plethora__

Dear Cute Straight Family at the Indigo Girls Concert,

This is just a note to say thanks. Thanks for being there for me. Particularly last Tuesday night, at the Indigo Girls concert. Remember? You were surrounded by lesbian couples on all sides, who often decided to make out very, very publicly in front of all of us. Did you notice an awkward girl with shortish blond hair beyond you? That was me. (Hi.) And the woman next to me? That was my mom, who I brought to the concert with me.

Thanks for what? Thanks for just being your straight, Donna-Reed-style, nuclear family selves. You're saying, there's nothing special about that. That's, like, totally the "convention" in America. Okay, maybe. But lemme tell you--and I'm sure I don't need to--that's certainly not the "convention" at an Indigo Girls concert, or at least this Indigo concerts, where the lesbian pairs outnumbered either the single gay gals or straight gals or men about 5 to 1. I don't think I'm even exaggerating. And this is, in part, what makes Indigo Girls concerts so fabled, special, liberating, revolutionary, freeing, and important. It's even mentioned in the NYT review of the concert ("lesbian and left").

At the same time, it doesn't quite seem fair to me that simply bringing my mom (or anyone) to an Indigo Girls concert turned out to be shoving her, perhaps overly forcefully, into an uncomfortable experience. Or that the Indigo Girls are only and exclusively "lesbian music," perhaps alienating other, potential fans. I'm not saying that the merry lez couples at the concert should have, ya know, kept it in their respective skirts. I mean, it's your own bodies, your own choices, a safe space, etc., straight couples PDA their lips out at concerts often. (Though I'm not a big fan of that, either.) But the equation of "[certain artist] = [not okay for anyone not gay]" is sort of not what I like to think of my music, particularly the Indigo Girls as.

So, Cute Straight Family at the Indigo Girls Concert, I tip my hat to you, and I mean it. You attempted to show that you don't have to be a certain type of person or sexuality to appreciate good, melodic and rolicky folk music. And you put yourselves out there-- not the way the Indigo Girls do on their sexuality (speaking of which, is that a pun I spy in the NYT article's title, "Out in the Park, Humming With the Melodies and Messages"? I think so), but with your own wilingness to be a big, obvious, glaring minority. It's not easy being the odd one out-- or the odd one never having come out, as it were--and that's indeed how all those lesbians feel often (except at concerts like this). So I appreciate you coming and diversifying the bunch, and making it a bit easier other straight concertgoers.

Lesbian-only spaces could be good (and I'm sorry if I sound a little tough on the lez community as a whole). But an Indigo Girls concert should be open to all. And it's the pioneers like you, Cute Straight Family, that keep making others feel more "okay" about being in this majority lesbian space.

So keep on rocking on with your bad selves. Or, in this case, the Indigo Girls.

Yours in acoustic guitar harmonies,
Beth

A wise woman--India.Arie, to be exact--once said that "I am not my hair." But after a week home, I'm not so sure.

So here's the (hair)story: two months ago to the day, I chopped off about five inches about my hair. I didn't write about it extensively on here, partly because it was school and I was Stressed. Out. and partly because, ya know, I was Processing. I was pretty sure I didn't want long hair any more, partly for the aches and pains of having it (aka "Ponytail Syndrome" in all its gory glory) and partly because I looked so damned good-girl straight. (I still do, probably, that's besides that point.)


( Read more... )


Anyway, fast-forward two months. My new 'do "came out" to my parents and my employers. And to most people back home. Except that... half of the people back home don't seem to recognize me. Seriously! It's like I'm wearing this strange mask, or something, that I can't take off. I often want to jump up and down and say, "PEOPLE! IT'S ME, BETH! REMEMBER!?"



I mean, it's not a huge deal-- these are not my close friends, loved ones, bonded kin, or biffles of days gone by. These are the people who I used to babysit for, be a camp counselor for, or saw while life-guarding. Or my old rabbi, or the woman who daughter I was friends with... all of these people have failed to recognize me in the last week.

Do I really look so different? Maybe. Perhaps it's a telling mark of how much hair does, indeed, impact our appearance. When I got off the plane and my dad saw my new hair, I explained that it was, at least, less dramatic than say, "piercing my eyebrow!" or "getting a tattoo!" Instead, I had chosen the more "responsible" and "grown-up" rebel move: chopping off my 'locks was "bad-girl" but not "badly-paid girl."

