(Yes, I put a 'u' in the above. I think I get a few months' grace period where I'm allowed to use Anglicisms and British spellings as I see fit. I'd be chuffed if you'd humour me.)
On Friday, Dan Savage did a great on-line Q&A via The Stranger's blog, The Slog*. He responds to a question from a lesbian who wants to do something cheap but special on Valentine's Day with her girlfriend--not just staying in and having sex, which they do plenty of. Part of Dan's response:
"$20 will get you a nice bottle of wine -- get a prosecco, sparkling Italian wine that is 1. cheap and 2. suddenly everywhere. And then go someplace homantic and sit together and drink the booze."
My emphasis.
Okay, it's obviously a typo, but "homantic" is my new favourite** word. I think it's perfect for people who'd like to mix in some scratch marks and lube with their hearts and flowers. You could apply it to serious couples who met at, say, a sex club, and are returning there for their 25th anniversary. So homantic! Or should you ever get down on one knee and propose marriage, ring in hand, to someone still chained to the wall from their flogging--that'd be totally homantic! Especially if you both agree to put the video on YouTube.
Any suggestions for a good homantic Valentine's Day? Leave them in the comments.
*Does one italicize blog titles?
**Okay, last time.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
My New Favourite Word
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Birthday Reflection Series Part 2: Location
(...Location Location, I know.)
This installment is so delayed because it's the one on which I have the fewest interesting thoughts. Mostly it's personal stuff, without much room for philosophical explication. But I'll try.
I thought I was eligible for a visa in London, but the laws changed and I'm very much not. The day I got this news (not quite 2 months ago), I was devastated. The day after I got this news, I was over it. I hadn't been happy there. No career momentum, very few real friendships, and a general feeling that the Brits were not my people--most of my thoughts on representations of race, gender, and sexuality were dismissed as "precious," a word I have come to absolutely LOATHE.* While I rarely felt that I was being discriminated against because of my gender (which sped my blogging decline), I felt that my gender was discriminated against by the culture at large, and that this was going completely ignored by a complacent population--even by the cool, educated, artsy, liberal people with whom I was surrounded. I was planning on mining this for blog posts, but the ideological and social isolation was too great, and the idea was depressing. I didn't have a lot of friends in London, and there weren't even a lot of people I WANTED to be friends with.**
Moving to London the first time, eight years ago, was the scariest thing I've ever done. When I said good-bye to my family and got through security, as I was putting my belt back on, suddenly I was paralyzed. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how I would physically get myself to the departure gate. It was a strange sensation. I finally decided that I would move my left foot, and after that I would move my right foot, and then I would move my left foot again, and that if I kept doing that, eventually I would find myself on the plane. It worked. Moving one foot after the other, no matter what your brain is telling you, is now what I think of as adventure.
Moving to London this time didn't feel like adventure. To be totally honest, it felt like cowardice. Part of me knew I was stalling, that I didn't know how to start my career here in New York, that I had no forward momentum, and sticking myself in a grad program felt safe. I wouldn't have to worry about it for a year--and LAMDA's admissions process didn't require me to direct in front of a panel, which to me was a terrifying prospect. And London! I loved London! Theatre was more relevant there, and more accessible, and being a New Yorker would make me different and new! But it didn't work out that way. I got a pretty good (not great) education while I was there, and it was worth it in so many ways, but I wasn't building as much career momentum as I'd thought.
And to be totally honest, the guy situation was disappointing. The first time I lived in London, it seemed that I'd suddenly found the city where guys found me attractive. Looking back, it probably helped that I was a spirited 20-year-old girl, with the caché of being American. Or maybe acting students are less exciting. Or maybe it's that, the first time around, I mostly knew American expats, who inherently have a thirst for adventure--my amazing flatmate Lacey had a knack for making friends wherever she went, including the blues bar we frequented (we would occasionally throw barbeques, which would involve lots of old blues musicians bringing their instruments over and jamming on our roof); I randomly ran into a college friend, in a club, and fell in with his squatter friends that HE'D met at a club; I briefly dated an actual Brit (a DJ and musician I met at a club, when my friend Michelle came to visit), and he and I are still friends. But for whatever reason, the seven months I lived there were really hard and really fun and really special, and it was, in many ways, when I became an adult. The year-and-change I spent there just now was productive, and has set up good things for the future, but was probably the least fun year-and-change I've ever had. Seriously. Even years that have had more misery at least had fun parts as well. Fun is important to me--I need it in order to work as hard as I want to work, and to function creatively. Things weren't working out.
And then I found out I had to leave, and suddenly things were working out. I met a young American producer/director/actor with whom, as she puts it, I "share a brain." We've agreed to work together this summer--and then she's probably moving back to New York. Perfect. Also, I'd been having some great talks with an up-and-coming director friend who was her own company, and she made clear that if I came back to New York she'd help me get something started. And as for the guy thing...it's funny, because it's what you always hear: as soon as you stop looking, something turns up. And I was specifically not looking for anyone in New York this whole past year. I wasn't looking for casual hook-ups, so they found me***. And I certainly wasn't looking for a relationship, in this town where I no longer lived...and slowly started to realize there'd been someone wonderful right under my nose. So when I got the bad news about my visa, it quickly started to look like good news. And I stopped wasting time.
