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December 30, 2005
Paperback Of The Week
Because I'm throwing a New Year's party and I'm stressed the fuck out because Karaoke machines don't just rent themselves, and I don't have time to write a freaking entry, ok?
Also, I just got back to SF from my own personal Lesbian Bars of New York Appreciation Week. So there.
Posted by hissycat at 06:47 PM | Comments (604)
December 29, 2005
Baby's First Meme
Alright! Finally, I'm one of the cool kids! Thanks, Jill!
Seven Things To Do Before I Die
1. I still haven't seen Brokeback Mountain.
2. Proust
3. New Medea
4. Go off meds at least once, to see what my brain is/ would be like
5. Write something really worthwhile, that will bring someone else a lot of pleasure/ comfort/ something I don't have a word for to read.
6. Dollywood with Alex
7. The Hustle.
Seven Things I Cannot Do
1. Whistle, Dixie or otherwise.
2. Bananas
3. Keep a job
4. Want a job
5. Wake up easily
6. Keep house
7. Balance a check book or pay bills on time
Seven Things That Attract Me To. . . Blogging
1. Its sense of humor,
2. and sexy legs,
3. and the way it keeps me warm at night.
4. No, not really.
5. I started reading some quality blogs at my crappy-ass job, and I got hooked.
6. I liked the little feminist and writer/lit./book nerd communities I stumbled into and wanted to participate.
7. Blogging also seemed like a good way ensure, back when I was a working girl, that I'd at least write something every day outside of the office. I figured once I got myself sitting down in front of my screen to blog, I'd be more likely to work up the nerve to work on something more intimidating, like a story or article.
Seven Things I Say Most Often
1. Oops
2. Whoops
3. Sorry
4. Excuse me
5. Uh-oh
6. I fail
7. Yes?
Seven Books That I Love
1. Democracy by Joan Didion (also, everything else by Joan Didion)
2. Collected Poems of Elizabeth Bishop
3. Collected Poems of W.H. Auden
4. The Price of Salt by Clare Morgan
5. The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon
6. Ulysses by James Joyce
7. The Sexual Life of Savages by Bronislaw Malinowski
Seven Movies That I Watch Over And Over Again
1. Angels in America (HBO production)
2. North by Northwest
3. Manhattan
4. The Royal Tanenbaums
5. Band of Outsiders
6. The Marraige of Maria Braun
7. Wings of Desire
Seven Songs I Play Over And Over Again
1. "The King of Carrot Flowers, Pt. 1" By Neutral Milk Hotel
2. "Infammatory Writ" by Joanna Newsom
3. "Bloody Motherfucking Asshole" by Martha Wainwright
4. "Summer Lies" by The Magnetic Fields
5. "Part Company" by the Go-Betweens
6. "This Charming Man" by The Smiths
7. "Shadows" by Yo La Tengo
Seven People I Want To Join In Too
1. Onion Slayer
2. Mlle M
3. Leila
4. Karin
5. Kyle
6. Cheryl
7. Katie
Posted by hissycat at 07:57 AM | Comments (4)
December 28, 2005
Ew, Mom
Me: But I need coffee.
Mom: First go in and spend time with your grandmother, who you haven't seen in a year.
Me: I can't go in. I need coffee now. If you loved me, you'd get me coffee.
Mom: From where, from my tit?
Me: I am never talking to you ever again.
Posted by hissycat at 10:36 PM | Comments (4)
December 25, 2005
On The Town
A few nights ago, after a dissappointing meal (tasty cocktails, though) at French Roast (my mussels tasted like they'd been steamed in my boot) followed by a throroughly satisfying frozen treat from Tast-D-Lite, Cheryl and I went out for drinks at the Cubbyhole, a neighborhood lesbian bar, normally quite cozy, but on this particular night, throbbing like an overripe blister full of pushy women in poorly considered vests engaging in unseemly activities during "I Will Survive." There was much too much Late Madonna-- and that's too much's more than a person can stand. All in all, it was too much gay boi/ bar mitzavah hoo-la-la than either of us had the energy to cope with. We left
Not wanting to be overtaxed, we headed to Art Bar, where we could get trashed on gimlets (me) and mojitos (Cheryl) in a semi-reclining position, on a sofa and, importantly, within reaching distance of a generous plate of curly fries.