Yet, now that I'm home and not being recognized, I've reconsidered. All of my photos from my K-12 grades show the same girl with this loooong, dirty-blond hair. I mean, yeah, it's varied a tad in length-- in middle-school, it's shorter, in high-school, in starts out olong, gets a little shorter, then longer again-- but mostly all with the same theme: HAIR. Lots of it.

So do I blame these people who ignore my hopeful stares in their direction? My longing looks of recognition? Not entirely. Hair, it turns out, does have a role in our appearances. And hopefully, if I had mustered up the courage to, you know, actually talk to these people, I would have gotten a little "oh!" and we'd be back to the good ol' days of long-haired recognition. And, I think, this, in the end, is the long and short (hair) of it.

Dear Minnesota,


They say you don't know what you have until it's gone. In my case, it's more like I didn't know what a great state (Minnesota) I had until I was biking on a six-inch sidewalk, sucking face with a pine tree as giant garbage trucks whizzed by left side and spewed nasty pebbles on my face.

Yum.

In other words: I miss you, Minnesota. Particularly when biking. Particularly today, as I set out on a Grand Journey to do one of the routes listed on bikeforums.net for my area, to a nature reservation about 7 miles away from me. Perfect, I thought. It might be sort of painful to get there, but once I get there, it'll be sublime! I saw your endless roads and barren "highways" in my head, Minnesota, and your wind turbines and straight paths for miles and miles, and no cars except once in a while... and I set off.

I should have known that New Jersey has nothing on you, Minnesota, particularly in the biking department. Sure, I belittled you, Minnesota, when it came to your cultural coolness, maybe, or your lack of cities like New Yawk, or maybe your lackluster showing of bagels and/or sushi. But when it came to open, bike-friendly roads, Minnesota, you always did please.

And that was no clearer than today. As I set pedaling off, I was nearly thrown into the gutter by a zooming school bus that clearly had no loyalty for its alumni. Then, slightly panting from the shock of it all, I went onward to my next street, which was, of course a really narrow bridge up a steep hill without a sidewalk. Sort of like up being up the creek without a paddle, minus the idiom plus reality. This was less than ideal, and I was about thisclose to getting sideswiped by several mean-looking Jersey drivers, but I kept on keepin' on, with my mind firmly planted on the lovely reservation to where I was headed.

I'm getting close to the Reservation now, and while I'm hot and sweaty and sticky and all-around nassssty, I'm all, "Whatever. Once I get to the reservation, we're golden." Except for the highway between me and the Reservation, which was basically a glorified interstate, with LOTS of loving drivers who were SO! EXCITED! to wait for a little 20-year-old in a helmet on a bike to sprint across the highway. (That would be me, hi guys!) Anyway, so I run across this to dozens of glares, and finally, bike the big, mean hill up to the Reservation. Finally I'm there. I take a celebratory swig of my water bottle. I'm jazzed. Freeeedom! I start singing Melissa Ferrick to myself, and grinning at the nature around me. La la la freeeedooooom---

---and that's when I almost get side-swiped again. In the fucking RESERVATION. For REAL, New Jersey? It turns out that the road on this nature reserve is actually a shortcut out of the major highway. And, because it was designed, I suppose, not with this in mind, it has no shoulder-- eeeeeek.

I guess I don't need to detail anymore of my "adventure," except to say that Minnesota: you're real swell. The days when I used to complain about road lines or little bumps in the pavement seem silly, childish, when compared to the X-Treme Riding that is going out for any bike ride in NJ. Road bumps? Psssh, please, if you can feel that after the trucks have almost slammed you into the curb, you should be exalted.

So Minnesota, when it comes to, ya know, not being the most densely populated state in the country, you make good on that. It's just that the facts are facts. So it's not that I don't love New Jersey-- tomatoes! Springsteen! Bon Jovi! The Shore!-- but being the most densely populated does have its low points.

...like ending up halfway immersed in a pine tree because a truck has almost touched the handlebar of your bike (I have the scratches as proof, to boot) as the result of Sideswipe Encounter #7.



Yours in open roads and fond memories,
Beth

From the New York Times' Arts Section today:

I was in Barnes and Noble yesterday, relishing my newly-liberated-of-school status, skimming the magazine section as any conscientious (or just cheap) shopper would do. Anyway, after paging through Bust and Bitch, I took a peek at Curve, and before even delving into the mag, saw on this ad on the back cover:



It's for Progressive car insurance, and in the ad, above that photo it said: "A rare photo for all the wrong reasons."