So, in the end, this was an important year. It made me realize what I want, in a lot of different ways. Perhaps I needed to view my life from a distant shore. I suppose I even recommend it.
*Also, there is no iced coffee and the city itself is hard to get around.
**Then there were the people I liked who seemed really into me, but could not be corralled into getting together ever. It occurred to me only recently that most of the people I knew thought of me as a Director...and thus not entirely as a Person. The vice-principal of the school once told me that Directing students were sort of halfway between student and staff, and that might have effected people's ability to see me as Potential Friend. This didn't hurt my flatmate, of course, but she's a fit blonde Nordic lesbian who sometimes fucks guys. Hard to compete.
***More on this soon.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Since We Probably Ain't Getting Reform Anytime Soon...
...I have a thought on health care.
If I had a boyfriend who had health insurance*, and I didn't have health insurance myself**, my boyfriend should be able to buy my birth control on his insurance. This is in the insurance companies' interest too, as knocking a girl up can lead to plenty of expensive trouble.
That would never happen in this country, of course. But it's worth mentioning.
Which could lead us into a discussion of why there aren't more birth control options for men, but others have already done that better. I will say that my favorite book on feminism, Manifesta, seems to believe that vasectomies are easily reversible, and that sexually active men should all just get that done until they're reading for kids. My casual research***, however, indicates that this is a dubious claim--it often has a permanent effect on reproductive ability, and while a lot of the stats are positive, doctors encourage men getting vasectomies not to think of them as reversible. It's also quite expensive, though paying for birth control pills/rings/etc over decades can start to add up. Also, surgery's not to be undertaken lightly.
Also, doesn't "-ectomy" imply that the vas deferens are removed, rather than just severed? Linguistics matter, people.
*I do not, but bear with me.
**Which I don't right now, ack.
***Two things I discovered: 1) There is a site called vasectomyreversalusa.com, and 2) You should not google "vasectomy reversal" unless you're prepared to see some strong imagery.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Birthday Reflection Series: Age
[This started as one post, but it felt overly long and I found myself persistently not posting it, so I decided to break it into three easily digestible chunks. Enjoy!]
Two weeks ago, I turned 28. (Or, if you're in the theatre industry, 27 again.) That makes this a good time for looking back/taking stock for three reasons: age, location, and blogging. I'm in London currently, but in 4 days I'll be back in New York, permanent-style, and drastic moves (or even less-drastic moves) tend to inspire reflection. Also, my (slowish) return to blogging has had me combing through my own archives, rereading old posts and thinking about how I've changed since I wrote them. So, in case you're interested:
Age
Twenty-seven was my scary age. For whatever reason, it was the first time in my life I was unhappy about getting older. It wasn't entirely the age itself, but also the fear that I wouldn't be where I was supposed to be at that age. I set goals: by my 27th birthday, I had to have STARTED something--the options being grad school, a career, or a serious relationship. Those things, to me, indicated progress, growth. As the big day reared, things were looking good: I was in grad school, in my chosen career field, and I had just started dating someone whom I (erroneously) believed had LTR potential. When I woke up on my birthday I was a little depressed for a few hours, but then it passed and I had a lovely week of festivities*.
Twenty-eight brought no such fears, either in theory or as it approached. There are various possibilities as to why: my 27th year was a lot better and more engaging than the last few months of my 26th, one or two people in the theatre industry had told me that I was at a good place in my career trajectory, when people tried to guess my age they guessed 25 anyway, and when the day came around there'd been some lovely recent developments in my personal life. But most likely, the Fear of 27 was the aberration, brought on by life uncertainty that I then got over a bit. And I have progressed, or potentially progressed, in a few important ways, so that's always nice.
My psychopharmacologist once told me that she wished she could put everyone to sleep at age 18 and wake them up again when they turned 30--because the 20s suck. Someone else once said that your 20s are about figuring out what you want, and your 30s are about figuring out how to get it. Which makes one's 30s sound a little less like a cake walk, but still--I have figured out a lot of what I want, and, as a result, good things are starting to happen in both my personal and professional lives. It's shaping up to be a very interesting year.
*My birthday celebrations typically involve at least 3 events. My 27th included: cake with extended family in Virginia, dinner at a nice restaurant with my dad and sister (my mom had something important), cake with them plus mom, Official Fun Bar Party with all my friends, and a small dinner party with my oldest friends and the out-of-towners who couldn't make the bar party. This year involved bar party, fancy family dinner outing, drunken Mexican food hijinks with my housemates from Junior year (aka the awesomest year), and being taken to my first British panto by my flatmate over here.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Help Wanted: When The Princess Bride Is Just Too Gritty
(aka, Not All My Posts Are About Rape)
I was on vacation with the folks in Miami last month, and the weather wasn't great so we were stuck inside a bit, and my dad was working for half of it, so my mom and I got a little bored at times. One afternoon we ended up watching No Reservations, the romantic comedy with Catherine Zeta-Jones, Aaron Eckhart, and Abigail Breslin. While it might seem like it follows the recently popular, woeful rom com trope of bringing a career woman to her knees, upon viewing one learns that this is NOT the case. More on this later, the point is:
I wanted to make a list, in its honor, of romantic comedies I actually like--movies for when I don't want to think, but don't want my intelligence insulted. The problem is, this list is very short at the moment. So, dear readers:
Any suggestions?