At one point, I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. Dissappointingly, a gaggle of people were already pooled around the door, but I excused myself, stepping politely around them. "What? Don't you have the money? I have hundreds of dollars in my pocket?" I could hear one of them show-hissing as I side-stepped by.
They hushed at my presence and I could smell their pot smoke. Quite obviously, they were considering what to do, whether to play it cool or not. As I lit my cigarette, I stepped a little farther away to indicate, 'go ahead, really, I don't care what you do, just please don't talk to me, because you seem like a bunch of jackasses, and I just want to enjoy my cigarette in peace.'
I know that probably sounds harsh-- what's the big deal? why not make a little friendly conversation? and so forth and on and on-- and in a different mood, on a different night maybe I might've been chatty and done just that but on that night I just didn't want to talk to them. Or anybody, while I was out for my cigarette. It's a pet peeve of mine the way men at bars feel entitled to a woman's attention, no matter how uninterested or occupied she is; yes, it's nice to start up a conversation with a nice-looking person, that's very nice, but do not plant yourself at her side while she is clearly in the middle of a conversation with her friends, and if she is frowning, or looking at the exits, or playing Tetris on her cell phone, or just, you know, not smiling, move on, ok? She doesn't have to talk you, ok? And it was her table first? This was not the case the other night, I just thought I needed to say this on record, as this crisis has reached epidemic proportions. Someone should start a ribbon campaign.
The four of them are very-- what's the politest way of saying this?-- Jersey looking: guys with greased hair and child-molestor-length overcoats and a girl wearing glittering strappy sandals over black tights with her hair in a frosted, fluffed-out 'do. They looked like people who'd gotten very dressed up for an occaision, like people who'd driven into the city and who'd drive back out late at night or early the next morning
There is a tap on my shoulder. A somewhat hunched in the shoulder, slim man, mumbling something wholly unintelligible that I am pretending I do not hear, is holding out the wee-est little stub of a spliff you ever did see. I'm not a proud woman, and when substances are scarce, I take what I can get, and then I take from other people, but I would rather have rubbed my face against a cheese grater than be under any obligation to make chit-chat, so I made the universal sign for 'smoking my own cigarette, can't be bothered, but thanks,' and went about my business. Annoyingly, a second man-- this one quite plump-- stepped over to me and, to my deep regret, began talking.
Chubby: Don't mind my friend John. John has a lot of money in real estate.
Me: I really don't care.
Chubby: I'm introducing myself. I'm harmless! Can't a guy introduce himself? This is Ashley (points to girl). We're visiting from Pennsylvania. I'm John, too. He's John, and I'm John. We're both John! What's your name, again? What'd you say your name was, again?
Me: I didn't say what my name is. It's Joanna, though. For the first time.
A little circle has formed, a circle which I have no desire to be a part of, so at the first opportunity I take a step back to distance myself from the pow-wow. Annoyingly, Slim pursues me. It appears he is attempting to communicate.
Slim: Mumble-mumble-mumble-mumble-mumble-mumble-bumblu-mumble-tumble-mum.
Me: You'll have to excuse me, but I have no idea what you are saying.
Slim: Marble-mumble-mum-mumblemumble-mumble mumlbe. Mumble mumble-mumble-mumble.
Me: Yeah, you're going to have to speak up because I really can't hear what you're saying.
Slim: MUMBLE MUMBLE MUMBLE MUMBLE MUMBLE!
Me: No, I'm sorry, but I just don't understand what it is you are trying to say. Maybe if took deeper breaths between words and slowed down?