Okay. So it's obvious, blatant pandering to The Gays, particularly the girl gays. And, on their website, it even is at times a bit uncomfortable.



"Pet Insurance." Ack. It's a little squicky, right? Does it make you a tad uncomfortable that The Gays are being targeted for this pet insurance, and that Progressive has this pet insurance thing smack in the center of the /glbt link of their website?

Okay, in all disclosure, at first I sort of had that reaction, too. But then, I got to thinking: what's wrong with it? I mean, the copy on that pet insurance is a bit much--"We know that your pet is family" ...because you can't biologically have any!, I feel is the unwritten clause)--but all the same, I mean, that's the truth, isn't it?

And if there are special things that this insurance company is willing to do for LGBT customers, or apparently has a little page in their employee manual that says "Gay people are important source of profit. Behave yourself around them," it doesn't hurt, right?

Moveover, the fact that this company sees The Gay Niche--via pandering--as an important enough constituency to pander to is, I think, saying something. It is, in my opinion, "progressive," just as the company says. Sure, Progressive and all these mainstream companies seeking to buy out the gay niche are, yes (a) corporations and (b) doing it for profit, but they're also acknowledging that gay people are people who need insurance, and they're gonna help The Gays get their insurance, dammit! They want to serve this clientele. Are they pandering to the clientele to get them? Sure. But that's advertising. But they are reaching out, in one of the limited, capitalistic ways a corporation can. From the hands of this magazine reader, that feels nice, particularly when it's helping finance the glossy reads of queer ladies everywhere.

Could it be seen as "offensive"? Maybe in some ad, somewhere, sure-- pandering can be offensive. But, really, wouldn't this contradict the very point of trying to win over a niche market? For now, I say, pander on, Progressive and other companies. And, indeed, thank you for paying the bills of our magazines, or whatever else you're footing the bill for.

Sometimes, in the end, it's nice just being wanted.

...aren't so bad after all.

Actually, this is pretty rad:

This Facebook group, Typical, average straight guys in favor of gay rights on Facebook had 10,000 fans in just two days. The group started on May 31 and today is June 2nd, and there are 10,963 fans.

Well done.

So according to this guy in his New York Times op-ed, it's time we bring in a greater stigma towards single mothers... to stop them from being currently unhappy (which therefore gives men higher happiness ratings than women). He writes:


Because nothing like a little social stigma and common disparagement to cheer those single moms right up, right Mr. Douthat? I mean, seriously-- these women are unhappy because it's hard enough to be a single mom. They don't need any sex- or promiscuity-shaming (as if all single moms were promiscuous, too).

And, besides, I think the financial hardships of a one-earner household without another parent's support (that he mentions in the article) should be "punishment" enough, Mr. Douthat. Besides-- manufacturing stigma as a policy suggestion sounds just conspiracy theory enough to be full-on creepy. (Next target of stigma: let's get the... grandmothers! Let's show them our collective wrath! Ready? Hit 'em with your meanest stare: 1... 2... )

...or we could just attempt to have a better national policy for working mothers and child-care.

Britney Spears' annoyingly catchy and oh-so-subtle fuck-me anthem, "If You Seek Amy," goes like this:



That's "F-U-C-K Me," for the record.

But, also note: "All the boys and all the girls are waiting to F-U-C-K me tonight."

Is she trying to hide her message by including "girls"? Or is she acknowledging the lady-loving-ladies who might be singing along?

Curious.

Songs aren't all meant to be lucious, 4-minute pieces of poetry that make you swoon and/or melt. Some, in fact, can be fun, jangly, silly, or, if they have a good enough beat, even bordering on nonsensical. Stupid, even. I'm pretty tolerant of my music, particularly the music in the danceable category. (Looking at you, Mariah. And Britney. Oh fuck it, all of my massive collection of dance music.)


But, this new song, "Don't Trust Me," by some silly white boys in Colorado, has taken it too far. For your consideration:




The first half of the song have me rocking, rolling, dancing, laughing even, at the amusing "vegetarian" and "scaredofhim" rhyming. Whoo, electronica chorus! Whoo, "don't trust me/never trust me"! Whoo, amusing little anecdote about washing off the under-21 X's! And then, around 1:40, it starts getting weird-- we stop "trusting hos." Uh, okay? Maybe you silly boys are... just being silly?

But then, suddenly, our fun dance becomes clobbered by this deep, scary voice. Well, I take that back. It's not so much the voice that scares me as what the voice is saying: "Shh girl, shut your lips/do the Helen Keller, and talk with your hips." Repeat. Get louder. Sing it again, why don't cha?