PLEASE suggest. But don't say Love, Actually, I hate that movie. (More on that later, too.)
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Update To Previous Post
I've updated the post below, but just so everyone knows about it I'm pasting it in here, too:
I've also just learned that there's been an ad on TV and in the cinemas. (I don't own a TV in London, and I rarely go to the movies, so I had no idea.)
This is still shocking, but for some reason it seems more successful to me--as in, it doesn't make me angry at the advert itself. Perhaps it's because it's depicting an actual assault, rather than co-opting the language of assault; because the imagery is more tasteful, while still very truthful; and because there's the perpetrator is also represented, instead of just the victim. It also seems to me that the TV ad shows how normal the situation can seem--sympathizing with the victim for not thinking about the risks--while the print ad treated me like a moron who'd have no one but herself to blame. Even the tagline in the TV ad-- "Know what you're getting into"--is better than the text of the print ad, because it focuses on informing us, addressing us as intelligent adults who have a right to know what risks are out there. It's unflinchingly honest, but it's not bullying.
Apparently there's been an annual ad campaign in London to dissuade women from taking unbooked minicabs, and it's been very successful--80% fewer women now do so, and, over the past six years, minicab assaults have halved. So you tell me--am I splitting hairs here? Are the two ads essentially the same, and I should focus on the results?
Tfl 'Know what you're getting into' advert [U Talk Marketing]
Raping Your Audience
Below, some camera-phone photos from an "advert" in the London underground:
If you can't read the text at the bottom, it says, "Whether you approach the driver, or they approach you, there's no record of the journey and you're putting yourself in danger. Text CAB to 60835 and we'll use GPS" to text your three nearest cab numbers."
If you can't tell from the photo, the woman is crying.
Now, Cab Finder is great, and I've used it on several occasions--because I agree with the ad that taking an unlicensed cab off the street is dangerous. (You either use black cabs, which are really expensive, or you call a "minicab" company, which dispatches drivers in regular cars, etc.) But this ad is upsetting on multiple levels.
The first is the most obvious, and also the most difficult to articulate, because it deals with a visceral, emotional reaction. I know that the ad is aiming for a visceral reaction, but the result was that I felt like the ad was trying to assault me. It almost seems to be mocking rape victims, and--though this is obviously not the intent--relishing the hypothetical violence being inflicted. Echoing the protestations of a rape victim in order to tell us, the viewers, to do something, is very hostile. It's attempting to scare us the same way a rapist would. It's saying, If you take an unbooked minicab, you will be raped, and this is what you will look like while it's happening, and this is what you will say in a futile attempt to stop it, and it will be your own fault for ignoring our warnings. Showing the victim rather than the perpetrator* puts the situation squarely and undeniably on the victim's shoulders. I don't know if that even fully explains my emotional reaction--perhaps you guys have something to add in the comments.
But perhaps more disturbingly is how laughably beside the point this message is given recent events IN LONDON. About a year ago John Worboys, a driver of a BLACK cab, was convicted of raping some of his passengers--and based on reports, he most likely raped HUNDREDS of women. The police arrested him in 2007, but ignored important toxicology test results and neglected to search his home or cab.** They released him, and he went on to commit at least 30 more assaults. To Scotland Yard's credit, they have referred their own investigation to the Independent Police Complaints Commission (IPCC)--something they do very rarely indeed.
My point is: instead of trying to terrify women into not using minicabs--not warn, but terrify--the city of London needs to take responsibility for its own failings. England has the lowest rape conviction rate in Europe--at 5.7%, it's even worse than America's 13%. (I can't find what the arrest rates are.)***
The fact is that, in England, rape is all but legal. Remember, that 5.7% isn't of all rapists--it's of all the REPORTED rapes in which an ARREST is made and then actually go to TRIAL. Reported rapes in England are estimated at 10% of actual rapes--which isn't surprising, considering how traumatic and futile the reporting and prosecution of a rape can be--the arrest rate is presumably less than 100%, and many cases are dismissed even before going to trial.**** So it seems fairly pointless to shove down my throat that I'm creating rapes if I take an unbooked cab, when the entire legal culture says that rapists will go unpunished.
I know, I know: it's not necessarily victim-blaming to advise women on safety. I can tell you that it's dangerous to leave your drink unattended without blaming the women who were victimized that way*****. And 'minicab rape' happens. But the way those ads treat their audience--not as rational human beings who would respond to a warning, but as irrational girls who for their own good must empathetically experience actual rape--really pisses me off.
UPDATE: I've also just learned that there's been an ad on TV and in the cinemas. (I don't own a TV in London, and I rarely go to the movies, so I had no idea.)
