September 02, 2006
What I've Been Doing
Jewelry design (?!?)
Posted by hissycat at 02:07 PM | Comments (3)
April 11, 2006
Sex is for Fags
Abstinence-only Coolness for Boys
Posted by hissycat at 07:49 AM | Comments (231)
March 02, 2006
You Are Like A Beautiful Rose
Posted by hissycat at 02:54 PM | Comments (4)
Guess The Century: An Exercise In Institutional Brutality
1. During which century did American prisons shackle female prisoners during childbirth? Why, this one, of course! There is an article in today's NYT about the barbaric practice still practiced in many prisons of shackeling pregnant inmates in labor. I'm supposed to comment insightfully on the article now, this being a blog and all-- but really, what do I need to say? Read the article. It's enough.
There was a very interesting special on incarcerated mothers that was done on Forum this summer. I remember listening to it in the car and driving circles on my way to work so I could finish listening to the program. It covers a range of issues, and if I remember correctly, the first show dealt a lot with pregnancy, mother-infant bonding, and early childhood when the mother is an inmate. Highly recommended.
2. Name the year in which the federal government responded to concerns over mining fatalities by lowering safety standards? This one! The NYT has an article on how the Bush admin. has reduced the fines and/ or not collected the fines for potentialy lethal safety violations in mines.
"The agency keeps talking about issuing more fines, but it doesn't matter much," said Bruce Dial, a former inspector for the mine safety agency. "The number of citations means nothing when the citations are small, negotiable and most often uncollected."
Before the January disaster at the Sago Mine near here, where 12 miners died, the operator had been cited 273 times since 2004. None of the fines exceeded $460, roughly one-thousandth of 1 percent of the $110 million net profit reported last year by the current owner of the mine, the International Coal Group.
[At a House oversight hearing on Wednesday, agency officials repeatedly cited the frequency of fines against Sago in the year before the accident as proof of aggressive enforcement. Exasperated, Representative Lynn Woolsey, Democrat of California, replied that maybe those fines had little effect because many were for $60. That point set off applause from audience members.]
$60 is a freakin' parking ticket. The punishment for endangering the life and health of human beings (if you are a multi-mill company) is the same as forgetting to move your car for street-cleaning (if your are an individual). Actually, it's less-- they don't even get a yellow bootie.
Posted by hissycat at 02:09 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
February 28, 2006
What, You Were Expecting A Quilting Bee?
"Alpha Gamma Rho is all about integrity and decency" and goat fucking. Over at the Western Kentucky University chapter two weeks ago, amidst the run-of-the-mill homosexual antics fraternities are chock full of, bestiality put it a guest appearance: a noise complaint resulted in the discovery of a goat (a he-goat, if you care) kept in a closet, mired in its own excrement for the purpose of what fraternity men love to do most in small, dark, excrement-filled spaces.
Further support for my extremely complex theory of human sexuality-- sometimes called the "men stick their penises anywhere they think they'll fit" school of thought-- comes from yet another goat-related news item. It seems a Sudanese man, has not only fucked a goat but also taken the cloven-hooved beast as his bride:
Upper Nile: Tombe, a Sudanese man, has been forced to take a goat as his "wife", after he was caught having sex with the animal.
The goat's owner, Alifi, said he was surprised to find the man with his goat, and took him to a council of elders.
Alifi, Hai Malakal in Upper Nile State, told the Juba Post newspaper that he heard a loud noise around midnight on 13 February, and immediately rushed outside to find Tombe conjugating with his goat.
"When I asked him: 'What are you doing there?', he fell off the back of the goat, so I captured and tied him up".
Mr Alifi then called elders to decide how to deal with the case.
"They said I should not take him to the police, but rather let him pay a dowry for my goat because he used it as his wife," Mr Alifi told the newspaper.
The council also ordered Tombe to pay a dowry of 15,000 Sudanese dinars (about Rs 3,000) to Alifi, whom the considered the “father of the bride"."We have given him the goat, and as far as we know they are ill together," Alifi said.
Those elders went all Pee-Wee Herman on his ass. Like, "If you love that goat so much, why don't you just marry it?"
Ah, how wise the elders are in their infinite elderly patriamalarchy. The punishment must fit the crime and teach a lesson. Look now, what you're doing here-- now, we save it for the ladies. Got it, bud? If you're raping this animal, that means to me you think she is a woman. As long as you insist on pretending that sheep is your fiancee, I guess we'll all just have to see that you get married. Right away. That's right. Maybe next time you'll think twice before you use someone's sheep like a dirty woman again.
But have fun on the honeymoon!
Posted by hissycat at 07:19 AM | Comments (8115)
February 21, 2006
Witnessed Oral Sex @ Ross Dress For Less
Please don't ask why, I was amusing myself with Rants & Raves on Craigslist when I came across this gem:
Witnessed Oral Sex @ Ross Dress for Less (laurel hts / presidio)
Reply to: pers-135780510@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-02-21, 11:08AM PST
in the men's dept. it was empty the other night. i went down stairs to look for some socks for my husband. i saw two men in where the sweaters section is. one of the men was sitting between the clothes and giving the other man a blowjob. i told an employee. i have nothing against gay people, but please, keep the sexual acts at home. then you say you're aren't obsessed with sex. give me a break.today i followed up with ross and they said they two guys got away before the cops showed up. oh well.
no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
135780510
Copyright © 2006 craigslist, inc. terms of use privacy policy feedback forum
It's clearly a filthy lie. Gay men do not go into these "Ross Dress For Less"'s. In Laurel Heights. Never. No.
Posted by hissycat at 09:11 PM | Comments (8)
January 27, 2006
Sue-sy Sue
So these ladies are suing James Frey for "lost time" spent reading his novel. Great idea, gals! Come to think of it, there's some suing I've been meaning to get around to myself. First, I'm going to sue the pants off of PT Anderson for the last hour minutes of Magnolia. Then I'm going to sue, like, all of TV. And then I'm going to sue-- Oh, I know!-- ME -- for this whole freaking blog.