Yes, that's right. I'm not about to make some moralizing claim about how maybe using Helen Keller to silence women is gross--oh wait, I just did--but rather how the placement of this in the song is just plain ol' disgusting: it's right smack in the middle, it's the loudest part, the crescendo, the climax, the part you're supposed to sing right the fuck along to.

Last night, I was at a party (in my room, actually) and this song came on (well, someone put it on). Fine. Dance dance dance la la la. Then, everyone (mostly guys) started singing--as is expected--along with the chorus. All of the sudden, we hear a group of men (and some women), chanting "Shhh GIRL, SHUT YOUR LIPS, DO THE HELEN KELLER, AND TALK WITH YOUR HIPS, I SAID SHH GIRL, SHUT YOUR LIPS [screaming louder now] DO THE HELEN KELLER AND TALK WITH YOUR HIPS!"

These are smart, civilized people. These are wonderful, caring men who treat their women with respect and all sort of equality. They are feminists, I'd say, almost all of them. Most are just singing because that's what you do when a popular song comes on and you're drunk and dancing. The women, too. And these are my friends and I am in no way criticizing them at all. What I'm angry at is this song-- and its nasty chorus--for getting normal, great people to sing a chorus about women Shutting The Fuck Up and just grinding and lookin' pretty.

What troubles me even more--or drives me crazy is perhaps the better wording--is that this song is probably playing as I type at dozens (hundreds? thousands?) of dances, bat mitzvahs, proms, younameits-- and everyone's singing along, shouting that to the women, "SHHH, GIRL, SHUT YOUR LIPS" like deaf-blind Helen Keller-- who was, in her own right, and incredibly strong, brave and powerful woman.

And maybe the women who hear this chorus being chanted by their friends/boyfriends/prom-dates don't internalize it. Maybe they interpret the Helen Keller thing as LMFAO-hilarity, or maybe they simply don't care. But there probably is one girl out there, who hears this, and thinks that what her boyfriend wants from her-- to shhh, shut her lips, and just "talk with her hips." That a few people could really take in this nasty message in all its nasty clothing.

Bleeping out an entire chorus of a song isn't going to happen, and it probably shouldn't. But women, should, however, take the chorus and the song that they need to open their mouths and speak even loud, so that asshole guys (even jokingly) don't keep promoting women to shut their lips and just be bodies. So be like "Helen Keller," if you must--but reclaiming their insensitive chorus--and show them that you can overcome expectations of being a piece of ass (or hips).

And, if you can, make sure to talk over that dumbass chorus.

Apparently, not all of The Progressive Youth of America got the message that, ya know, bigoted views against gay marriage are a thing of the past.

Well, at least not Miss California.



Maybe she was a teeth-whitening party during that little memo distribution? Or perhaps out getting an umbrella to prepare for the "Gathering Storm"?

I have a few bones to pick with Cari, firstly that "we live in a land that you can choose same-sex marriage or opposite marriage." Because, sorry hon, but unless that "land" that you're referring to includes Iowa, Vermont, Massachusettes or New York, that isn't exactly the truth. In fact, being that you're Miss Freakin' California, I'd think you'd know a little something about that? Just saying.

But criticizing Miss Cali's response is probably passe by now. But what I find most interesting are the responses regarding her response: mainly, that she didn't say the "politically correct thing." (See here.) The fact that saying you're pro-gay-marriage (or not anti-it) has, according to some, become the acceptable and politically correct thing to say, is, at least from where I'm standing, huge progress.

It used to be that it would deviant and negative to say anything pro-gay. And with that, saying pro-"opposite marriage" (LOLZ)-type things was the accepted status quo. I mean, I don't have any data on this, but I don't think her response would have garnered the kind of more public disapproval (apart from the lovely gay/lez blogosophere) a few years ago that it did. Hell, I saw this clip on CNN! (I think that's what it was.)

So while Miss California might be not be up on her tolerance or equality, at least the response to her comment is largely, in my view, looking up. And while marriage is far from the be-all and end-all of The Gay Agenda, increasing acceptance (by those who aren't beauty pageant queens) is a damn good place to start. And, besides, she'll get her due: this girl just got a whole lot of hairdressers angry. Bad move, Cali. Better luck next time.