After much shaking of head and hands he was able to get me to understand he was asking my opinion on the transit strike. Now, it's nice that I finally understood what he was saying so that I could stop being quite such a drunken bitch but still, the last thing I wanted was to talk to this stranger about the transit strike when I could be eating curly fries or talking Cheryl or, oh, I don't know, sticking my hand in meat-grinder.
Me: Yeah, I live in California, so I haven't been following it so closely. And I'm staying with my folks who live just around the block, so it hasn't inconvenienced me at all. So, yeah, nothing to say on the topic. Except, I don't care.
Slim: Mumble mumble mumble?!
Me: Yeah, I still don't understand anything you're saying.
Slim: Mumble mumble!
Me: Well, I'm pro-union, if that helps you, for general reference. Just stop talking to me for the love of--
Slim: So what do you think of disease?
Me: WHAT?
Slim: What do you think of disease?
Me: Disease? What do I--? Well, I guess I'd have to say that disease is a real killer.
Slim nods at me.
Me: Yeah, that's it. That's definately what I think of disease. It's a killer. And it makes me sick.
Slim looked at me funny, squinting out of a tipped head. You could almost see the gears churning, trying to figure out if he'd just been made of. I stomped my cigarette out and saluted Slim and went back inside and tried to explain the exchange to Cheryl, but by the time she went out to take a look, the little party from Pennsylvania had already left.
Posted by hissycat at 03:07 AM | Comments (8)
December 22, 2005
The Secret To My Success With The Men-Folk
From an email I just sent to this guy, Steve, that I've been seeing lately and really like:
I am extremely ticked off with myself today. In a moment of weakness, I purchased a copy of the Believer. I know! I immedeately regretted it. I then bought Elle to make up for it. The writing in Elle is so much better.Yeah, I just wrote that. I'm so subversive it makes you almost want to crap your pants.
I am so good with the "sweet talk."
Posted by hissycat at 03:04 PM | Comments (11)
December 20, 2005
Paperback Of The Week
It's back.
Posted by hissycat at 01:56 PM | Comments (64)
December 18, 2005
Photoshop + CSS + JoJo = BFF's 4-Eva
Now all it needs is some content and its golden! What, you don't want to read a 100+ undergrad English thesis in its entirety? It'll be a gas, I swear it! Some fun you are.
Also, you know what really sucks big time? You know how sometimes you piss away two months in bed, chewing your hair and procrasturbating through an entirely thoughtless, reptilian existance, and then you're not depressed, and all of a sudden, there are a katrillion things you realize you want to do-- write a book! make stop-motion animation with k-biz! create a small replica of the Tower of London rendered in Shrinky-Dink!-- but now the world's all, oh, hey Joanna, you're feeling a little bit not morbidly depressed, are you? Well, fuck you, sister-- now you've got to change the cat's litter, and pay your psychaitrist's bills, and visit your angry parents, and get another awful job to go to and work and eat any time you might want for writing or reading novels or maki the cat fall off furniture or Shrinky-Dinking paperbacks until, once again, suicide seems a really, really attractive alternative? You know what I mean, don't you? That kind of really sucks, right, am I so right? You with me?
Oh dude, my freshman RCC (freshman Residential Computer Consulstant-- Counselor? Consultant? Counselor? Consultant?) just walked in and is sitting not enough feet away. This, too, makes suicide an attractive option. I totally just flipped up my collar like I'm a cartoon.
I have to go home now and put my cat in her new Pet Voyage carrier. I can't win. I might as well sling her around my hip while I wash dishes. She can practice being in her bag.
A funny moment is when someone gives you a breathalizer test and you blow a zero (it's also funny to type out "blow a zero"-- you try!) and the person who breathalized you is all, "this thing's broken"-- because, presumably, your behavior indicates obvious inebriation-- and you're all, "yeah, ha, ha, it must be broken," but secretly, in your brain, you're all, "right, no, you just can't breathilize for cocaine." That is a pretty funny secret thought. I would imagine.