Posted by hissycat at 08:09 PM | Comments (0)
January 25, 2006
Public Service Announcement
My throat was aching this morning. I was a-coughing like a person who coughs a lot. A whole lot!
While selecting tea at the cafe, this "Throat Comfort" tea caught my eye, for my throat needs comforting, but my eye is ok because that was just an expession, the tea did not really catch my eye. Tea does not even have hands!
However!
I must warn you!
"Throat Comfort" Tea tastes like A MONKEY'S ASS, which, let me tell you, is no comfort at all. Although I like monkeys and now that I mention it I would like a helper monkey who could do chores for me, perhaps even make me cups of tea-- not, however, ass tea; my monkey would have to be trained to make Earl Grey-- I do not like their asses infused in my drink.
That's all.
Continue on with your day.
Posted by hissycat at 02:55 PM | 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 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)
November 30, 2005
It's 10 pm: Do You Know Where Your FSH Levels Are?
The new Samsung E530 pink mobile phone is a girl's best friend, equipped with calorie counter, megapixel camera, shopping list . . . oh and it even tells the ladies when they're ovulating!
Ladies, did you hear? Samsung has designed a phone-thingie just for us gals! I know, I know-- that press release is sooo long-- but you can look here to see some hott pix of the phone.
I tell you this, girlfriends, even at the risk of your snatching the last one from my hands with a catfight in the cell phone store ensuing, because I truly care you. Just like Samsung! Samsung really cares about us. That's why "the opening angle and all other small things were created for women and the ergonomics is interesting to them, naturally. . . the device lies to their checks well and the keypad gladdens even long-nailed ones." It's created just for us! And it's pink!
But the best part is the "Woman's Life" applications. My favorite, Fragrence Type, "is unique and was not applied in any phone before." Both those things! Wow! Fragrence Type gives you a mini-questionnaire to fill out and when you're done, "you get a small piece of text with a picture describing the most appropriate smell for you." Amazing! And, "according to the girls, that used the application, it helps choosing the smell correctly in 70 percent of cases." Wow, that sure is one smart little phone!
Also in "Woman's Life" is a Calorie Counter that not only, well, counts calories, but also tells you your height/ weight ratio and BMI. You can check "Your Fatness" (in percentage) every single day! Or more!!!! Plus, you can make up to five seperate shopping lists at one time and check your "Pink Schedule" to see when (ahem) your "Aunt Flo" is due to pay a visit. Very convenient! You can also "calculate biorhythms for a day or a month. . . and send it as a usual SMS. The function is very useful for friend's parties, attracts attention." I'll just bet!
Oh, and did I mention it's PINK?!!
I used to think technology was, you know, "boy stuff," but the Samsung E530 is made just for girls like me. I feel so empowered! And PINK! PINK POWER! ROCK! Thanks again, Samsung, for another amazing example of girl technology.
Posted by hissycat at 08:30 PM | Comments (32)
November 27, 2005
Something I Don't Understand
The Vatican's decision to ban gay men from the clergy puzzles me because it seems to undermine the Catholic Church's own stance on homosexuality.
According to the Catholic Church, engaging in a homosexual act is commiting a sin. If homosexuality is a sin, then the idea that anyone could have a 'sexual orientation or identity' that is divorced from specific thoughts and acts doesn't make sense. If sodomy is an immoral act, then a sodomite, like any other kind of sinner, is capable of salvation if he chooses to repent. In order for homosexuality to be a sin, there has to be an element of moral choice involved.
If homosexuality is a sin, it can be renounced . If homosexuality can't be renounced-- if it is so integral to the core of who someone is that one can still be a homosexual even if he does not engage in homosexual acts nor entertain homosexual lust-- than it can't be a sin, seems to me.
Men who choose priesthood vow to be be celibate and resist or overcome lust of every kind. If homosexuality is a sin people commit actively, then the notion of 'gay priests' does not makes sense. It seems, then, that a ban on 'gay priests,' which assumes that there can be such a thing as a 'gay priest,' would undermine the Church's belief that homosexuality is a sin.
Is there something I'm missing?
Posted by hissycat at 03:49 PM | Comments (4)
November 01, 2005
Every Woman's Battle
On a usual Sunday morning on which I wake before noon (which, granted, is already not a usual Sunday morning), I amble on over across the street to Katz's for my lox bagel and New York Times (you can take the girl out of New York, but you can't take New York out of the girl, etc.), which comes as a welcome relief after a long week of getting up and ambling on over across the street to Katz's for my whole-wheat bagel with humus, cucumber and sprouts and New York Times. If Katz's is sold out of the Times, I shrug and return to bed crosswordless but unharmed. The thought of walking to the Castro before the caffiene from my third cup of joe has had time to fully absorb into my blood stream is not what I usually find an appealing notion. Yet, as if pulled along by some unearthly foresight appdo not normally trek out to the Castro in search of the elusive Sunday paper, yet yesterday, as if drawn by some vague foreknowledge, that is exactly what I did.
My premonition was fulfilled. The entire trek was made worthwhile by the pleasure of this littegem of an article.
In case you were distracted by the Maureen Dowd essay on feminism and sexual mores in the Magazine Section or the Iraq war themed Book Review and did not get a chance to fully savor this article, allow me to fill you in.
New Life Ministries, "an evangelical radio ministry," has taken it upon themselves to ship off packages of books "intended to promote Bible-based abstinence from pornography, adultery, nonmarital sex and masturbation" to soldiers in Iraq.
Interestingly enough, there are two different sets of books, one for the boys and one for the girls. For the boys, there is the blue covered Every Man's Battle; Every Woman's Battle comes in pink. Every Day For Every Man is colred in earthy shades of reddish brown and bluish green; Every Woman, Every Day is colored with the turquise and yellow pallette of drugstore eyeshadow. And the girly counterpart to Every Man's Bible (which has on its cover a rugged, South Western landscape) is the Life Recovery Bible, its cover taken up with curly, pastel calligraphy.