Saw this last night while watching The L Word on LOGO, miraculously included (thanks, MTV!) in our cable plan. And, quite honestly, I don't even care if I'm giving Levis free advertising now, because this ad was just. so. perfect. The dreads, the all-girls high school, the rugby... and aired during The L Word. Looks like one company, at least, understands their constituency. Well done.

I've blogged before on the fratboi leanings of the gay gal (bi/lez/etc.) community (as per Ariel Levy's great Where the Bois Are) but today, these issues crystallized for me: and from no other than the always-illustrious medium of Gossip Girl.

Background: for years, "lesbianism" was at the extremist end of the feminist spectrum. Something along the lines of Step 1: Use birth control pill. Step 2: Get a job, bust open that glass ceiling. Step 3: Burn your bra. Step 4: Enter lezzie land. I'm not saying this is how I see it, but more how some of the Radicalfeminists of the past did (gross stereotypes aside).

But today, we see something different at play. And by "today," I do actually mean today, or the diverging posts that I've read across the feminist and queer blogospheres about the Rolling Stone photos of Gossip Girl.

Some visual aids:








On the one hand, Feministing is blasting the cover photo on multiple accounts.
Crime 1, per Jessica Valenti's The Purity Myth: "Touting girls and girlhood as ideal forms of sexuality."
Crime 2: "Totally unsubtle ploy to titillate dudes with girl-on-girl fantasies."
Crime 3, according to commenters rumble and jesro: Strawberry ice cream as dick, topped with white melted ice cream as cum.
Crime 4: Blake Lively looks drugged, likely something date-rapey.

Yet... the lezzie blogs see thing differently.

From Jamie Murname at After Ellen: "...these photos surely won't get us to stop hoping for a Serena-Blair hookup anytime soon. Way to fan the flame, Richardson. But, really, truly, thank you!" (my emphasis)
From Girlfriend is a Homo (Murname's a contributor, but I don't know who wrote this post): "Here’s just a taste of their Rolling Stone photoshoot. (What that has to do with music, we have no idea. But who cares?)"
From the the comments at AfterEllen: "So Hot." "I'm drooling." "Get me to a newsstand." (I could go on, but I think that's plenty.)

So where, then, do I, reader of both blogs fall? I'll admit, when I saw these photos, I thought they were pretty jaw-dropping. As a part-time Gossip Girls viewer and a full-time fan of Leighton Meester's hotness and beauty, I can definitely appreciate smoldering-hot photos of these two. And as a member of Team Queer, I won't lie that I'm definitely excited by the hand-holding and girl-on-girl things, because it's all, "Hey, look, if they're a lil' gay, maybe they'll be a lil' gay for you!" In my dreams, but still. It's still rather dreamy. It sounds, then, as if I'm jumping on the AfterEllen wagon, huh?

But my "jaw-dropping" isn't just to The Hot. It's to The Objectification. That ice-cream picture--the cover photo that Rolling Stone selected, after all--irks me. I think it's crude, lewd and demeaning. And I'm definitely not attracted to a woman (like Blake Lively) who looks as if she's been drugged into licking that cone (gahhh the double entendres).

I think our attractions should have some brackets-- is that lezzie heresy? If so, I'm sorry, but it still worries me a little when women can support the objectification of other women. Sisterhood, at one point, was powerful. And while it's not necessary for us break out the separatism again, maybe we also shouldn't forget that while we can appreciate women's beauty along with the boys, we shouldn't adopt their sexist faults. We're women-lovers, not women-haters; while the hand-holding photo is safe in the former category, that cover shot, for me, has crossed the line into the latter.

Or maybe it's just that the women of the lesbian blogosphere didn't catch the ice-cream-cone-as-dick theme?

Drive for long enough on the highways of New Jersey, and you're bound to root for the little guy. That's because, on these perilous paths, you are, quite literally, the underdog. As in, you're nearly under the Great Danes of the road, often actually named "Great Danes," according to the little seal on the back of these highway Goliaths.

--

As I made my way this afternoon to southern NJ to pay a visit to my best friend from high school, I came across quite a number of these Great Danes-- or rather, they came across me. For example, I was in the middle lane, perched on the cushy driver's seat of my beloved Camry, riding free. The Indigo Girls hummed from the speakers, the road was wide, the sky was blue.

And then, in my right mirror, I see Great Dane #1 picking up speed. He's coming next to me, coming closer, the black smoke billowing-- and then, when thisclose next to me, keeps the pace constant. It's like we're spooning, except about ten times less friendly. Outta my bed!