This is still shocking, but for some reason it seems more successful to me--as in, it doesn't make me angry at the advert itself. Perhaps it's because it's depicting an actual assault, rather than co-opting the language of assault; because the imagery is more tasteful, while still very truthful; and because there's the perpetrator is also represented, instead of just the victim. It also seems to me that the TV ad shows how normal the situation can seem--sympathizing with the victim for not thinking about the risks--while the print ad treated me like a moron who'd have no one but herself to blame. Even the tagline in the TV ad-- "Know what you're getting into"--is better than the text of the print ad, because it focuses on informing us, addressing us as intelligent adults who have a right to know what risks are out there. It's unflinchingly honest, but it's not bullying.
Apparently there's been an annual ad campaign in London to dissuade women from taking unbooked minicabs, and it's been very successful--80% fewer women now do so, and, over the past six years, minicab assaults have halved. So you tell me--am I splitting hairs here? Are the two ads essentially the same, and I should focus on the results?
*Though I shudder to think how they might depict a generic rapist.
**I also remember reading at the time that police had ignored the earliest reports from victims, simply not believing them, but I can't find corroboration of this now.
***If you're interested about America's rape arrest rates, it's 25% nationally...and 70% in New York, so yay NYPD! I credit Benson and Stabler.
****Consider the legality of rape in America: according to RAINN, only 6% of actual rapists spend any time in jail. They have the most encouraging statistics I've seen on reporting, arrest, and prosecution rates, so by some counts 6% might be generous. And remember, this is a national average--for every place like NYC that's doing better, there's someplace doing much, much worse.
*****Though, for the record, recent studies show that this kind of rape is actually pretty uncommon.
Black cab rapist: serial sex attacker John Worboys jailed indefinitely[The Telegraph]The Rape Conviction Rate In Britain Is Pathetically Low<[Jezebel]
Project Sapphire staying safe[Metropolitan Police]
Tfl 'Know what you're getting into' advert [U Talk Marketing]
Rape in America: Justice Denied [CBS News]
Reporting Rates[RAINN]
The Date Rape Drug Is An Urban Myth. Let's Put It To Rest. [The Sexist]
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Technical Difficulties
...with my life rather than with this blog.
I learned on Monday that I am in fact NOT eligible for a post-study work visa, or indeed any visa at all. Medium-length boring annoying story. Anyway, I have to return to the States post-haste. The return is a good thing; the required haste is kind of traumatic.
So, I haven't forgotten you, dear readers, and in the next few days I will post again. I have two or three posts half-formed in my head, but writing them will need time and brain cells I cannot at the moment spare.
In other news: Happy Hanukkah!*
*Normally I prefer a C-h beginning, but for this phrasing I like it when the Hs match. If that's something you'd like to ponder further:
Friday, December 4, 2009
Why It's Been So Long
A year is a long time to be silent. Essentially, I told you all I was going out for a pack of cigarettes, and never came back*. So...why?
The reasons I left off blogging have a lot to do with the reasons I started in the first place. So let's deal with that:
When I moved back to New York there was a bit of a culture shock when I realized that, outside the bubbles of small liberal arts colleges and tight-knit regional theatre communities, not every nice, smart person had the exact same outlook on feminism and gender roles as I. Yeah, you heard me right: that came as a shock. To me it had always been Dumb Sexists versus Smart Feminists, end of story. But, we grow up. We discover that color called grey, we learn that the word "spectrum" applies to more things than rainbows and sexual identity. This blog was a good way to explain and exemplify my principles to the new people in my life, and to express my various frustrations with the world. I had also become sexually active again after a two-year period of abstinence**, which really brought sex into focus for me, making it an important part of my life and, I found, a rich field for exploration and analysis. And my friends seemed to like reading about all that, so, bully for me.
Oh, and also there was this little election going on, during which the subject of gender arose once or twice. You probably wouldn't remember.
Then I moved to London. To a drama grad school. I knew exclusively artists, who do not, for example, give a fuck how many people I sleep with. There were more women on my program than men (though at 3-to-2 it wasn't what you'd call statistically significant). The election was over, my friends and readers were far away, and for various reasons I didn't feel like writing about sex anymore***. I was very busy, and not feeling particularly oppressed. And things petered out.
So why now? Excellent question class. The reasons are, as I said, not entirely different this time around. As I've gotten to know the people around me a bit better, I've repeatedly been shocked by the clashes in worldview--perhaps even more so than before. I'll get into this more in further posts, but the main thing is that I myself am having to think about these things from new angles, because some of my basic assumptions aren't shared. All of which is starting to sound a bit histrionic--I'm in ENGLAND after all, not the uncharted Amazon Rainforest. But perhaps that's whence the shock.
So, here I am, once again trying to work out how I feel about the world, about myself, about the constant negotiations between the two. Please enjoy.
*Particularly deceitful as I don't smoke.
**The first half intentional, the second half not so much. I think I just got rusty after a year off.
***Fodder for another post.
Guest Posts! Also, Any Posts!
Hello all.