Though the article contained no discussion of the differences between the two sets of books, I was struck by the graphic and little summaries of each book included in the inset, which could be a handout for a Language and Gender 101 class.
In "His Battle Kit" the rhetoric emphasizes sexual purity as a battle: "Your malesness looms as your own worst enemy. You got into this mess by being male; you'll get out by being a man."; "It's time to fight. And you realize that your battle for sexual purity will cost you something. It requires sacrifice,, intensity and honor."; "Is it O.K. to have lunch with a female coworker? What about working together on a project past quitting time? Be honest as you evaluate what is going on in your mind and heart. If temptation lurks around the corner. . . run!"
The books in "Her Battle Kit" use the soft, self-hating language of psychology, urging women to reflect and listen to their feelings: "Society has twisted our minds into thinking that if we are drawn to someone, we must want to have sex with them"; "Masturbation is not healthy because it can train a person to 'fly solo,' to operate independently of anyone else"; "'Please love me!' Isn't this the whispered cry of our heart? We may not want to admit it for fear of rejection, but we are all hungry for love."
The man books are about action and practical advice. The woman books are about health and personal relationships. The appeal to abstain from masturbating is part of a noble "battle for sexual purity" that proves masculine and individual virtues like "sacrifice, intensity and honor." Women, on the other hand, are harmed by masturbation. It is not that women need to be strong and fight for sexual purity; to the contrary, women need to be protected and sheilded from the inherent destructiveness and unhealthiness of female independence.
Posted by hissycat at 02:57 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
October 28, 2005
This Demographic Has A Terrible Aftertaste
One would hope that the sentence "They live and eat and breathe the demographic." would be the most grisly of whatever article it comes nestled in. Terrifyingly, the sentence, which appears in yesterday's NYTimes article about Simon Spotlight Entertainment, a new imprint of Simon & Schuster "devoted to pop culture for reader age 18-35," was not.
In case you were not aware, these are the people we have to thank for this minor masterpiece and the novelization of Napolean Dynamite. Things to look forward to: the hilariously! titled "Sippy Cups Are Not For Chardonnay," a book about fantasy football, and a The L Word tie-in called "Same Sex In The City."
In short, SSE is the reification of everything vomitacious and dispicable about Publishing: they are interested in making money, not good books ("'The thing that impresses me most about our editors is that they understand that it's not all about the book,' she said. 'It's about the money you can make from that book.'"); they are entirely market-- and marketing-- driven (. . ."when the series 'The L Word' was burning up Showtime on cable television . . . They gathered a focus group of about a dozen gay women to talk about what type of book they would want to read. . . It is not exactly a formula, Ms. Bergstrom said. 'But we usually know what we want to publish,' she said. 'It's then a matter of wrapping the right author and spokesperson around it.'"); authors are selected for celebrity, not writing ("what we decide to publish is greatly affected by our publicity department - who we can get on 'The Daily Show' or who might be great on a radio tour."); they are the whores of a vertically-integrated media conglomerate (Viacom) that is designed to produce cyclicly-reinforced crap in a closed system ("'most of [SSE's authors] have platforms in other media,'" Ms. Bergstrom said recently."; "the imprint sponsors events with the likes of Jane magazine"; "At one recent meeting, the staff was batting around ideas related to celebrities and MTV"; "What Simon Spotlight Entertainment has done - rather successfully in its first year in business - is to tap quickly into pop culture currents."). The entire SSE imprint is, essentially, a PR department for recycled celebrities.
Not that there is anything shocking about what the article reveals. Still, there is something really eerily Stepford Publishers about the piece. Everyone-- the journalist, the subjects-- is so blithely indifferent to the media or publishing ethics. No, more than indifferent-- they seem completely unaware that there are ethics in media and publishing. The opening anecdote of the SSE head skipping Frankfurt in favor of the Aspen Comedy Festival is delivered without irony. There is the suggestion of iconoclasm in the assertion "that an editorial assistant would be given that level of responsibility is evidence that the imprint does not hew to the traditional hierarchies in many publishing companies," would be funny if their corporate whoredom wasn't so dreadful and frightening.
What, exactly, was the aforementioned 25-year-old editorial assisstant responsible for?
"One book of pictures and quotations from the film [Napolean Dynomite] is already in stores, and another, a flipbook of Napoleon's sweet dance moves, is on the way."
Posted by hissycat at 11:12 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
October 19, 2005
Letter To My Cat
Dear Gerty,
I love you. You know that. Living with you is the best decision I ever made. You know that, too. But you also know, and I know, too, and you know that I know, and you know that I know you know, that of late some concerns have arisen, as is bound to happen whenever two individuals, no matter how much they love one another, decide to live in a small place together. The conventional wisdom on such matters dictates an open line of honest communication. That, Gerty, is why I am writing this letter to you. I want us to live harmoniously and happily together.
One thing I've been meaning to talk to you about, Gerty, is this business about your new friend. I may never understand myself what it is about that strange, massive, and-- if I may say so-- none too bright, yeti of a cat that attacked my arm that one time that has won your heart after you so ferociously and, yes, callously chased sweet, orange Leo, who wanted nothing more than to peacably observe the pigeons and make lovey eyes at you, out of the courtyard.
But I understand that the heart is a wild thing we choose not the paths it takes. I'm happy for you, Gerty. You've found a creature to be fond of, a creature that is fond of you, someone to lie beside you in the grass, someone to cuddle and spoon you to sleep, someone to bathe you with her tongue, someone to gnaw the dingleberries off of your rump. Good for you. I ask only that you and your friend stop making those god-awful lowing noises at one another for tens of minutes on end. Seriously, what are you doing? It is sweet, if unusual, the way the two hunch down, nose-to-nose and low soulfully at one another. But, please. The sound is less than fetching to human ears. You sound like a drowning peacock, and, frankly, it is embarrassing. Think of the neighbors.
