was speaking then Somebody threw a basketball against a dining room canvas; strange behavior I found both interesting and annoying. 

A commissioned painting requires a specific result, unlike creative adventures, which allow for spontaneous reactions, say serendipity. In the unlikely event of a sponsor spending money on a painting created absent that sponsor's particular investment in the ideation, most artists are unpaid. That Somebody could enhance my work with this basketball is no more unrealistic than my own expectations. 

The big sale of the painting provided an unexpected opportunity to move three thousand miles from the strange and often misunderstood neighborhood in which we lived.  The patron, also the person I promised to marry, offered us an opportunity. Since we were about to be evicted, few decisions were made in less time. 

Not only did I sell every piece of furniture not nailed to the floor, I sold furnishings actually nailed to the floor, including every appliance and all the bathroom fixtures.

With an array of checks from an astounding number of accommodating neighbors, I found an agent of Cadillac who was happy to pay me to drive across the country in their slick, boat-like car, upon which I balanced two beautiful bicycles.

The experience will live forever in the minds of my children and I doubt anyone could ever reproduce such an event. I awakened my children at 3:00 am to see an extraordinary circumstance. In Salt Lake City, the sky created an umbrella of falling stars surrounding the available space with a spectacular show produced by the lack of artificial lights.  Pure magic, something my children would never again witness. 

The trip to California was a bit of an illusion; something an intelligent person would refer to as a fantasy, however, in 1976, all things seemed possible, including a home for my children.

Nobody led the way and ended our traveling at the northern-most corners of a place in Marin County. Somebody found a place to stay and Everybody loved it. The really strange part of the process began the following day. Nobody was able to cash the deposited checks, a rather positive experience since all of the purchases including the rent were based on that transaction, however, the checks could not be verified.

Since the bank was incapable of turning the deposits into cash, the account was in effect frozen, an operational, and strange effect of the deposited checks by persons who wrote them to me for the sale of items that did not all belong to me.

It was becoming increasing clear that I was about to become a criminal. Of what nature was unclear, but I suspected Nobody would come to my aid and in the end I would require the assistance of Somebody or in fact Anybody with a legal background. 

Further still, making the three thousand mile trek seemed to cool the professed ardor of my intended, and he simply disappeared leaving me free to wander for which I was grateful. 

Finding a home for the clan proved to be a challenge.  The home I chose to rent did not allow children, so I lied and said I had none. We moved in, all seven of us, along with our metaphysical recreations, three pillows and a coffee pot. The rent would of course become an issue due to the freeze on the account, and I was forced to sell the bicycles, my last hat trick.

In the meantime I found a waitress position, which allowed me to steal food and toilet paper. Nobody objected, and I continued to become a felon, a career objective that Somebody considered difficult to comprehend, and a course of action perceived by Anybody as unwise.

While slicing turkey one day I recognized the fact that Everybody was open to criminal behavior, and Nobody would protect them from prosecution. With my first paycheck I reimbursed my employer and begged to be forgiven.  Nobody was, as usual, there for me and I was fired. 

My landlord, an unwilling participant in an ongoing lawsuit against him for allowing children to live in that complex, caved under the pressure and forced me to leave. By the time I returned home on Christmas Eve, the children were all sitting outside on the grass, the eldest held the coffee pot and a string of tree lights. 

If Somebody had an idea Nobody was discussing it and if Everybody thought we were beaten by this we looked to Anybody with a solution.

I decided to hide the children once again and find a home, this time with no money at all, a delicate task, but not entirely impossible. The kids and I were gathered at a gas station when it occurred to me that the bank might finally have released the checks written for the stuff I sold. And there it was, $3000.00.

After renting a room at Howard Johnson for showers, clean sheets, and television, we snuggled into a discussion of room service. Somebody suggested that Everybody would benefit from a walk to the nearest fast-food joint, an option Nobody found satisfactory. In the end, the desire to eat actual food out-weighed all practical other-oriented solutions. 

Whatever happiness may be derived while raising children, the joy of feeding them trumps all others; the prospect of not feeding them is in fact the most deleterious. 

Sitting in the booth of a fancy restaurant with a serious claim to the best seafood in the world, my darlings ordered hamburgers with cheese. 

"We don't like fish," they proclaimed," especially fish with bones." 

Somebody suggested lobster, a fact Everybody agreed upon and Anybody could see that was the best choice. Nobody, once again came to my aid. 

"Lobster it is," I declared, and lobster it was for our re-entry into the world of normalcy. 

Albeit dinner blew a magnificent hole in our funds it also produced a significant burst of energy and emotional well-being. We found a very simple home; a small, fishy cottage, the kind some might describe as "shack-like", available however to mothers with children. 