It's been a year. Hopefully some of you still have this on your blog roll and are thus reading this. Welcome back!
Prodding me into reviving this blog is the wonderful "M. Goldman"--an incredibly smart and cool feminist dude who has (re)started us off with the guest post below. Hopefully I, in turn, will be able to prod him into writing more for us in the future.
More soon. I promise.
toads and gender: guest post
In November, as I have brought to the attention of everyone I have talked to in the past month, I adopted a toad. I am just pleased as punch about this. She is a lovely toad, though understandably a little skittish. I think she needs a little more living space, and maybe a rock to burrow under and a bit of hollow log to hide in. I am doing my best to help acclimate her to her living space.
One funny thing I have noticed about toad ownership is the way people perceive toad gender. If I refer to a toad as “he,” the conversation continues as normal. If, as in the case of Jhumpa Lahiri (my toad), I refer to the toad as “she,” almost universally the response will be:
“You can tell if it’s male or female?”
Now, I have no idea how to tell the sex of bufo americanus. I bet, if I checked around, it wouldn’t be too difficult to find the answer to this question. For now, and for the foreseeable future, I have no real intention to do so. First of all, I have given this toad a human name. To the best of my knowledge, and even to the best of my conception of the natural world, frogs and toads do not, when left to their own devices, have human names. “She,” to the best of my perception, is not aware she has a human name. I project a personality on my toad. Frogs and toads, and nearly the entirety of life on our planet (and presumably the universe) do not have personalities. Central to this word is its root, “person,” and at the risk of being tautological in order to drive home a point, personality implies personhood. I don’t mean to tear down the idea that animals can have emotion, expression, abstract thought, and even dignity, because I accept that they can, and even assign these to pets I have had and known. But these are not people. Isn’t it arrogant to hold the primacy of human beings so firmly as to assume that our perception of the world is the only one? I love meerkats; I hate the show Meerkat Manor, the one where Sean Astin prattles on and on about how one animal is feeling about missing a meal, or how one is unrequited in her love for another. These are human emotions you are presenting as fact, or worse: as science! At best, I have to imagine the “personalities” we project on the animals around us are imperfect metaphors. So please don’t try to contradict the narrative I have chosen for my toad, because her life is completely unaffected by the social construct of gender.
And speaking of this construct, what is it about frogs and toads that lead people to assume they are male? Questions over gender only arise when the gender presented is female. Yes, the sex of an amphibian would be an interesting discussion I’m sure. But if you were really asking after sex, you would question my assumption of masculinity as well. You’re questioning my gendering of the toad, which you had already determined in your head the other way when you heard the word. I discussed this earlier today with my friends Chris and Sam, and came up with a short list of assumed genders in our society:
dogs: male
cats: female
cars/transportation: female
hurricanes: female (traditionally; this persists even though half of hurricanes now have male names)
fish: male
whales: female (“thar she blows!”)
bears: male
peacocks: female (ironic, since the sex is in its name)
eagles: male
trees: male
flowers: female
oceans: female
mountains: male
anything that could be described as “a beauty:” female
anything that could be described as “ornery:” male
I know I’m missing a bunch here. Hooray for gender roles!
Monday, December 15, 2008
From The Mouths Of Dudes
Well, the people have spoken. Several of my guy friends emailed me privately (perhaps ashamed?) and assured me that guys, too, obsessively overanalyze emails from romantic/sexual Persons of Interest. No definitive word yet on whether they CRAFT such emails with the same absurd care, but one of these liaisons to the Y Chromosome told me he puts a lot of thought into his text messaging. And I don't know about y'all, but that makes me feel less alone.
Sidenote: I was originally going to title this post, "From The Stallion's Mouth," but it seemed weird and a bit creepy to refer to my male friends as stallions. Though I'm sure they are.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Gender Is Density
[sic]
While we all know I can be pretty macho, and rebel against stereotypes and whatnot, there is at least one time I am undeniably, lamentably, a total fucking girl: when reading a short email from a guy I just hooked up with.
Yes, rather than spending today being Thankful, I have mostly spent it staring at three sentences on a computer screen going, "WTF does that mean?!?!" I'm sure in reality the meaning of all such emails is perfectly clear*, but those two X chromosomes conspire, like a devil and angel over my shoulders, to drive me mad. Only the angel is kind of a bitch. For example:
Devil X: Cmon, you know you want to email him back. Do it! What if he really does like you, but he's worried you don't like him? Then you'll have missed your chance! Email him!
Angel X: Um, if he liked you he would've tried to see you. But he doesn't. Because you're fat.
Devil X: Maybe that ambiguous phrase he used is a British thing.
Angel X: Maybe you should lose five pounds.
So yeah, that's fun. Love those two.
Seriously, dear readers: do guys not do this? I'm told that they don't, but I thought I'd turn to you for confirmation. Do you withhold your feelings out of uncertainty and fear of rejection? Do you "play it cool" when you feel anything but? Do you reread emails in five different tones of voice to see how many of them the words fit, and harass all your friends over the significance of prepositions and modifying clauses?