So often does the bathroom become a matter of contention between people who live together, that what I am about to say should not surprise you. Gerty, please stop pooping in the garden. And if you so love the thrill of pooping in the outdoors that to ask you to stop would be asking the impossible, then at least try not to poop right within three feet of the door and directly in front of the chair where I sit when I smoke. It occurs to me as I write this that your poop spot in the garden is the same spot where you like to gift me with dead rats. I don't care for the rats, either, but I understand that because there is no present you would like so much as a rat you presume that I feel the same way. You are wrong. But I understand the sentiment that motivates you. But Gerty, the poop? What's with the poop?
I know that when you howl at the garden door it means you want me to let you out. Believe me, I know, and there is no need to jump all over the coffee table once you see me opening the door. I'd had a hard enough week before you slapped the beer bottle with your tail, sending waterlogged cigarette butts and foul, foul liquid all over the room, that only made it that much worse. And when I tell you it's not time for you to go out, please respect that. Do not, for instance, howl at the door at five in the morning when sleep is at long last tentatively extending her mercies. And please don't jump on my desk and try to shove yourself between the window and the venetian blinds. Not only does that cause a terrible racket but also breaks the blinds.
And while we are on the subject of the great outdoors, there is something else I've been wondering. When you run towards the pigeons that perch on the windowsill of the crazy neighbor that feeds them, you might consider not meowing as you hurtle towards them. That's how they know you're coming. That's why they fly away. I think you know that, too. After all, you do not meow at the rats as you catch them. I might think you were trying to be the pigeons' friend except for that gleam in your eye, that gleam that says, "I want to eat you." Oh, and next time you are considering jumping up towards the windowsill, do try and keep in mind you are missing a leg. You will not make the jump. You will, instead, come crashing down through the shrubbery with a panic stricken look in your eye, and the pigeons will blink down at you mockingly and not even ruffle their feathers.
In fact, it would mean a lot to me if you would make a general rule of calculating your lack of leg when planning your jumps. I know that when you fail to clear a jump to the desk and go sliding back down the side, hooking with desperation whatever you little claws can, you don't mean to bring down the foot high stack of papers with you, splaying them all over my floor, but with a little more forethought, we could avoid these situations altogether.
Love,
Joanna
Posted by hissycat at 12:03 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
October 06, 2005
Jizz For Jesus
Sydnee, the NOHO spokesslut
When I first found out about xxxchurch.com (the #1 Christian porn site) (via brainspace) I thought it had to have something to do with these.
Then, at theslovak's urging, I checked out Porn Sunday, and thought my poor, dear Zuzka had just been taken in. It had to be a joke. Surely they were pulling one over her. I mean, just look at that fem-porn-happy webdesign. I mean, really.
But, with further poking, I have come to the conclusion, that triple-x church is, in fact, entirely serious. Channel 7 News ran a spot about them. Even The Christian Science Monitor has written about them.
My favorite part about triple-x church, after the derivative Save The Kittens Campaign, would have to be the NoHo Zone where Sydnee, the deranged spokesbarbie, invites girls to take the NoHo Pledge:
I, state your name, promise to the best of my ability not to dress, buy clothes or act like a Ho. Clothes I should try to avoid buying or wearing: tight pants that are cut so low that when I bend over you can see my g-string or butt crack, tight half shirts that show my six or not-so-six pack, tight shirts that are low cut to show my cleavage or short shorts that you can see my butt cheeks in.I know that God desires me to glorify him in all things and I realize that by dressing like a Ho, I only desire to give glory to me, not God. I also know boys have a problem with sexual things and I know that by not dressing like a Ho, I can be a part of the solution, not the problem!
Well, I'd love to hang around and chat, but it's getting late, and the time has come for me to go "kill some kittens," as the kids are calling it these days.
Posted by hissycat at 12:02 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
October 05, 2005
Oy Va Voy
I knew Miers had been born-again, but I hadn't realized she was a convert from the Catholic church. As this dear young lady, who has been forced to sit through PowerPoint sermons at the behest of born-again ex-Catholic family members, can attest, nothing says "killjoy" like converting from Catholicism to a more restrictive brand of Jesus-loving.
Since everyone else has already said all the intelligent things about why Miers sucks, I'll add only this:
Lady, if you can't even use
eyeliner correctly, there's no way I'm trusting you with a gavel.
Posted by hissycat at 09:34 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Intellect Continues To Bloom In The Rose Garden
Bush lets it slip who's really running the show:
QUESTION: You said several times now, sir, that you don't want a justice who will be different 20 years from now than she is today. Given that standard, I wonder in hindsight whether you think the appointment of Justice David Souter then was a mistake. And even...BUSH: You're trying to get me in trouble with my father.
(LAUGHTER)
QUESTION: I'm trying to understand what informed your choice this time.
BUSH: Well, call him.
Additionally, while poking around the little boys' room in search of world leaders, Bush let it be known that Santorum-style man-on-bird action really is quite dangerous:
Secondly, during my meetings at the United Nations, not only did I speak about it publicly, I spoke about it privately to as many leaders as I could find. . . That's when it gets dangerous: when it goes bird, person, person.
Posted by hissycat at 01:12 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
October 03, 2005
Confession
Bust, like Tori Amos, Tom Robbins, and yoga, is something I, theoretically, should like. Not only am I, personally, the target demographic, but friends and co-horts whose tastes overlap in large part with my own and whose opinions and recommendations I therefore wholly respect love it. Bust also attracts some writers I really, really like. In high school, I once bought a Tori Amos CD and listened to it multiple times to try to force myself to like it. I knew I was supposed to. It was what the smart, young feminists in high school listened to. I wanted to be a part of the club. I wanted to show that I got, and supported, the 'message.'
While I never did learn to like the Tori Amos CD, I did manage to spend an agonized month with her torturous songs lodged in my brain. My relationship with Bust magazine is somewhat similair.
There are, to be sure, significant differences. I didn't enjoy Ms. Amos' music at all. In any given issue of Bust, I can expect a handful of things to like and other things that whilst I might not like them exactlly, still afford me with some degreee of pleasure and enjoyment.