Posted by hissycat at 07:50 PM | Comments (2)
Deal: New Medea
I am, along with two others, really starting one, yes, and not for a few weeks only, no. I don't know when we'll have the first issue out-- Spring, I guess, would be nice, let's say Spring. It's a prose magazine-- mostly fiction, some non-fiction, a few book reviews-- and will be online; our big bad goal is to be in print in 2-3 years. We have no money at all, but we've been chattering for a while and now we're putting our noses down and working like (very hard-working) little bunnies. My lips are sealed till the three of us make some decisions on some things or something, but when there is more to know, I'll tell you about, and when we can accept your tax-deductable donations, I'll be sure to let you know. Submissions, too. There's even a P.O. Box involved-- exciting!
Posted by hissycat at 12:23 PM | Comments (5)
December 16, 2005
Another Measure To Ensure I Die In Grueling Poverty: A Literary Magazine!
See here, I made this Coming Soon! page today, and nobody's given me a dime.
Addenda:
Oh, shit, I totally spelled 'comining' wrong.
Addendada:
It's OK!
Posted by hissycat at 06:18 PM | Comments (4)
December 15, 2005
Power Of The Purse
Me: Mom?
Mom: Huh?
Me: Did you book my return flight? Remember, like I asked? I want to fly back to SF before New Year's.
Mom: I can't talk about this now. I'm working.
Me: I can hear the TV.
Mom: I'm with the boys at the group home.
Me: Why are you whispering? Don't you think they've figured out where they are? Also, the TV is really, really loud. Well, is it alright if I go ahead and book my ticket then? I'm worried they'll fill up or the prices will bump or something.
Mom: No. We're watching a video called R. Kelly is In The Closet. Normally, I don't care for R. Kelly, but--
Me: Uh, yeah, I think I heard of that.
Mom: You'd like it!
Me: So, I need to get a return ticket, right?
Mom: Your father and I just want to see you first and make sure you are, you know, alright.
Me: Can't you do that with a return ticket?
Mom: You had us very, you know, worried.
Me: I'm sorry.
Mom: I don't want you to be sorry.
Me: Ok, well I'm still going to need to go back to California I don't see what the point of not buying a ticket is.
Mom: I'm serious, Joanna, I can't talk about this now. I'll be home in two hours.
Me: Fine.
Ten minutes later.
Me: Mom?
Mom: Yeah?
Me: I just have one more question for you, I'll make it snappy.
Mom: Ok.
Me: Are you and Dad planning on abducting me and holding me captive in New York against my will?
Mom: Tsss, don't be ridiculous.
Me: I'm not. Is that-- is that why you suggested I bring the cat with me? So you could hold her as a hostage?
Mom: Hmph.
Me: Are you and Dad planning on committing me to the Columbia Psych Ward when I get there? Because you cannot make me board that plane!
Mom: No, we're not planning on having you committed, how ridiculous! I'll talk to your father about the return ticket.
Oh, and for the record, at one point while arguing the importance of getting back to San Francisco for New Year's with my friends my mother said to me, "you know, it's nice that you're making new friends and all, but just remember, in high school you used to use friendships to self-medicate so just BE CAREFUL." I have no idea what she's talking about, considering I was a really lonely kid in high school, but that aside, I just started laughing when she said that. It's like she just said to me, "you are using interpersonal relationships to fill this gaping void in your life where MEDICATION should be." She asked what was so funny and I said nothing and then we said bye and I felt sad.
I just want a family full of quiet estrangements, just like everyone else has. Mine is a total madhouse.
Posted by hissycat at 06:35 PM | Comments (148)
December 14, 2005
Soberlogism
bloglash |blaw'g'laa'sh|
noun
strong feelings of anger, scorn or revulsion felt by the regular reader of a blog upon reading something distasteful in a blog post, especially if post refences reader in (unintentionally!) unflattering light. I'm sorry.