I'm feeling a little bit enclosed, when Great Dane #2 on the left side of me sneaks up. It's like he's keeping Great Dane #1 company. Which is cute, sort of-- except that I'm the salami stuck in between this lovey-dovey sandwich. I'm getting a little nervous. The black smoke from the trucks is coming from both sides. Is it just me, or is it getting hot? My palms are even sweating now. The only way out, I figure, is through.

So into the thicket I plunge, right into the truck's blind-spots. As I stomp on the gas, I'm holding my breath, and my eyes are squinting, totally narrowed. My face is scrunched up, in full testament to my determination, and I'm hunched over in the seat. And my hands: I'm gripping the wheel like it's a life-preserver, clinging to it as I go through the channel of trucks. There are more. Every push through the Great Danes leaves me further and further between these mammoths. The sweatiness is making the wheel all slidey. And that's when I hear it: a beep.

My heart leaps. Someone is honking at me?! Can't they see I'm in some sort of reality version of a video game? That these 18-wheelers have enclosed me? I'm tempted to throw the honker a little finger-related public display of disaffection, but Amy Ray and Emily Saliers would disapprove of such lewdness, I think, and keep on driving. Soon, I'm through the tunnel of trucks and into freedom. I practically whoop. I take a much-needed breath. I turn up the Indigo Girls, crack open the window, and breath the (nasty) air, finally free of being the stomping ground for big-ass trucks. Hey. Don't laugh. It's tough being the little guy!

--

Which brings me to why I started writing this, in the first place: driving long enough on those roads, and you'll root for the underdog. Even if you don't typically like underdogs, an experience almost becoming Great Dane dogfood will certainly change your sentiments.

And with those sentiments, you, if you're anything like me, might start to develop a resentment to the dozens (hundreds?) of chain stores lining the highway as you sit in traffic. Or, if not full-out resentment, might start to smile when seeing a non-chain store flanking the oh-so-glamorous side of U.S. Route 1. Given that I was driving during rush hour, I had plenty of time to take note of my strip-mall surroundings. And, 9 times out of 10, these surroundings were chains. Chains and chains of chains. Subway! Dunkin! Staples! You name it, it was there, and often, I don't mind. I mean, I love a five-dollar footlong as much as the next college student. But when these stores weren't chains, they were almost always one thing: (you've got) nails.



Nail salons, that is. What is it, I wonder, about nail salons that is franchise- or chain-proof? Those razor-sharp talons the owners bear? The sickening smell of nail polish? The massive stashes of emery boards? I'm not quite sure what it is, but many a nail joint I did see, and nary one that was affiliated with the other. Are there even any national chains of nail salon places? There's Supercuts for hair, but is there Supernails?

According to this article I just found via Google, apparently not. Now, see, I don't really give a damn about nail salons. I just think it's interesting that something--anything!--can survive as an independent store given (to sound like every other freaking news article out now ever) "these tough economic times." What's more interesting, perhaps, is how that article is framed: "Can One of These Emerging [Nail] Salon Chains Become the 'Starbucks of Nails'?" Why, I wonder, would this source be advocating such an idea? While quality-control is nice, I'm not so keen on the way S-Bucks has wiped out many local coffee shops. I'd say the same thing would apply to nail places, or whatever is left standing without a chain name at the end of the day.

And to those who dissent, I'd offer them one suggestion: go take your car out for a drive on a Jersey highway, and get back to me. Best wishes.

What could, in a mere two nights, turn me, a former liberal pacifist anti-racist feminist into a pro-monarchy warmonger, cheering on an invasion of The Black Land?

Let's just say it starts with a "Lord of" and ends with "the Rings." [also: read at your own risk, I am completely out-dorking myself in this post]





Yes, folks. I finally saw the movie, and I'm damned glad I did. For years, I, the obsessive Harry Potter enthusiast, had erred on the side of caution when it came to LOTR. I mean, we Harry Potter people were weird, sure. But those LOTR people? They were just... pointy-eared freaks, right?

Well, I'm throwing the towel in and joining the tribe, so to speak. Nearly. As I swooned over Eowyn (and Arwen) and rallied for Gandolf, cheered for Aragon, fought for Frodo and screamed (and screamed, and screamed) for our dear beloved Sam until my dad (and co-viewer) practically was "shhh"-ing me.

But, uh, I have a confession: aside from Eowyn's all-around kickassery, there were certain aspects of the movie trilogy (disclaimer: only saw parts 1 and 3, because it was my first taste of the Rings. I'll improve, I promise!) that rubbed this oh-so-socially conscious viewer the wrong way.