But sometimes I think I'm missing something.
In the Oct./ Nov. issue there is an article on "cougars"-- older women who date younger men. I suppose the point of running an article is to show that older women can be sexual in a hip, edgy way. I don't by any means disagree with the premise or even the motivation for featuring this story (assuming, of course, that that was the motivation). But it's just not that interesting a topic. Ok, post-menopausal women can still slut it up with the best of them, but so what, that in itself does not really compell me. I'm not saying that there isn't a compelling story that could be told, just that Bust doesn't tell it. I think about an essay I read in Elle a few months ago as a contrast. The story was about 'whole beast' eating, a haute culinary adventure lark that involves paying scads of money to be served organ meat and bone and claw soup and every other part of an animal most people who have the choice to throw away would. That topic is even less innately appealing to me. I really don't give a damn about the world of uber-chefs or chi-chi gourmand eating, but the writer managed to make me interested in her story. The piece was so elegantly written and so infused with the human characters she was writing about that I couldn't help but be compelled. I was invested, emotionally and intellectualy, in the stakes that she saw in the topic. It was, in many ways, the ideal of glossy-magazine writing: it was deeply entertaining, clever, and witty; escapist in the best possible sense, in that the writing was strong enough to transport me into another world; and it exposed me to a story I didn't know I wanted to know and wouldn't see unless I happened upon it in a magazine, as it is not something I would seek out or pay for in a book.
Bust's writing is not so compelling.
Barbara. . . peppers her response with historical references and pop culture witticisms. When I ask why she likes dating younger men, she explains, "You don't have to worry about them leaving you for Elle McPherson, because they're not interested in that in the first place."
To start with, I don't need to be told someone is witty. If she says witty things, just repeat them and, I promise, I'll get it. Thing is, Barbara really doesn't say anything witty, at least not in this article. Not to mention that I'm not sure whether her mentioning Elle McPherson is supposed to be an example of a "pop culture witticism" or a "historical reference." In any case, please. I don't think I've heard the name Elle McPherson in years, not since the Fashion Cafe tanked.
There's also this:
One Saturday [Norma] placed an ad on Craigslist, touting herself as a cougar in search of willing young men. That night, "I posted the ad, went and let my dog out in the backyard, and made a cup of tea. I came back and there had been 56 responses in 10 minutes."
And I guess that number might be impressive. If you'd never looked at Craigslist before. Late one night during finals week, a friend of mine decided, as a joke, to put up a really ridiculously, stupidly fake ad on Craigslist just for shits and giggles and to see what would happen. She wrote she was an eighty-year-old Italian woman who had had a youth spent in orgies with the carabinieri. She got, quite literally, hundreds of responses from willing young men, including dozens of uninvited cock shots. My point is, anyone who knows what Craigslist is knows it doesn't say anything about anything one way or the other that Norma got 56 responses when a soft piece of rotted fruit would also have a double-digit numbers of takers desperate for a casual encounter with a moldy nectarine.
There's also the matter of letters they publish. I tend to be wary of any publication that prints only the positive I've-never-subscribed-to-a-magazine-before-but-I'll-subscribe-to-you type missives. I don't think Bust is evil or anything, but sometimes I think it's just kinda dumb.
That and I guess I haven't forgiven Bust for haranguing my hero P.J. Harvey for not towing the party line in her interview with Bust last year.
Posted by hissycat at 09:46 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
August 26, 2005
It's 2 a.m. Do I know where I am? Yes, I Do Unfortunately.
It's 2am. I am not sleeping and I am not happy. This time,I'm not happy not in a depressive, listless way but in a why the fuckdo I do this to myself? kind of way. Yes, I'm propped up andbuzzing on Ritalin and Excedrin, desperately trying to complete alanguage arts course for third-graders because I've spent all my timeat the office this week fucking around on the Internet instead of doingmy work. Oh, and gaining .6 lbs, apparently.
Yes kids, today was a Weight Watchers Thursday. I knew this hadbeen a bad eating week. I've just gotten really slack about it,not measuring portions, underestimating my Points values, snacking toomuch, descending upon the free samples at Andronico's like an elderlyJew at a half-price buffet. Every time I go in there to get asalad, I end up hovering all sneaky-eyed over the platters of cheesecubes and coffee cake cubes and cubed pumpkin bread and miniatureslices of baguette laid out next to olive oil dips and fruitspreads. Oh man, a few days ago they had open jars of thisamazing bittersweet chocolate fudgey goop and spreadable caramel, and Ijust stood there, my basket resting on the ground beside me, makingmyself at home, spreading and mixing and eating. Then I felt kindof ashamed, as I had no intention of actually purchasing the stuff, soafter I picked up my basket, I just stood at the display, picking upjars and pointing my eyes at the prices so it would look like I wasreally thinking this one over, like I needed another sample to help meconsider, just in case the flavor had, you know, changed in the lastthirty seconds. You know what would be great? If I just gotbanned from that place. I always end up spending too much moneythere anyway on yuppie foodstuffs I can't afford.
Andronico's indiscretions aside, though, I didn't actually go over mypoints by that much. I didn't even use all of my flex points, infact. I feel cheated. I feel entitled to my thirty-fiveweekly flex points, even though I know from experience that I do notloose if I use more than half of them. I was hoping for amiracle. Or, as my meeting leader, would say, "Dreaming theImpossible Dream."
Yes, this was Persistence week, and so we were treated to a veryspecial "Man of La Mancha" revue. To, you know, inspire us? Man, I've been through the twelve-week Tools for Living (also known asthemes) cycle way too many times (I bet I can name them all:Persistence, Anchoring, Visualizing Success, Positive Self-Talking,Reframing, Planning Ahead. . . oh fuck it, it's like trying to name allseven of the dwarfs). On the sunnier side of things though, I raninto a former house mate (who shall remain nameless-- some people, itseems, don't care to be Weight Watcher's outed, though I can't imaginewhy) at my meeting today. This is the first time this hashappened to me in the two years (off and on) I've been going. Notjust the first time I've run into a familiar face, mind you, but thefirst time I've run into any face aged less than forty years.