Sorry for all the body-hatred, by the way. In fact I think my lack of citizenship might be more of an issue in this case, but why be rational at a time like this?
*"He's just not that into me."
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Chicks I Like, And Would Like To Be
She is an awesome director. Most recently, she directed the revival of Equus currently on Broadway, starring Daniel Radcliffe and Richard Griffiths. She is 31 years old. (Possibly 32.) She was Artistic Director of the Southwark Playhouse when she was 24. Peter Hall talked her into directing Blithe Spirit. There are rumors that she might be the next Artistic Director of the Royal National Theatre. She has a wedding ring and a baby. (Both of which I saw.) She looks incredible.
31 years old.
She came to my school to lead a weekend-long workshop on Noël Coward, which we directors got to attend. She is wonderful--very open and intelligent and nice, and the workshop was great. She was particularly nice to the directors--we were told we'd be observing silently, but she totally made us act, which was a lot of fun.*
So, this woman is living the dream. It is awe-inspiring, and also just plain inspiring. It is also, of course, very very intimidating. I am almost 27! I was already focusing on the fact that I should've written "Thunder Road" by now--now I know I also should've run a reputable theater. Of course, Sharrock has been in theatre school since she was nine, so that gives her a bit of a head start. But the strange part is that working with her put the idea in my head that, for professional purposes, I really do need to lose about 20 lbs. Go figure.
The thing is, I was told YEARS ago that "a woman can't succeed as a director in [New York] unless she's a lesbian." It was clarified for me that it didn't matter with whom you were actually sleeping, but it was important to seem pretty dykey. Sharrock did not seem dykey per se, but she definitely looked like what I realized was my concept of the quintessential Female Director: dark jeans, white T, flat ankle boots, no make-up whatsoever. We directors get head shots at the end of the year, and the word is that they encourage us to cultivate a persona--most of last year's head shots scream "I AM A DIRECTOR." My flatmate is horrified by this, but I'm looking forward to it. I definitely plan to push my Knowing Tough Girl self-image.
I will almost certainly be wearing make-up, however. Cross your fingers that this doesn't ruin my career.
*For me at least. At least one of my compatriots wanted the floor to swallow him up. Thea Sharrock seemed to appreciate this.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
The Times They Are A-Changed
Things are different right now.
My two-track mind used to be: theatre, sex. Occasionally there’d be a third track--Buffy, for example, or Harry Potter around the times a book or movie came out. But now THE WORLD REVOLVES BACKWARDS ON ITS AXIS…because I have not been thinking about sex AT. ALL. My two tracks are now: real estate and electoral projections. Once I finally get the keys to my flat, I suspect we’ll be down to one.
Politics are consuming me.
But I am MUCH gratified to realize I am not alone. I have recently discovered Dan Savage’s Podcast (the “SavageLovecast”), and partially out of homesickness I’ve been listening non-stop (there are 103 episodes, after all—I’m up to 78, though I always listen to the most recent update as well). I think there’s fodder for multiple posts in having listened to all of these in quick succession*, and several of his principles—so evident when you hear them in dense amounts—have helped with my latest angsty issues. But this! In last week’s episode (102), in the intro, he actually says:
...I’m a little scattered, I’m a little tense, election day approaches, and we will get to your calls, because I assume you’re scattered, and you’re tense, otherwise you wouldn ’t be calling with your sex problems—AT A TIME LIKE THIS, when the future of the whole world is at stake, when our democracy teeters on the verge of complete and total bullshitification, you’re calling with your sex problems—I’m amazed that anybody can think of sex at a time like this, but I’ll do what I can. To focus. On your genitals.
(Bold emphasis mine, caps emphasis an attempted representation of his vocal stress.]
Dan Savage, a man who has built a career on his willingness to discuss any and every sexual issue—and who in fact has been known to merge sex and politics, as when he ran a contest that ended up redefining Santorum--is not thinking about sex right now. I think he and I are two pretty fucking salient examples of the MAGNITUDE of this thing that is about to happen, the knowledge that barring a large unexpected event (knock on wood, ptoi ptoi ptoi, etc), Barack Obama will soon be our President Elect. And having heard Dan say this, I feel absolved--one of the two or three main reasons I haven’t been posting is that I’m thinking less about sex and feminism and more about the nitty gritty of this election**. So, with Dan’s unwitting blessing, I will now share these thoughts with you.
My latest addiction is fivethirtyeight.com—“Electoral Projections Done Right.” You may have heard of this by now, as its readership has skyrocketed recently. What they do is based on statistics—they take all the major polls, each time they come out, and
run 10,000 election simulations (I don’t know exactly how, but the founder was on COLBERT forchrissake so you know he’s reputable). They then post the percentage of these elections each candidate wins (showing all their data). When I started reading the site, Obama was at around 70%. Today he’s at 90.9%. Nate Silver has made clear that if nothing SERIOUSLY MAJOR happens during the next 25 days (knock on wood, salt over the shoulder, etc), Obama wins, end of story. They also have excellent, easy-to-understand analysis of both polls and debates***.
