Guardian Unlimited Books | By genre | The tyranny of reading
For someone to say they don't care for reading labels them as some kind of thickie pariah, fair game for any insult. To decide any such thing on the basis of one single trait seems both sweeping and snobbish.
during my footloose-like childhood, two things distinguished me from my sister:
1- my birthmark was on the right side, hers on the left
2- i read books, she didn't
as we grew up, this second division between us became more marked. i horded my books and she launched guerilla attacks at me through them. (oh, the day i found my hardy boys mystery ripped, defaced and chewed by my dogs because my sister threw it in the back yard - oh, that was a dark day.) my sister knew how deeply this hurt me just as i knew how it hurt that i preferred reading to playing with her.
all of this is to say that my sister doesn't read very much. she read in college, yes; now her collection of books can fit in a small file cabinet. but she has read a book. somewhere, a book has felt my sister crack its spine. somewhere an idea has been digested by my sister and now sits percolating in the ether of ideas my sister carries above her.
but NEVER to have read a single book? and boldly to admit it? (and you don't have a condition to account for it?) you're no pariah. just hugely ignorant.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
illinois rocks: pharmacy access to contraception permanent
yay!
there are a lot of things wrong with illinois government - but this isn't one of them. if things go bad on the federal level, i feel good that my state legislature still recognizes women's needs. (and good on planned parenthood for keeping up the pressure.)
there are a lot of things wrong with illinois government - but this isn't one of them. if things go bad on the federal level, i feel good that my state legislature still recognizes women's needs. (and good on planned parenthood for keeping up the pressure.)
why i'm glad i'm 35: maxim is 'cool'
Do You Read Maxim? Like to Shoot Pool? Welcome to the Club - New York Times
"It's a very cool magazine," Mr. Gerber said. "I've been to a bunch of parties they've had. It's my clientele at those parties." The typical Maxim reader is a 27-year-old male whose favorite alcoholic beverage is tequila and whose preferred leisure activity is shooting pool.
do you fear for the future? cuz i do.
"It's a very cool magazine," Mr. Gerber said. "I've been to a bunch of parties they've had. It's my clientele at those parties." The typical Maxim reader is a 27-year-old male whose favorite alcoholic beverage is tequila and whose preferred leisure activity is shooting pool.
do you fear for the future? cuz i do.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
yawn: Chicago Tribune | BLOGS CAN BITE
same old same old.
here's a thought for writers covering this new-fangled things called blogs: how about writing something interesting?
you have a front page story to write and these are the most interesting stories you can explore? jeebus.
here's a thought for writers covering this new-fangled things called blogs: how about writing something interesting?
you have a front page story to write and these are the most interesting stories you can explore? jeebus.
Monday, August 15, 2005
meme meme meme...
(it's my lunch break. really.)
50 Questions (via ABDmom)
1. First name: Ding
2. Were you named after anyone? Yes; my mother’s best friend back in the philippines
3. Do you wish on stars? No.
4. When did you last cry? Sunday I teared up a little while watching First Daughter but I’m chalking that up to PMS.
5. Do you like your handwriting? Very. My print is very blocky.
6. What is your favorite lunch meat? Um…shhh…liver loaf.
7. What is your most embarrassing CD? I once had a baby face cd. I later sold it in a yard sale.
8. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you? Of course! I’m fabulous (despite the fact that I will most likely forget my new friend’s birthday.)
9. Do you have a journal? Yes, one that i’ve been neglecting because of this thing.
10. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Doesn’t everybody?
11. What are your nicknames? Yum-yum, gassy princess...
12. Would you bungee jump? Um, no.
13. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Shoes? With laces? You mean gasp athletic gear?!
14. Do you think that you are strong? My lower body strength is immense – really! I can leg press a muther. I have weak girly upper body strength that only kicks in during panic.
15. What is your favorite ice cream flavor? Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk. (because I am a super fudge chunk – ha! Roomy – beat you to it.)