By padding my resume with outrageous lies, I found a job, bought a car, and joined other working moms dropping their kids off at the school bus stop.

In the end, it was a simple project; a task devoted to the ordinary notion of keeping many children alive; an idea developed while skirting them through negotiations with an atypical parent and the evolution of an association with unrealistic and entirely imaginative personalities, all willing to support their creative endeavors, specific ideations, and loving pursuits. Through a prism of four decades past, I cannot see how it was done, but can only recall the joy of raising six children on my own.


Rhonda Talbot on a fictional version of how I was raised for a short time; told through the eyes of my mother. 

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Patti Smith Expanded My World as a Kid

I was there ^ ^ ^! Mom took off in the station wagon loaded up with kids and bagged popcorn. Central Park.

When I was a child, my mom took her large brood to many concerts, indoors, outdoors, the only way she could hear live music. In Detroit, there was a lot. Occasionally we had to venture out  pretty far, driving for hours.

She'd endure constant complaints, backseat fistfights and often motion vomit.

"Grab one of your shirts and sop that up. We're making good time here."

I was too young to appreciate the concerts but would later find the same artists on my own.

Many concerts I've written about, maybe it was Mom's connection to Bob Segar that allowed us into so many places. I do remember quite a bit of scandal and controversy about my "spicy" mother and her "hippy" friends.

"Just keep your girls away from my children. I don't know what you think you're doing but the wives are thinking of voting you off the block."
"Look Mrs. Kapinsky, you should chill out. And maybe not so much Lawrence Welk."

And off we went with our ski muffs and pockets full of candy. We were never sure where we were going but glad to get out of Detroit.

BUT there was something about Patti Smith that would stay with me forever. And over the years as I've heard dozens of great females rockers, almost always I can connect them back to Patti.

She had lived many lives before marrying Fred "Sonic" Smith of the MC5, a band we were also very familiar with.

They were an integral part of the music scene in Detroit, early 70's, or what I most remember is my sisters screaming "Kick Out the Jams Motherfu**ers!"

Back then, well, saying the F word was a pretty big deal, so young girls screaming profanity at school could get everyone suspended.  MC5 often played with Iggy Pop, among others, at smaller revenues, which means everyone could get in for basically free. As children, though slightly aware, Mother made sure we didn't see the ensuing riots or aftermath.

As an adolescent I would see plenty, it was painful to watch our great city being torn apart. We soon moved... but I digress.

Meanwhile, how perfect are Patti and Fred as a couple?

Her record Dancing Barefoot has always resonated with me, still. It's magic. So I leave it here.

Patti has achieved and contributed so much in her life time it's hard to fathom. If you haven't read Just Kids, well, you're missing out.

I was listening to one of her records today so decided to jot this down. Sometimes I come across young people that don't know who she is. While I find this kind of astounding I also know, eh, I'm older. Her influence is already ingrained in all great music and art, so despite people's lack of understanding, they live under her influence.

Rhonda Talbot paying tribute to Patti Smith.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Women Are Dying To Stay Sexy; Just Get a Poster of Brad Pitt!

Jake Gyllenhaal and "I don't need anyone" Ann Hathaway in Love and Other Drugs.  I recently thought about this film because I was channel flipping. Let's consider how awesome he is.  This ties together, I promise.

I knew nothing about Premarin until I saw this ad.

I sprang up in bed, HUH?  There is no discernible difference between the before and after pictures of the women post Premarin. They remain miserable messes. So naturally I took to my computer to investigate.

AFTER SHE TOOK HER LIBIDO PILL ^ ^ ^  She looks terrifying.

Premarin is a huge business, marketed to women with pre-peri-partial-post menopause. So basically any women with a pulse. But now it's being marketed as the female Viagra, because the world has caught on that  Premarin actually kills women. Anyhoo...

MAYBE she is thinking about:

Side effects: Common:   Headaches,  nausea, back pain, eye problems, breast and bone cancer, high blood pressure, gall stones, jaundice, heart failure, blood clots, endometrial cancer, heart attacks, strokes, dementia,

The un-common side effects? DEATH is pretty much the end of the line.

It's male cousin Viagra just keeps on ticking. The Pfizer execs figuring out what to do. "Let's just dump her, that's our business model anyway."

According to Pfizer, (who manufactures both drugs) these pathetic women are so upset they lost their libido suicide is really the only option. Hey, let's market Premarin as a LIBIDO DRUG!  But what a marketing FAIL... since the company insists on showcasing these gals as angry, clinically depressed, and unapproachable.

The ads suggest without Premarin, you may as well just jump. A contemplator: ^ ^ ^

If you hang it there, you'll be a bitter, resentful harpy. ^ ^ ^  So take your Premarin dammit!