So that’s all I talk about lately. Whenever I run into an American, or a Canadian, or a Brit whom I’ve heard mention Obama, I blurt out “Obama’s at [whatever it is] percent!” And if they care they go, “What?! NO. WAY.” And I have to clarify that I don’t mean in national polls, it’s not that 90.9% of the country says they’re voting blue, but rather the 10,000 simulations blah blah blah.
And then the other half of the time I ask them where they live and what they’re paying.
The good news? The other day I noticed a cute hipster guy in a Tesco Express and thought “I would totally do him.” So the prognosis is good. Hopefully on November 5th I can go back to non-stop thoughts about fucking and Brecht or whatever.
Knock on wood, ptoi ptoi ptoi.
PS: Maybe don’t listen to the rest of that particular podcast, because the first caller has the MOST DEPRESSING STORY I’ve ever heard. She sounds like SHE’S okay with it, but if you’re in a dark mood don’t go there.
*And after posting this I will shortly write a “Dudes I Like” post devoted to the man.
**The other two reasons are still not having a place to live and some significant personal angst for which this blog is not the appropriate forum.
***My mother visited last weekend, and I read her a post on why McCain’s latest Bill Ayres mudslinging isn’t going to have much of an effect, and she said, “I think that’s true,” which is quite the validation.)
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Now Where Were We...
So, hey guys, guess what? I just moved to a different country, on a different continent! That's right, I now live in New York's sister city: London, England. So, that is my excuse for not having posted in OVER A MONTH.
So, what to say...I should post on things like Palin and polyamory and Dan Savage (NOT as related to each other, ew). And I will shortly. Right now I'm dealing with looking for a flat, and getting scammed out of £250 maybe, and getting my ass to stage combat class, and getting out of my hostel where people have sex in the room when I'm trying to sleep. So hopefully...later today! I will post more.
Cherrio, Luvs!
Monday, August 18, 2008
Do NOT Use As Directed
I've been particularly achy lately, mostly in the neck and shoulders. Recently, as I lay on the sofa, my cat decided she wanted to knead the upper part of my chest--far preferable to her usual, painful practice of kneading my belly fat--and I realized the culprit was my breasts. They're pretty large, after all, which can take its toll, and the cat paws had found, below the breast itself, chest muscle that greatly appreciated the massage.
After sort of idly massaging the area myself for a few days, a bold idea occurred to me. I took out my plug-in "all-body massager" and decided to use it for--GASP!--a body massage. As I moved it across my chest, down and around my sternum, and under my arms (not the pit, but the area a bra covers), I wondered with annoyance if the thing had gone soft from years of focusing solely on the aches between my legs*. I had to press pretty hard to feel that it was doing any good. While I knew I was finding the sore muscles--because it hurt--I didn't think it was actually helping, so I gave up. Not very satisfying.
And then today. UGH. I've made things TEN TIMES WORSE. All those muscles are sore and my breasts feel like they weigh about 35 lbs. each. My sternum is so sore to the touch I'm surprised I didn't bruise it.** I wore a sports bra all day and now, in my pjs and reading, I have to lie flat on a big pillow for some support. Can't someone just build me a nice shelf to put them on? I'm very fond of them but right now they might as well be lead balloons.
So, ironically, I used my vibrator in its official, packaging-touted function and it totally backfired. It will have to stick to massaging my clit, and forget about this "all-body" nonsense. I suppose it's just as well--I can get massages from my friends and family*** far more easily than I could a hand job, which is very much as it should be. And if it comes down to a splurge, I'd rather pay a masseur than a prostitute. Masseurs are fully trained.
*Which are definitely what you'd call "recurring."
**Though I do have a little almost-hickey on my right breast, which I'm pretty sure is not from other activities.
***And cat, apparently!
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The Schmuck Debate
I'm sitting here on a Sunday listening to old Dan Savage podcasts instead of going to the gym,* and he just fielded a call from a gay man who is not attracted to uncircumcised penises. I realized I'd not yet weighed in on the topic myself. The topic, of course, has three subheadings:
1) The Attractiveness Debate
Dan's caller is the evidence here--some people find uncircumcised penises unattractive, particularly in cultures where circumcision is the norm. It is, of course, the norm in MY culture, so it was only very occasionally that I've encountered a penis that was fully intact. And frankly, you don't always notice: it's dark, or there's a condom on it, or it's erect (in which case they mostly look the same anyway). So I never had a conscious opinion either way. It was only in my recent adulthood that I got a good, lights-on look at an uncut version, and I have to say...it was ADORABLE. It's true that I really liked this guy, which Dan says is key to getting over whatever you genital prejudices are, but it looked rather sweet and mysterious, as though it needed undressing. I developed a crush on it.** So to my cock-sucking friends out there, I hope you can view the presence or absence of a foreskin as but one other facet to find endearing about your sexual partner.
2) The Health Debate
Here we get more tricky. There are very recent studies that show circumcision reducing the transmission of HIV by as much as 50%...in Africa. It's unclear why, and there are a lot of other factors that could be at play here, given that the public health landscape of Africa is pretty different from our own. (And condoms are better anyway! So use those whatever your status.) Most previous research shows that there's no hygienic difference between a circumcised penis and an uncircumcised penis, provided the penis-bearer has been taught the relatively simple art of Keeping It Clean.