16. Shoe Size? 8
17. Red or pink? Persimmon.
18. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? I think I’m inheriting my mother’s problematic filipina grandmother tendency to be, uh, hairy. I’m not happy about it. At all. Grr.
19. Who do you miss most? My mom.
20. Do you want everyone you send this to, to send it back? Whatever.
21. What color pants and shoes are you wearing? I am proudly wearing a maternity summer dress from Target! Why maternity? Because it’s comfy and gives me an excuse to stop holding it in. Heh.
22. What are you listening to right now? Radiofreevirgin.com
23. Last thing you ate? Corner Bakery croissant.
24. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Burnt sienna.
25. What is the weather like right now? Hot and slightly humid.
26. Last person you talked to on the phone? Roomie, to wake her up.
27. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex? I actually have a hard time noticing the opposite sex…(no peripheral vision, dude! None!)
28. Favorite Drink? Red wine, champagne, hendrick’s gin, or whiskey
29. Favorite Sport? That’s funny.
30. Hair Color? Brown (with gray in exactly the same spot my dad has it)
31. Eye Color? Brown
32. Do you wear contacts? No – I’m terrified of them. I sport cute black glasses.
33. Favorite Food? Meatloaf. Always meatloaf.
34. Last Movie You Watched? The Aristocrats. Heh.
35. Favorite Day Of The Year? Thanksgiving.
36. Scary Movies Or Happy Endings? Scary movies; happy endings are for chumps.
37. Summer Or Winter? Summer
38. Hugs OR Kisses? Kisses
39. What Is Your Favorite Dessert? (see Ben & Jerry above)
40. Who Is Most Likely To Respond? Hmmph.
41. Who Is Least Likely To Respond? Phht.
42. What Books Are You Reading? Jonathan Ames
43. What's On Your Mouse Pad? My hand, on the mouse.
44. What Did You Watch Last night on TV? The one with that skinny girl in it and that preternaturally mature child, dakota fanning
45. Favorite Smells? Bread, bacon, jasmine, gardenia, issey miyake’s parfum
46. Favorite Sounds? Traffic
47. Rolling Stones or Beatles? Rolling stones
48. What's the furthest you've been from home? Europe.
49. Do you have a special talent? Um…my (cough) yoda imitation.
50. What is your ring tone? Some baroque thing…
50 Questions (via ABDmom)
1. First name: Ding
2. Were you named after anyone? Yes; my mother’s best friend back in the philippines
3. Do you wish on stars? No.
4. When did you last cry? Sunday I teared up a little while watching First Daughter but I’m chalking that up to PMS.
5. Do you like your handwriting? Very. My print is very blocky.
6. What is your favorite lunch meat? Um…shhh…liver loaf.
7. What is your most embarrassing CD? I once had a baby face cd. I later sold it in a yard sale.
8. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you? Of course! I’m fabulous (despite the fact that I will most likely forget my new friend’s birthday.)
9. Do you have a journal? Yes, one that i’ve been neglecting because of this thing.
10. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Doesn’t everybody?
11. What are your nicknames? Yum-yum, gassy princess...
12. Would you bungee jump? Um, no.
13. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Shoes? With laces? You mean gasp athletic gear?!
14. Do you think that you are strong? My lower body strength is immense – really! I can leg press a muther. I have weak girly upper body strength that only kicks in during panic.
15. What is your favorite ice cream flavor? Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk. (because I am a super fudge chunk – ha! Roomy – beat you to it.)
16. Shoe Size? 8
17. Red or pink? Persimmon.
18. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? I think I’m inheriting my mother’s problematic filipina grandmother tendency to be, uh, hairy. I’m not happy about it. At all. Grr.
19. Who do you miss most? My mom.
20. Do you want everyone you send this to, to send it back? Whatever.
21. What color pants and shoes are you wearing? I am proudly wearing a maternity summer dress from Target! Why maternity? Because it’s comfy and gives me an excuse to stop holding it in. Heh.
