I was sitting on the couch having a casual evening at home with a friend. Almost out of lazy habit when a magazine is present, she reached over to my coffee table and grabbed the copy of Blue Skies that was proudly sitting there and began to flip through its pages. After slowly browsing through and enjoying the rest of the magazine, she finally reached my article entitled “PC Line Dancing” and began to read. Not even 10 seconds later came “OH. MY. GOD!!!” She had just read the following:
“So I’m fuckin’ this guy in the ass the other night, and he gets a God damn hard on!” So I say, ‘Get the fuck outta here, you fag!”’”
“THIS is what you write? Are you serious? Tell me you don’t let your mother read this kind of thing! She would be horrified!”
Funny thing is, it would be a very natural assumption to make. In the same way that you have to wonder what a porn star’s mom, or Marilyn Manson’s mom, or Miley Cyrus’s mom must think of the horrifying shit their kids have done, my friend assumed my mother would be shocked and appalled at the things I have put in print. My mom, though? C’mon! The Fuckin’ Pilot’s mom is a Goddamn ROCKSTAR about this shit!
For as long as I’ve been alive, I’ve been what some would call a “spirited” person. Others would just call me a hyperactive, foul-mouthed, wordy asshole, but that’s never how my mom has seen me. No doubt that I’ve worried the living hell out of her more times than she can count, but she always knew I could take care of myself. She let me make every decision I’ve ever made on my own, given her advice (which I rarely took), then helped me clean up the mess I usually made of things.
When I joined the Navy, supportive. When I moved to Los Angeles ‘cause I thought I could be famous, supportive. When I headed off into the Canadian wilderness with a backpack and a rifle and no fucking clue, supportive. When I became a stripper in the town she raised me in, supportive. When I ended up stripping in a big review in Vegas? Front row with a camera, ever the proud mother, watching her son dig for dollars smushed between the tits of large screaming women with his teeth? “That’s my son!” said to the random woman next to her.
(I had no problem with her being there, by the way, right up until I was in the middle of a table dance, face buried in the crotch of a blue-jean-clad bachelorette when I looked over my shoulder and saw my mother’s ear-to-ear grin. “Mom, it’s time for you to go …”)
As soon as I told my mom, an avid reader (insatiable is more like it) and author, that I had started writing for a skydiving publication, she subscribed. Timing and luck in my life being what they are, one of the very first articles she received was the above mentioned “PC Line Dancing.” Her response?
“Well honey, that was a very … interesting article you wrote for the magazine. Once I got past that, uh, ‘joke,’ in the beginning, it was very entertaining. I can see how you would have to watch when to be more appropriate …”
But then again, that’s not just my mom really. Take my editor and mag founder Lara Kjeldsen, for instance. Not only is her mother supportive of the sport that her daughter has fallen into (no pun intended), and the magazine that she and Kolla began together, but she even goes as far as working for Lara as her proof reader and editor. What that means, folks, is that Lara’s mom actually had to sit there and determine whether or not the punctuation in my “fuckin’ this guy in the ass” sentence was correct! She had to wade through stories about tandem instructors shitting themselves, ways to get laid on drop zones, what drugs to do, how to get your thumb up your ass once all your handles were pulled, likely ways to die, busting ass (and all number of bodily functions), stripping, puking and fuckin’, all without tossing the computer out the window or begging her daughter not to print the swill I so happily produced. BRAVO! And of course, through all this my proud mom reads …
Just having a son or daughter in our sport requires a certain amount of motherly support that’s a bit out of the ordinary, to be sure. A few years after I began in the sport, both my mother and brother-in-law came out to make a jump, once again in an amazing show of support for what most, especially in 1996, considered a completely crazy and downright stupid way for a kid to make a living. Just like that night by the stage at the strip show, there she was, the proud mother of her baby boy climbing out on the strut of a 206 over Las Vegas. Badass.
Chances are, you have a mom. If you’re in our sport, sitting here reading Blue Skies then chances are you’ve not just gone out and made a jump or two, you’re a skydiver. Chances are, if you’re a skydiver you have a pretty supportive mom, or at least one that has determined that her disapproval of something probably won’t get you to change! Maybe yours has gone and made a jump too, or like a few I know, went and became skydivers right along with you. Maybe she has embraced the life you’ve chosen right along with you (although let’s hope she skips the 2 a.m. rounds at the Tiki Bar), or at the very least enjoys knowing that you love what you do. Perhaps she hates what you do, but supports you anyway.
But here’s the thing … If you’ve got a mom who isn’t particularly supportive, doesn’t like what you do, or some of the things you say, or just can’t “get” what you’re into, just hand her a few of my articles, let her read away and then say, “You think you’ve got it rough? Think about his Fuckin’ Mom!”
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