Posted by hissycat at 06:10 PM | Comments (6)
December 13, 2005
Neologisms
This is Part Two in what is becoming an ongoing series.
jewbuse |joo'byu'z|
verb
to berate, belittle, deride, or bawl out while inveighing or inflicting shame or guilt upon another, often in a hyperbolic or exagerated manner over an apparently trivial matter. Onion-Slayer: It was very uncomfortable. Her boyfriends was throwing a total hissy fit because she brought back the wrong kind of burrito. Hissy Cat: Not trouble in Burritoville! He was abusing her? Onion-Slayer: He wasn't abusing her, it was more like he was-- Hissy Cat: JEWBUSING her?! Onion-Slayer: Yes!
ORIGIN Hissy Cat's apartment, Monday night.
yentervention |yehn'ter'ven'sh'on|
noun
the act of intervening undertaken by a gossip or gossips; an action undertaken by meddling friends So is this going to require a yentervention?
ORIGIN From the Yiddish yenta and the English term intervention; colloq. Wine involved.
biblioklept
noun
someone you once lent your copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem and still hasn't given it back
ORIGIN Kbiz has stolen The Complete Works of Edna St. Vincent Millay and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland from Paly's (Palo Alto High School) Library, The Best Democracy Money Can Buy from the Public Library in Pasadena,
alcologism
noun
word or phrase coined while under the influence of alcohol and/ or the drugs (for example jewbuse, yentervention, biblioklept, alcologism)
ORIGIN street corner, under the influence of alcohol and/ or the drugs
Posted by hissycat at 06:34 PM | Comments (5)
December 12, 2005
In Poor Taste?
I received an email with the subject line 'Peaceful Holiday Protest At San Quentin,' and was deeply amused.
Posted by hissycat at 07:30 PM | Comments (3)
I'm Sorry
I Know. September, October, November I don't think I missed a single day on this blog and now I'm missing one, two days in row. It won't happen again, promise. But, on the other hand, aren't you just a little bit happy for me that I'm busy doing things and I'm getting out in the world, and feeling better and cleaning my apartment?
Posted by hissycat at 09:20 AM | Comments (6)
December 09, 2005
N + 1 ; let N = Sexism
My dear friend Alex T.A.'d a course last year for the Science, Technology, and Society department (which, much to our amusement, one of his students, in a note accompanying a tardy paper mistakenly referred to as the "TITS dept."). His course was about, naturally, ethics and technology, and Alex, being the clever little whip he is, decided to take a 'class trip' to one of the engineering buildings on campus. This particular building has a sort of an empty moat-like trench all aroung it and a bridge that crosses over it to the entrance. Just before you can step on the bridge, you see this sign:
Alex, as long as I've known him, has made jokes about this sign, which just seems so poorly thought-out it has to be on purpose or in Japan, and it's not in Japan. It's a warning about shoes (I'll get to in a minute) but in front of an engineering building, where precious few ladies feel at home to start with, people, and it did occur to you boys, right, when you were designing the buidling and, admit it, you were a little high when you chose that image, cause you thought it looked really funny to tack up a NO WOMEN sign outside an engineering building? I mean, right?
The No Women Bridge, as Alex calls it, is made of metal grating, kind of like the subway grating on city sidewalks, which, as any lady knows, is horrible for walking on. Now there are no whooshing train gusts of wind under the engineering bridge to puff up a skirt, but that does not take care of the problem of heels snagging in the grating leading to inconveniences (scuffs), embaressments (funny stumbles, snapped heels), or injury (falls, twisted ankles). Alex uses it to show his class an example of technology that is inherently discriminatory (not having taken his class, I'm pretty sure I'm fudging up the concepts, but maybe if we're lucky, he'll jump in the comments and explain) as opposed to technology that isn't inherently discriminatory but is used in discriminatory ways. Like, whether or not the architects were thinking "let's keep women out with a weird moat thing and a funny looking bridge!" they built a bridge that makes it hard for the heel-wearing population to get in, the heel-wearing population being largely female, and so the defualt setting for the technology, as for its designers, turns out to strongly favor male and trip women and then point at them and ridicule while chortling loudly.