3) The Penile Rights Debate
For me, this is what it comes down to. There is the argument that removing the foreskin decreases sexual sensation.*** Furthermore, sometimes the mohel or the doctor screws up, and your child is left with severely decreased, or nonexistent, sexual functioning.**** And then there's the simple fact that we as a society are saying, for no actually good reason, "Your genitals are bad. There is something inherently wrong with them which we must fix, painfully, as soon as possible." I have no opinion as to whether the pain of circumcision saddles guys with a life-long neurosis, but I wouldn't let someone shave off part of my daughter's clitoris just because the bible said so.
Obviously, most circumcised guys come out just fine. There are a lot of them out there, apparently not crippled either physically or emotionally. There's no judgment here--I suppose if I have a son, and there is a father in the picture, I would leave the decision up to him. (The baby's father would, after all, have far more experience having a penis than I.) But if the decision were left up to me, I don't think I could go through with it, not with an easy mind. I'm a Jew, but obviously not one who does things solely because my religion demands it. And since I don't know entirely which side of the debate is right, I expect I would err on the side of caution.
What do you guys think?
*Obvi.
**Of course, things went WAY south, and a few months later I would tell a friend that I hoped this dude's new girlfriend "was reluctant to suck his uncircumcised dick." Which a) sounds sort of like a gypsy curse and b) was not very mature, but heartache requires only public maturity, not private.
***In my unrelated research into the evolution of monotheism, I discovered that followers of Asherah, a pre-YHWH fertility goddess, who honored her by fucking. These worshippers (Semites, aka future Jews) believed an uncircumcised penis was blasphemous, as the lessened sensation of circumcision allowed men to last longer, and thus worship more. So there's that.
****Then there were those mohalim who were giving 8-day-old boys Herpes because, traditionally, they would put the babies' penises in their mouths after the cut as an analgesic. But let's not blame that on circumcision as a whole.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Getting To The Root Of Things
Jezebel's awesome Dodai just wrote an interesting post on her dislike of mirrors--or, more specifically, her discomfort in being confronted with her full reflection. This instantly reminded me of the brief period of time when my hair was pink:
(Strangely, not a well-photodocumented part of my life.)I dyed my hair pink in the winter, just as I was turning 23, during a time when I was SEVERELY depressed--like, Panicked-mother-screaming-at-my-pharmacologist depressed. I don't know if this was rationally, consciously my reasoning at the time, but I needed a pick-me-up. I think I was remembering a Times Magazine "Lives" piece from many years ago (which I have not been able to find) about a young Asian woman who dyed her hair pink and discovered the joyful effect it had on people around her. It made people smile. And I remember the time I first noticed my own cotton candy tresses having this effect--on myself.
Sometime before or after an appointment with my therapist, I went to DSW to look for cheap-ass shoes (another form of anti-depressant). I was unshowered, unkempt, my hair in a messy ponytail and some old show shirt on my slumped torso. I glanced up and accidentally saw my reflection in the mirror. And I smiled. It was the first time, perhaps since childhood, that I felt attractive. Attractive unto myself--not just, oh I look good today because of my hairstyle, because this top is flattering, because of my make-up, because I'm having a good face day, but actually like it didn't matter what I did in the morning, or what I wore, or any of that. I felt like if I were messy and poorly dressed, as I was that day, I looked like an attractive person who hadn't showered rather than an ugly hopeless wreck. It was an amazing feeling of relief.
Which doesn't necessarily make SENSE, because what had changed was, after all, a question of what I'd done to my hair. But I felt like me. No matter how I looked, I was getting across something about myself that I wanted to get across. And I kind of miss it. But the months passed, and as time came to redye, so came time to interview for post-grad jobs, so I went back to the red. Besides, towards the end (as my depression began to be manageable) I did start to feel a little silly. Part of what I'd been combating, with pigment, was how fucking SERIOUS everything felt all the time. But at heart I guess I'm a serious person. Pink was an important place for me to visit, but I couldn't live there.
And life goes on. The last time I saw my reflection and felt truly, inherently beautiful was when I was on Ecstasy, but the mirror and I still have our friendly moments. And I still have fun playing the frosted cupcake now and then--pink has won itself a cherished place in my wardrobe and in my heart. Because part of the fun was, for once, letting myself be a girl. Not acting so tough. I think, looking back, that was important to helping myself heal--embracing both my toughness and my softness. And now of course we're getting into tricky territory because if pink=girl and pink=soft, does girl=soft? I think what I was telling myself was: no. Look. You are a girl, and you are not soft. And You are a human, and you are very soft. So cut yourself some fucking slack. If you don't let yourself be soft, you will break.
So, that's my anecdote. I just wish I had more pictures.
Stop The Presses, I'm In Love
With Keith Olbermann. Just watch:
It's sad to have to be thinking about Rush Limbaugh ever again, but in recompense Keith is giving me butterflies.
[via Feministing.]
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