On August 20, 1987 my mother had a brain aneurysm when she was only forty-six years old. She survived. Most people don't. I've come to refer to this life-changing event as "The Day My Mother's Head Exploded." The proper, socially conscious mother I grew up with died that day, and was replaced by an entirely different person. It turns out that my new mother adores Wendy's hamburgers, likes to wear Groucho Marx glasses in public places and will perform a spirited rendition of "Goodbye My Coney Island Baby" at the drop of a hat. When my mother's head exploded, she had a chance to start all over again and she took it. I didn't really get my wacky new mom and spent years grieving for the mother of my childhood. But when I was finally able to realize that my mother's eccentricities are really heart-felt affirmations of survival I was able to move on and to appreciate the person who exists in the here and now. I've wanted to tell her story, and my own, too, for years now, but have struggled with form and structure. I'm a writer and producer with a background in theatre and documentary filmmaking. Despite all of the tools at my disposal, I just couldn't get it right. Then, on a whim, I borrowed a mini-disc recorder and did an extended interview with my mother when she was on a visit to Seattle. A year later, Jack Straw Productions awarded me some studio time and the services of Scott Bartlett, an extraordinarily gifted and patient engineer, who helped me navigate a host of technical landmines so that I could find the true path to this particular story. "The Day My Mother's Head Exploded" was first presented to the public as part of the Jack Straw Artist Support Program in April 2003. When the piece was over, my mother joined me on stage where we performed her signature song, "Goodbye My Coney Island Baby." And yes, we wore Groucho Marx Glasses.