Which is why, when I was sent this article on N + 1 and learned that the invitations to a N + 1 party were charmingly inscribed with the following missive:
Heel-wearers: please keep in mind the roof has a silver coating that might be punctured by pointy heels. Also we are told that pointy heels are uncomfortable.
I almost lost my lunch. You know, no one ever said boys' club couldn't be clever or funny or amusing or smart. But it's still boys' club and it still sucks.
I know this isn't breaking news or anything: we all knew 19 of 20 of the articles in the premier issue were written by men, that they have an all-male frat-boy fight club weird homoerotic vibe going on, but this-- this heel thing-- this is the last straw. We all have to draw the line in the sand somewhere, and I draw it with my pointy-ass heel.
Posted by hissycat at 04:38 PM | Comments (7)
December 08, 2005
Self-Promotion
Because I know you're just itching to read a book review today.
Posted by hissycat at 11:57 AM | Comments (3)
December 06, 2005
Shrinky-Dink
On Sunday morning I had a painful conversation with my parents, consumed the 'biscuits n' gravy special' at a local diner, then, weighted down by filial guilt and sausage drippins, slid into a heavy slumber for the rest of the afternoon. When Zuzka shook me awake hours later, it was dark outside and drool was crusted on my chin. At, Zuzka's urging, I took a walk down Castro street during which I found it necessary, on account of my low spirits, to stop into Cliff's General Store and spend the last of my credit on things essential to my happiness. Such as: a teeny tiny palette of watercolors, a miniature xylophone, soap bubbles, a wind-up rabbit that walks in circles, a yellow thing that pops, an unfinished heart-shaped box, collage glue, three different colors of glitter contact paper, two packs of Shrinky-Dink, and a paper accordian with butterflies.
I'm not saying paper accordians and mechanical bunnies are adequate substitutes for the hard drugs a case like me calls for. I'm a'waitin' for the Topamax(TM) to kick in. In fact, I volunteered to start at 100 mg instead of 50 or 25 because fuck the side effects! I'm hardcore like that! On the other hand, shiny things smile my brain for five seconds whether I will it or not.
In any event, I didn't sleep at all last night, which isn't as bad a thing as it sounds-- trying to sleep, I decided, was way too much pressure. I figured it'd be more relaxing to watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force and make Shrinky-Dinks in bed, which is just what I did. Damn good Shrinky-Dinks, I might add, on which I have traced with the insane detail of a hypomanic insomniac basketcase the covers of some very cool classic paperback books: Pale Fire, Gravity's Rainbow, The Brothers K, Democracy, The Berlin Stories. Now I realize the market Shrinky-Dinked paperback covers is a somewhat limited one, but as I'm officially broke (this afternoon I go to the food stamps office, yum yum!), I'm going to throw it out there that if the spirit should so move you to hit that there PayPal button, I'll send a Shrinky-Dink your way as a token of appreciation. They need to be sealed so they don't smudge, but I'll do that today.
I'll take some photos and get them up soon. Also, if you'd like me to make you a specifc Shrinky-Dunk book (or other image) let me know. As long as I have the book or can borrow it, I'll make it. Oh, and let me know if you'd like a hole in it so you can hang it as an ornament or on a necklace. It could also be mounted on a magnets or broach!
Posted by hissycat at 02:00 PM | Comments (1)
December 05, 2005
Good News
I have a new diagnoses: I'm bipolar! Type two!