YES, I am late to the party again, but who knew Pfizer makes billions knocking up horses to get that wonder urine-- PRE MARE and no one is stopping them. Big Pharma just loves to kill people. AND animals.  Apparently they have been preying on vulnerable women for years.

I forgot to pick up my Premarin. Just shoot me! ^ ^ ^

Sex and fear SELL. It only makes sense after the public caught on to their nefarious tactics, Pfizer resorted to marking Premarin as a sex drug, the female equivalent to Viagra. So, hurry! Boost your libido, put on your French maid outfit so you don't lose your man. Or woman. But they focus entirely on heterosexuals.

Seriously? Who wants him? And why is she holding the flowers? I bet she paid for the tropical vacation too. Yet she bought into the BS. "Who will ever love me, I've over 40 with no fashion sense!"

Then compare to how they market Viagra. Hot, sexy. Also if that guy needs Viagra he clearly needs professional help. What is he, 20? I'm aware many young men take it for sport like Jake Gyllenhaal in that movie. I actually didn't know there was such a thing as a Viagra party.

NOTE TO MEN: Women aren't into ten-hour sex marathons. I don't care what Sting says.

Too bad Clyde Barrow didn't have Viagra. Poor Faye Dunaway. It's possible if he did, these two would have never went on a killing spree.

Apparently Pfizer has changed their approach with this new, cowboy type man.

He's not angry, depressed, sad. In fact, he's camping, and getting his manhood on, stoking fires and stabbing fish.

This is the Viagra poster dude. I thought it was Chuck Norris. Maybe it is. I noticed all the ads now are rugged men working on Brokeback Mountain, or looking under the hood of Mustangs.

Gone are the days of white-haired old men strolling on the beach who have lost their ability to rub one out.

Oh, my bad. But COME ON! Is he human? Also a glance at Brad would work better than Premarin.

Here's the sad sack. He is so happy  he has a dog.

Side note: Viagra has no side effects, unless you count extended erection or a mild cough. These boys don't worry about cancer or dementia.  It's also created in a lab, not by torturing Rhinos.

Because the company is run by men, naturally their main concern is sex, and by golly they need to keep women interested even if it kills them. And the horses they rode in on.

"Honey, I'm pumped up, take your Premarin or I'll go hang with the guys."

Pfizer lost interest in Viagra as a solution to possible marital problems and now basically caters to men who just want to get hard. BUT if women want to come to the party, take the death pill.

By the way Pfizer, you should use Seth Rogan for the Viagra, and James Franco for the Premarin. Sales would soar!

Instead they use the most lame adverts I've seen since scented douche bags.

Oh, but none of this is truthful.  One in four men under the age of 40 can't get an erection. This increases as they age.  Raise your hand if you've been with a young guy and he can't get it up? That's what I thought.  But we don't hear about this! We only hear about horrible crones.

Then the poster boys:

And Jack Nicholson who will be bedding the ladies forever and well into the afterlife.

Pfizer even suggests your octogenarian milkman can offer more than just milk. Also who the hell has a milkman? Further, who would shag him? Oh, the Housewives of Beverly Hills. Of course.

To create this amazing deadly drug so women will stop having emotions being bitches and start spreading their legs, Pfizer cages mares, impregnates them;  keeps the poor things cold, shackled, whipped, and often beats them with an electrical prods before they are tortured and slaughtered.  

Yet there is no law against this and Pfizer won't change their tactics because it would cost money.

Of course most women have no idea. They are being told this miracle pill/cream will give them youth, energy, vitality, an insanely high libido and they'll be attractive to men forever. Right.

Mrs. Kravitz learned the hard way. She died of a stroke while vacuuming just after her daily dose of Premarin.

MY BIG QUESTION is who the  hell cares what men think?

I guess I have never in my life given one shit whether men want to have sex with me. Let's put this into perspective. If I want to have sex with you, I'll let you know. If I don't it doesn't mean I suffer from some mental illness and need to be fixed.  Note to men: You're not all that. Get over your damn self. 

I also don't give one shit if a man threatens to have an affair if I don't want to have sex. Go. Don't forget your Viagra asshole.

After I saw the horse cruelty video I was just appalled. But not really. Because like everything in this patriarchal world, many men want what they want and will go to any length to get it. They will kill animals and risk women's lives to encourage force their wives to have sex, or take Viagra to have sex with anybody (Oh she was 18, OOOPS) and continue to remain unconscious as long as they are thinking with their sex organs.

Rhonda Talbot weighing in on Premarin, sex, Viagra, men, women, libido, Brad Pitt, Jake Gyllenhaal, Pfizer and Big Pharma equals well, small wiener.