You know what? I really need to get back to work. This shitis due at noon, and these third-graders are going to be getting somepretty zaney, tripped-out stories, hear?
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Posted by hissycat at 02:34 AM | Comments (21) | TrackBack
August 25, 2005
The Masstige of Salad Tossing
It�s Tuesday night and I�m writing this at home (on my snazzy newcomputer). I realize this won�t get posted until Wednesday morning because Istill don�t have fucking internet in my apartment (for a few months, Iwas stealing someone�s unprotected wireless, but the bastards got wiseand added a password). In part, I am doing this because if don�twrite now, I will be tempted to write when I get to work in themorning, and if I am tempted, I will doubtless give in and any hope ofproductivity will be down the chute. (I have a deadline to meet, and itis noon on Friday. Fuck.) I would be lying, though, if Ididn�t say that, in part, I am writing now because I just can�t waitthat fucking long (what�ten, eleven hours?) to share the followingchoice items culled from the September issue of Vogue:
1. From an article entitled �The Firm� (Sally Singer) about aweight-loss program on which the author lost twenty pounds in eightweeks, or something like that, I give you�this [emphases my own]:
2. Masstige mas'te -'tej 1. n. the combination of mass production and marketing technology, and thewidespread perception image of belonging to the uppermost ranks ofsocial and economic class: Channel No. 5 reeks of masstige.
2. adj. the quality of possessing masstige. ETYMOLOGY: from the English, �Mass plus prestige equalsmasstige.� (Brooks, Amanda 743); ORIGIN early 21st cent.:�Fr�d�ric Fekkai gave me the word, but I don�t think he originated it.�(Brooks 743)
3. Look! Vogue's doing a high-fashion remake of The JonBenet Ramsey Story.
what should I do with the body?
Oh, Vogue-- you've got so much masstige!
God help us all.
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Posted by hissycat at 09:31 AM | Comments (8) | TrackBack
August 23, 2005
Creepy-Ass Quote of The Week
Creepy-Ass Quote of The Week
So I'm reading a sample of an age-appropriate personal narrativeessay from Harcourt Language Teacher's Edition, Grade 4, when I cameacross this totally bizarre passage that could have been from a lessonin some colonial primmer on how to win the trust and admiration of "ourlittle brown friends." The background is that little Jin, ournarrator, has just moved to America from China and is unable to makefriends due to her limited knowledge of English. And then. Yes, then, comes little blonde Ali to the rescue:
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Posted by hissycat at 05:48 PM | Comments (11) | TrackBack
Darling, Go And Cut Your Hair
 | Currently Listening The Kinks are the Village Green Preservation Society By The Kinks see related |
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Posted by hissycat at 03:13 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
August 18, 2005
Itchy Bitchy Kitty
 | Currently Reading The Group By Mary McCarthy see related |
My Poor Kitty Has Fleas--------
Posted by hissycat at 09:22 AM | Comments (9) | TrackBack
August 17, 2005
Therefore
 | Currently Listening Bright Yellow Bright Orange By The Go-Betweens see related |
Full disclosure: Nick and I attended the same high school. He was(and, for that mattter, is, and will always be) a year younger than me,and for most of high school, I didn't really know much about him,though I probably disliked him anyway, because he went to that highschool. My interactions with Nick were limited to: 1) A couple ofvicious, tooth-and-nail arguements at meetings for the schoolnewspaper; there was a particularly nasty back-and-forth after somemulti-cultural assembly; I guess we were discussing the issues itraised, etc. and somehow we got on the topic of multi-culturalism (ick,I hate that word) in the curriculum, whether we read enough works bywomen and minorities; Nick seemed to think we read too muchwork by women and minorities instead of the "classics" and "greatauthors" ("Hemmingway. And Henry James."), and I, of course, flewoff the handle at that, objecting to the notion that works by culturalminorities that we read in class should be restricted to certainquotas, that literature by privledges white men did not represent the'universal human experience' that 'classics' claim to offer, and, well,it got pretty nasty. Oh, now that I am remembering this, Iremember I think I did actively dislike Nick, at least for my firstthree years of high school. 2) Witnessing a frightening speechNick gave when he was running for school office; of course he won-- hehad the charisma of a young Hitler; he walked around the gym floorwithout a mike, gesticulating alarmingly, getting kids all riled upover the issue of soda machines and whatever.
But sometime in my senior year, my opinion of him started tochange. There was a school writing contest where I came in firstand Nick second; I got to read his story, and I liked it-- a lot-- so Idecided he was alright. I did an art tutorial with another girlin the senior class and, Paul, who was really talented and a yearyounger; I got to be friendly with Paul, and Paul always spoke well ofNick. Then Nick interviewed me for an article when I was selectedas class speaker for graduation, and I thought he was nice and smartand funny. In the course of the interview, he asked about mysummer plans. I told him that, because of a windfall in prizemoney that spring, I could afford to not make money that summer butspend my time writing a novel I had started. Well, that wasaround the time that Nick began writing Twelve. Nick was friends with an ex-boyfriend of mine, and as said ex-boyfriendand I warmed up to being friends with one another again, I got to knowNick a little better. He talked to me about writing something fora literary magazine he wanted to create, and we started correspondingnow and then, mostly about writing, how we felt about it, how it wasgoing, what we were going to do with our novels when we were done.
(In one email, Nick wrote me that it was his absolute dream to have hisnovel published by Grove press because Grove had published some authorshe admired-- of course, at the time, I had no idea who Nick's fatherwas, or that Nick had any personal connection to Grove; I think I hadsome vague idea that Nick's parents did something in publishing-- Iknew, for instance, that Nick had met Joan Didion and Fran Lebowitz,and I was envious and admiring of him for that; in one exchange, Imentioned how different it must be for him, then, to have grown upknowing people who had made it as writers than it was for me growing upthe daughter of doctors who discouraged me to think of writing as acareer choice; my models of grown-ups who chose to try to make a lifeout of a creative pursuit were my parents' friends and the parents ofmy friends from P.S. 41, people who worked very hard, who were verytalented and good at what they did but who had no recognition and livedpretty much hand-to-mouth.)