I'm not actually being as facetious as I seem. New diagnosis means new medication, and since what I'm on now clearly isn't doing the trick, I'm anxious to try something new. I'm still in insurance limbo and can't afford to see a doctor so for now my father is writing my prescription. It's not ideal being treated by a family member, but he's a good psychaitrist, and this is how it'll have to be for the moment. I've been too depressed/ anxious/ overwhelmed to seek out a new doctor in any case. People ask me why I don't at least go see my old doctor but they don't understand. "I don't have a car," I say. "Take the train." The train? That is so complicated, it would never work. I'd have to look up schedules, and wake up at a certain time to leave, and go to the station, and buy a ticket and find a seat among all the people, then wait for my stop to come up. I can't fit even get my brain to think through all that. Doing it? Totally impossible.
When I feel better, when the new meds have kicked in, then I can deal with getting a new doctor, here in the city.
Wait, wait-- I'm almost at the best part. Topamax, which is what I'm taking starting tonight, has weight loss as a side effect. Just the thought cheers me up. Loss of appetite, here I come!
Posted by hissycat at 09:45 PM | Comments (9)
December 04, 2005
I Am Horribly Depressed
I like otters.
Posted by hissycat at 10:21 PM | Comments (2)
December 03, 2005
Paperback Of The Week
Posted by hissycat at 09:14 PM | Comments (6)
December 02, 2005
Tit & An Ass
Let it be said, for the record, that I adore Feministe. I read it every day. I think the world of Jill and Lauren, to say nothing of Lauren's cats.
I don't, however, love the creepy misogynistic commenters that are perpetually buzzing around the comments, making coarse cracks about Lauren and Jill. Now, I am, in general, in full support of coarse cracks about just about anyone or anything, but, still, something about the pro-life kinksters' remarks really give me the heebie-jeebies. I once started to write a post about this before but stopped because 1) I have no desire to engage any of them and 2) Jill and Lauren seem to accept the ribbing in good cheer, and it's their blog, so if it's a-ok by them, I really have no business reading their comments otherwise. However, I just finished reading Cintra Wilson's very funny and entertaining novel Colors Insulting to Nature, and as I eyeballed the string of increasingly odd comments following this, one line from the book came to mind. Now, I don't have the book in front of me, and I'm sure I'm going to totally mangle the quote, but it comes up when Liza, the protagonist is observing the antics of the depraved offspring of a depraved celebrity-- particularly, the offspring's flip way of calling the model/starlettes/escorts he cavorts with "slut," or "trollope," or "whore." Wilson writes that "his playful faux-disgust was nothing other than undisguised disgust." Or something like that. It's close enough, anyway, to get where I'm going with this. Sometimes, reading the Feministe comment threads, I get the feeling that a lot of the playful, faux-mysognism is really just undisguised mysoginism.
Now, all of this is somewhat beside the point, the main point, of this post, which is not, in fact, to complain that someone else's blog is not totally in line with my own taste. What I want to point out has nothing, really, to do with Feministe in particular-- it just so happens that Feministe's recent comment thread responding to Lauren's post about this revolting little specimen of humanity who, in his most recent NRO column had this to say:
Jennifer's bristols. Did I buy, or browse, a copy of the November 17 GQ, in order to get a look at Jennifer Aniston's bristols?** No, I didn't. While I have no doubt that Ms. Aniston is a paragon of charm, wit, and intelligence, she is also 36 years old. Even with the strenuous body-hardening exercise routines now compulsory for movie stars, at age 36 the forces of nature have won out over the view-worthiness of the unsupported female bust.It is, in fact, a sad truth about human life that beyond our salad days, very few of us are interesting to look at in the buff. Added to that sadness is the very unfair truth that a woman's salad days are shorter than a man's — really, in this precise context, only from about 15 to 20. The Nautilus and the treadmill can add a half decade or so, but by 36 the bloom is definitely off the rose. Very few of us, however, can face up to this fact honestly, and I am sure this diary item will generate more angry e-mails of protest than everything else I have written this month.