Namely: white men. Lots of 'em. All the time. Everywhere. Whiteness. Blackness. Men-ness.

Are you groaning? Rolling your eyes at me and my constant stream of hatorade on the patriarchy? Or my predicable-as-ever anti-racism, again rearing its head?

Well... you'd be right. In fact, I tried not to keep the mental log of The Role of Women in LOTR or How "The Black Land" Is Akin to Hell, but I sort of can't help it. Scratch that: I actually can't help it. All these racial/gender-based aspects kept whizzing around in my head, and I found myself all-around... disturbed. Like some sort of gnat that keeps swarming around your head-- just let me enjoy the fucking movie, you socio-political distraction!

In the end, I suppose it's best to remember that Lord of the Rings isn't meant to be a political manifesto. But is it okay to check our democratic sensibilities at the door (of the Shire)? What about our anti-racist sentiments? Is this okay too?

I guess the point, in all of this, is that the movie was so damn good I'm not willing to put the usual arguments of mine against movies--oppression!--into conflict. Lord of the Rings is a fantasy, sure, but sometimes I'm confused as to how that plays with reality. How much is middle-earth akin to Earth? How fantasy is fantasy? How fantasy should fantasy be?

As Aragon teaches us, we just have to fight. However--and, as it applies to LOTR--Eowyn also teaches us: that this fighting is best done when not only against evil foe, but also against the status quo.

Via Jezebel, we see the newest cover of Vogue, which I'm debate its authenticity, as it is just so ridiculous. We talk about the double-speak of women's magazines to their audiences, but few time does a magazine's cover decide to illustrate this two-faced-talk quite so decisively. And Vogue, too! I "get" it when teen mags double-speak, because maybe those tweens won't understand the editors must be thinking (sly!), but when it's a magazine for grown women? Are the real live women picking up Vogue really going to buy this? And by "this," I mean the glaringly hypocritical "life philosophy" the cover spews:




Here's my first take, as a picture's worth 1000 words, right?




(a) Why are they talking about plastic surgery on the cover of the "shape issue"? Where you love your curves? There is some hefty (pun? ack) confusion, right there. Because sizes 0 to 20, until we show you the exclamation-pointed story about this pretty lady who chopped off her curves!

(b) Beyonce: I get that she's a good role model for bootyliscious women everywhere, okay. But doesn't it rub anyone else the wrong way the way she's headlined and "used" for this? She deserves to be on any cover of Vogue.

That is all. Happy Saturday. Hopefully you're not quite as confused as Vogue is.

Okay, so it's totally just me being super-sensitive to the slightest little lezzie subtext that crosses my way, but doesn't this front-page image from OldNavy.com...



...look a little bit like our favorite two leading ladies from The L Word, with their daughter Angelica in tow?



+




=





No? Maybe? Come on. Admit that you sort of can see it. And hey. A girl can dream, right? Kenneth Cole ads have actually taken this an run with it, in their "We All Walk In Different Shoes" campaign. Maybe Old Navy is subtextually jumping on the progressive bandwagon.

Jezebel informs us that Frito Lay doesn't think women eat enough of their chips. (No, ladies, remember: we only like fruits, veggies, and, of course-- that eternal Lady Food, chocolate.) But the point is that Frito-Lay's is feeling the crunch, and not the kind that they'd like. So... they decided to give all their women consumers some bait that they'd really bite. Like... the most asinine website you will lay (haha?) your poor ladyeyes on.



Their Only in a Woman's World ad campaign features Super Clever advertising techniques that we women just fall for without even knowing what's going on. I mean, hello! Cursive writing? Hook, line, sinker! Chicks just FALL for that. Saying "girls" repeatedly and offering you, the sad pathetic ladyreader, to "be one of the girls"! Bang! Instant convert! Ladies, isn't that a dream come fucking true? See, it's 'cause, like, women spend their entire lives wanting to be at a slumber-party, or with the popular girls, or to eat some Frito-Lays (check that advertising effectiveness) with the cheerleaders.

So we've got cursive, lots of "girls" mentions, and even personalities. They're moms, bank assistants, clothing shop owners, and best of all, they're "fun, fab, and fearlessly female"! And did we mention they eat chips? Oh, they do! But not just any chips, and not without incessantly mentioning dieting or yoga or crying or emotions every .3 seconds. Because ladies, we're on diets. A lot.