We continued our irregular correspondance through my freshman year ofcollege. I knew his book was going to be published, and I likedto read his descriptions of the wacky world of publishing, as he gearedup for the release of the book. He sent me a galleys copy, and Ithought that was pretty cool. That summer I was back to New Yorkand ended up hanging out with Nick and the ex-boyfriend. Duringsophmore year, my friendship with Jeff cooled off following an incidentwe need not discuss, and, as I fell out of touch with Jeff, byextension I also lost contact with Nick.
I'm not going to lie. I read that article. I am jealous of Nick McDonell. Notbecause of his celebrity or prestige. I can't say that I have anydesire to be part of that sleazy, macho, bullcrap world; sorry, butthat description of Morgan Entrenkin bragging with his mouth full ofexpensive salami made my stomach turn. I am envious of anyone whohas conversed with Joan Didion-- Didion's writing is extremelyimportant and dear to me-- but, in general, I don't aspire toparticipate in the high-brow hob-nobbing that goes on at theOld Boys Publishing Club-- oops, I mean Corporation.
I don't envy Nick for what he has exactly but for what he couldhave, for the abundance of choices that are open to him. What Ienvy most about Nick is that for him "writer" is a reasonable andrelatively secure occupation to pursue. From time to time, inorder to stave off overwhelming and paralyzing hopelessness, I'll tellmyself, "it's ok that I work a crappy job; I need time topractice my art, anyway, by writing long unread novels during the fewhours between work and sleep; I like my unexceptional life; it is good for me to struggle; it is better to wait until I produce something worthwhile and then seeif I can make writing into a career than to aspire to professionalmediocrity at a young age; plenty of excellent and much-read authorswork crappy jobs half their lives and don't publish a sentence until atleast middle-age." But I know that isn't true, at least notin this country at this time. Reading various reviews andmagazines, it is apparent that most new authors (at least the newauthors that are paid attention in reviews and magazines) are youngauthors, and they are good-looking, cool, and have some amount ofconnection. Those that don't have a relative or family friend somewherein the publishing industry are graduates of elite professional programswith MFAs from Iowa or Columbia. I don't have any ins, I won't beyoung for all that much longer, and I have neither the money or inclinationto move far away from my friends and my boyfriend and my new home cityto once again be a student working towards an unemployable degree(although, give me a few more years of dumb desk jobs, and I may feeldifferently).
Anyway, I was delighted to find the following email from Alex in my inbox this morning:
Dear god. I don't know if and how you got through it.
I was scarcely past the first paragraph, and already it was too hard to
continue--knowing how much you must want to stab him (and perhaps yourself)
in the face.
The headline is the worst part: perhaps you shouldn't "hate him because he's
young, good-looking, privileged, and impeccably connected." But you should
hate the fact that they left out 'therefore' before the phrase "about to
publish his second novel."
PS all your other friends from high school sucked, and i assume he's the
same way.
--Alex
I love Alex. I also love the fact that, at least without thesubject heading, it kind of seems like he is addressing me asgod. Alex briefly met some people I knew in high school, Nickincluded, and he is right: almost everyone I knew in high school was anasshole (myself included)-- not just jerks, either, the way mostteenagers are, but just a bunch of assholes. Anyway, I should saythat Nick was never an asshole, at least not to me. He's alwaysbeen kind, decent, and well-manered towards me. As intolerable asthey come off in that article, both Nick and his brother seem likedeeply decent people. In any case, I've always found them veryeasy people to be around, and I enjoyed time spent in conversation witheither of them.
To be honest, I wasn't as rageful as as could have been reading thearticle. When I first found out about Nick's new novel, I wasdistressed, notbecause he was getting a book published and I wasn't, but because, inthe time since he wrote his (published) and I wrote my (unpublished)first novel, he had managed to produce another one, and one that (byall reports) demonstrates a progression in architecture andscope. I was less upset about Nick's book getting published (Imean, of course itwould. No surprise there. As long as he completed it, itwould be published.) than the fact that he had managed to completeanother novel. I had written about 200 pages of a novel, decided thestory I was telling was lousy and dishonest, and trashed the project,never writing the three or four chapters that would have completed it(it still would have been completely awful, but at least it would havebeen acomplete) I'd written a handful of short stories, but so haseveryone, so what? My thesis, of course, was the largest writingproject undertaken during my college years, but, of course, that wasn'tfiction, and lots of people write theses, so, somehow, that doesn'tquite count. I felt angry and dissappointed with myself for nothaving been as productive. If I'd been a better, more focusedperson, I could have writen a second novel, too.
So in a way, it is consoling to learn that Nick "wrote his new novel, The Third Brother,at the home of an acquaitance in Hawaii. . . during what would havebeen the second semester of his sophomore year," and that he didn't,you know, write it at the library, in between problem sets and papers,or at the bright end of an all-nighter, or during lecture, or in hisstinking dorm room on days when he was too depressed to get out ofbed. It is still incredeably depressing to realize that if Nick'skind of privledgedness is what is needed to produce books, then I haveabout as much chance as an ice cube in hell, but at least the fact thatI didn't keep up isn't entirely a reflection on my sorry excuse of a work ethic. Nick didn't strain himself too hard, you know?
It is a pretty gross article. The little aside that Nick isdown-to-earth because "he is on a first-name basis with every buildingand grounds officer we run into at Harvard" is-- what the fuck isthat? It is so obnoxious and condescending. Like, wow, heactually knows the names of the help, what a saint, let's give that boya ribbon, a shining model for the noblesse oblige if I ever sawone. Please. If I wanted to feel totally patronized I wouldhave tuned into the president addressing "working folk."