** Bristols. Cockney rhyming slang. There is a well-known soccer team in England named Bristol City.
Charming. One of Feministe's most endearing commenters even takes it upon himself to defend Derbyshire's comments. Whatever. That should not be surprising given the numerous other endearing comments that man has left at Feministe before.
What troubles me more than gross people making gross defenses of other gross people's gross statements is that the other side, those who find Derbyshire's remarks distasteful, false or revolting keep making the same argument-- essentially that Derbyshire's comments are objectionable because they are wrong; slightly older women are actually quite pretty. Women commenters testify that they receive more male attention in their thirties and say they're much prettier now than they were at sixteen. Male commenters chivalrously step in to claim that they don't find nymphettes appealing at all, that older women are really sexy, and that they raised no objection at all to the display of Jen Anniston's titty.
Am I being overly harsh and unfair to people I'm largely in sympathy with? Yes, undoubtedly. But I find myself really rankled by the narrowness and sexism that both sides of the spat are participating in. On one side, they say older men are wired to get hard for ninth-graders; on the other side, they say, no, developed breasts are actually much more sexy. Big fucking deal. The disagreement is about which variety of sex-bot is most pleasing to me; everyone, on both sides, in complicit in the assumptions that 1) pleasing men is important, and 2) women are sex-bots that exist for no reason besides men's viewing pleasue. So, yes, this kind of boils my blood.
The Derbyshire-inspired faux-debate reminds me of the Dove ad dance that was all the rage a few short months ago. In particular, I am reminded of always-fantastic Wendy McClure's Chicago Sun-Times Op-Ed responding to the "Real Beauty" debate. McClure had this to say about the nasty reactions to the "heavy" models in the ads:
They expose the nasty inverse of "the beauty standard," which is the belief, held by some men, that women who don't look like fantasy material aren't just unworthy of their attention but are actually offensive, or even menacing.
and this:
t's a dirty little notion, and rarely is it ever this publicly expressed. The sheer entitlement behind it is usually a silent presence, perhaps even an unconscious one. But it's disconcerting when it emerges, when perfectly nice men like Guerrero insist that Dove ditch the Real Women in order to "make [his] morning commute a little more pleasing to the eyes." Even though he's not even the one buying firming cream.
and, not least of all, this:
This isn't about whether the Dove women are beautiful or not. We could argue endlessly over whether the women are too fat to be attractive, or not fat enough to be "real," or too airbrushed; whether they're prettier with their clothes on, if the angles of their photos are flattering. But we'd be taking them apart the way we do with so many other women in the media, dissecting them piece by piece. Which gets us nowhere.And this isn't about whether men's fantasies are unrealistic or stupid or shallow or shameful. Men are certainly entitled to their preferences. Having preferences is one thing; expecting the world to cater to them is another.
Men aren't obligated to consider every woman beautiful, or for that matter, to make every woman feel good about herself.
But by the same token, nobody owes you a nice view, guys.
Wendy's point about "fat" women in media holds for "old" women in media as well, but I suspect Derbyshire missed the article. So heinously offensive is an over-twenty tit that Derbyshire feels traumatized and indignant that the world dare subject him to Ms. Anniston's malevolent nip, and instead of slapping the twit across the face and reminding him that no one gives a doo-doo about his regard for Ms. Anniston's breats and that he (shockingly) is not entitled to a world peopled exclusively by nymphettes that are pleasing and arousing to view, instead of engaging in the trap of trying to argue what age/ weight/ etc. is really the most attractive.
Posted by hissycat at 07:51 PM | Comments (8126)
December 01, 2005
Just When I Think Things Can't Possibly Get Any Worse, They Do. Again.
The insurance co. called today to let me know they will not be fixing my car. Good-bye, sweet car! I'm so sorry, Rachel Owlglass-- for that was her name. You were such a good little red cutie car, and you deserved so much better than this.
Posted by hissycat at 06:26 PM | Comments (19)