And that's why we should be oh-so-fucking THANKFUL that finally Frito-Lay has made some products For Us. You know, 'cause we're this strange, rare group of, oh, 51% of the population, and now there are snacks made "just for you." Just for us! Goody, because until Frito-Lays came around and muted down the colors on the bags of chips, put pictures of vegetables on the snack bags, and pretended like they were health foods--because that's the only way we Women People eat anything, after all--we couldn't touch them, being on diets all the time and all.

Uh, yeah, let's hope that's not everyone. I think that just because you have a vadge and live in a Thin-Obsessed society, you don't need to be marketed to like some freak interest group with special "needs." Could someone pass the Pringles?

Ha! This postsecret from today's Sunday batch could be likewise addressed to me from all those Indigo Girls-loving straight girls out there who I hopelessly stereotype* as members of Our Team, like this straight secret-sender. (Fun fact: the pictures from that postcard are from the same poster as the one I have in my room!) Anyway, sorry, ladies. I know you absolutely have the right to like this music--which is damn good, as I am a huge fan--without having any inclination towards women whatsofrickinever. It's just that it would be okay, too, if you did.


________
*this would have been a fun little pun were it the 90's and we still used stereos to listen to music. Fucking technology!

I used to think it would be really funny to have some sort of "marker" on members of the queer community. Like they have for dolphins. You know, just some sort of way of knowing who'd been with whom, a sort of physical The Chart, if you will.

Well, friends, it appears I got my wish, to some extent-- I guess you get what you ask for. It's called Infectious mononucleosis, and I've got it, confirmed as of 3:05 pm today by the fine folks at Northfield Hospital.

You see, I had been feeling moderately to very crappy the last few days, and went to the Wellness Center here for a little look-see. My sweet-as-could-be nurse looked into my tonsils, promptly informed me that they were covered with pus--which, believe you me, is quite possibly the last thing you want to imagine inside your throat, apart from, say, cockroaches or something, and told me that it was either strep or mono. So she popped in the little strep test, let it do whatever it is little quickie strep tests do, and, voila, within five minutes we knew that I didn't have strep. GULP. (gulping actually hurts-- so, OW.)

If not strep, then, I was off to the Northfield Hospital, which is a super-fancy-schmancy hospital plunked, literally, in the middle of sprawling farmland. This means that the hospital is exactly as bright 'n shiny as you would imagine, decked out with the absolute Minnesota Nicest nurses and lab techs, and with the cleanest floors I've ever seen in the hospital. Seriously, they should fly people from New Jersey hospital ER's out to the Northfield Hospital, because I was the only fucking one there. Crazy.

Anyway, so then the test came back some three hours later, with the blood results and all, and my lymph nodes have made it official: I am now a card-carrying member of the Kissing Disease Club, badass hospital wristband and all. And, given the fact that this little virus has been stealthily hiding out in me for five to six weeks prior to this--and the Rainbow Retreat was four weeks ago--and we played Spin the Fucking Bottle--the whole situation sort of has the air of a Shakespearean comedy. Oops.

But, uh, regardless... I've drawn up a few positives and negatives of my status as one of the Mighty Monoed:



DRAWBACKS:
1) Did I mention there was pus covering my tonsils? Yeah. It's sort of nasty. Don't think about it for too long.

2) Also, I've been instructed not to go on this awesome event, which royally blows.

3) I can only go on the elliptical or the bike, and on "slow mode." SUCK. Particularly because it's freakin' 45 degrees here in Minnesota, aka Perfect Running Weather and I, the mono-ed, cannot go running. Boo.

4) I'm sort of getting freaked out by the number of people constantly telling me that my spleen will go batshitcrazy any moment now. Stay with me, little spleeny! Also, that sounds painful.

5) Pretty Woman Syndrome, aka being discouraged from kissing. BOO. So I can choose from my life becoming (a) a PG movie or (b) a night as a hooker who doesn't want to get emotionally involved. Not-so-score.

BENEFITS:
1) Gnarly excuse for not doing anything that I don't feel like doing. Tired? Bored? Getting out of anything is as simply as saying these four simple words: "Sorry, I've got mono." Witness the crowds stunned and defeated. Bam.

2) I have official medical advice from healthcare professionals to eat like a three year-old: apples juice, jello, pudding and ice-pops you say? Man, that's gonna be tough!

3) "Mono" is a very popular prefix. Get ready for me to monogamously ride the monorail into punning monopoly!

Yours in throat cultures and bedrest,
Beth