Of course, it was Ariel Levy, not Nick, who seems to think thatincluding the amusing anecdote about Nick actually talking to theservants would somehow make Nick seem more, um, down to earth (perhapspalatable to the masses is the phrase I'm seeking here). But Nickdoes himself no favors by proclaiming "I've had absurdly goodluck." Excuse me? Luck is having your manuscript pluckedfrom the slush pile by a sympathetic reader. Luck is finallygetting a story accepted by a tiny magazine. Luck is encounteringa teacher or mentor who gives you guidance. Luck is an unknownwinning a fiction contest. But being born into a family ready tosupport you, materially and otherwise, in becoming a writer and alreadyimmersed in the publishing world and having your book published by yourfather's good friend, that is not luck. That, my friends, iscalled having it made.
And it's why it's hard not to want stabbing some faces when Nick isquoted as saying things like "I'm worried about not getting a fairshake because I've had so many advantages." What? Nick, Ibelieve you have gotten a more than fair shake. Because you'vehad so many advantages. The only people who ever get "shakes" ofany sort, fair or unfair, are people who've had so manyadvantages. It's a little sad (just a little, no need to call outthe string quartet) when Nick says, "But I'm not worried I can'tdeliver. I know I can write." Of course, he can"deliver." Of course, he can write. But that is all that isasked of him-- not that he write well or compellingly; just that hewrites; just that he delivers the product. I don't mean to saythat Nick doesn't write well or compellingly-- in any case, I generallyhate arguments for or against how "good" any writer or written workis-- my point is that with Nick, his literary merit is totallyirrelevant. All he to do is be good enough. He doesn't haveto be great, he doesn't have to be good; he just has to be good enough,to deliver a manuscript that can be prepped, packaged, and sold. He's twenty-one and hearing things like Morgan Entrekin's (quitefrankly, embaressing-- for everyone) stupid statement, "the besteveidence of how good Nick is is that 27 publishers internationallyhave brought his book. . ." Um, no. That's great evidencethat publishers see Nick's work as extremely saleable; it's certainly anice thing for Nick that they think that, but it is not evidence thatNick is good. I'd like to believe that Nick is decent andintelligent enough to realize this. I certainly don't pity Nickhis success, which, by all accounts, he handles like a champ, but I dosometimes think about how warped one could become by being absorbedinto a world where, at twenty-one, feedback on your work is handed youin the form of a profit margin.
It's always impossible to know what's going on behind ridiculous,extravagant articles in New York magazine, which, apart from someevents listings and reviews, is the gossip rag of Park Avenue. It's a stupid, annoying article, prompted, I'm sure, by stupid,annoying PR rats. The article just barely mentions the content ofNick's books at all, doesn't give any reason other than the author'scelebrity why this man is worthy of a lengthy article. The authordoesn't make any claims that Nick is doing something innovative ordifferent in fiction-- that is not the point. The article isabout the fact that he is "young, good-looking, privledged, [and]impeccably connected." There isn't any pretense that the articleis about Nick's writing or even Nick as a writer; it is about wealthand celebrity and Nick as a Hot, Young Thing.
I'm curious how much of this ploy is Nick's doing. My guesswouldbe that it's not-- that he's just going along for the ride as the PR department has afield day-- but who knows. By the looks of it, the PR department has a newstrategy: instead of touting Nick as a young, amazingly talentedauthor, as they did for the first book, they are emphasizing Nick'sprivledge and connections as a selling point. The whole "don'thate him because he's beautiful" schtick they're pulling seemscalculated to piss people off. Of courseif you promote him as being rich and connected, people will think he'sdespicable. Reading that article, in which the nepositiccharacter of his success is trumpted as a selling point ('ooh, look howrich and powerful Nick's daddy is. Nick knows all these famouspeople: let's list them!' Please.), I had to think that the PRdepartment wants people to be driven up the wall by Nick, they want tostir up controversy. Controversy sells, and it sells to drivepeople up the walls. Marketing doesn't give a damn if readers arebuying the books just for a snicker, or just to satisfy their appetitiefor scandal, or just to feel better by seeing how bad it reallyis. Marketing cares about selling books. As a society, welove all the people we can't stand. Ann Coulter. RushLimbaugh. Dr. Laura. Howard Stern. ParisHilton. Bush and his entire administration. We can't getenough. We throw our dollars and votes after them. I'mbetting PR is betting that with Nick McDonell, we'll gladly do thesame.
I find the New York article extremely tacky, I am deeply envious ofNick's opportunities, but I don't actually begrudge him his success/fame. He's a fine writer, so why not him? There arecertainly cases of nepotism I find more offensive if not downrightdangerous: Michael Powell, Murdoch Jr., Saul Bellow's kid (who wrote awhole book "defending nepotism" from, uh, something). WhetherNick deserves or doesn't, whether he is great or he isn't, whether heis worthy or he's not, ultimately, is all besides the point. AsClint Eastwood says in Unforgiven as he is about to shoot Gene Hackman(in the face), "deserve's got nothing to do with it."
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Posted by hissycat at 03:15 PM | Comments (26) | TrackBack
August 12, 2005
Kansas School Board Scientifically Demonstrates There Is No Such Thing As Human Progress
| Currently Listening Muscler's Guide to Videonics By Tracy + the Plastics see related |
? Also, what business does this websitehave using the words "intelligent" and "design" together, in anycontext at all? Oh, and I love their slogan: "Taking Life Back toits Origins." Um, yeah, you could use that slogan to describewhat they're doing. You could also use, "Taking Science Back tothe Middle Ages" or "Taking Civilization Back to Square One" or "TakingGovernment Back to Before the Bill of Rights."
This joke is getting pretty fucking old. Haven't we had enough already?
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Posted by hissycat at 11:48 AM | Comments (24) | TrackBack
August 10, 2005
Crap Shit
Oh jesus. I found out something really depressing yesterdayafternoon and confirmed it this morning. I haven't told anyoneyet, and it's not something that I can write down here. I'm alittle sickened and a little stunned, though it is something I perhapsshould have expected. More later. Maybe.
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Posted by hissycat at 09:59 AM | Comments (7) | TrackBack