22. What are you listening to right now? Radiofreevirgin.com
23. Last thing you ate? Corner Bakery croissant.
24. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Burnt sienna.
25. What is the weather like right now? Hot and slightly humid.
26. Last person you talked to on the phone? Roomie, to wake her up.
27. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex? I actually have a hard time noticing the opposite sex…(no peripheral vision, dude! None!)
28. Favorite Drink? Red wine, champagne, hendrick’s gin, or whiskey
29. Favorite Sport? That’s funny.
30. Hair Color? Brown (with gray in exactly the same spot my dad has it)
31. Eye Color? Brown
32. Do you wear contacts? No – I’m terrified of them. I sport cute black glasses.
33. Favorite Food? Meatloaf. Always meatloaf.
34. Last Movie You Watched? The Aristocrats. Heh.
35. Favorite Day Of The Year? Thanksgiving.
36. Scary Movies Or Happy Endings? Scary movies; happy endings are for chumps.
37. Summer Or Winter? Summer
38. Hugs OR Kisses? Kisses
39. What Is Your Favorite Dessert? (see Ben & Jerry above)
40. Who Is Most Likely To Respond? Hmmph.
41. Who Is Least Likely To Respond? Phht.
42. What Books Are You Reading? Jonathan Ames
43. What's On Your Mouse Pad? My hand, on the mouse.
44. What Did You Watch Last night on TV? The one with that skinny girl in it and that preternaturally mature child, dakota fanning
45. Favorite Smells? Bread, bacon, jasmine, gardenia, issey miyake’s parfum
46. Favorite Sounds? Traffic
47. Rolling Stones or Beatles? Rolling stones
48. What's the furthest you've been from home? Europe.
49. Do you have a special talent? Um…my (cough) yoda imitation.
50. What is your ring tone? Some baroque thing…
Sunday, August 14, 2005
scribble scribble
roomie sits on the couch tonight blissfully engrossed in miracle, the movie about our olympic hockey victory in 1980. (have i mentioned roomie is from minnesota?) i sit at our dining table, surrounded by a watered down whiskey, a coke, cigarettes and unopened mail. (mail=bad news!)
it's been a nice weekend, rainy and warm, and we spent hours at the movie theater yesterday. march of the penguins (hey, we thought it'd be educational!) was less than satisfactory. first, seeing any G-rated movie is a mistake if you see it in the afternoon. children. everywhere. really chatty children. we had to move to an empty part of the theater but we were pursued into that section, as well. here's a piece of movie theater etiquette: when your newborn starts wailing at the top of its lungs, pack up everyone and leave the theater. please.
we decided to wash the children's fare from our minds by taking in 'the aristocrats.' ah, profanity, vulgarity, incest, shit and bestiality. it was the perfect tonic to the curiously bloodless march of the penguins. (i'm sorry, if you intone pretty much from the beginning of the movie that some penguins won't survive the winter, i want to see penguin carcass; if you say predators are coming for the fuzzy babies i want to see that weird ass bird snatch a fuzzy baby, rip off its head and fly away with it. it's nature.)
we came home to watch tv (we're total potatos) and then had a brief discussion of race - again - and why people of color ask less questions about white people. roomie has come to terms with her privilege and i've reassured her i don't blame her for anything, though perhaps some reading would be in order. (remember that reading list?)
today, i stayed home to write. the Worst Romance Ever is in full swing, though i'm having some issues trying to keep my heroine from sounding like a humorless prig. it was good to puzzle some things out. i miss these times when it's just me, a cursor, a question and a pack of cigs. these are the things i miss most from graduate school.
...
B- sent me a short series of emails this week. it's been a couple of months (or has it been three?) since he and i were last together. our contact is spotty and usually follows a familiar cycle: a night together, several months apart, a tentative attempt at reestablishing contact, contact is made, another night together. and so on.
his last three messages went unanswered and sooner or later i'm going to have to figure out a way to say i'm not up for it anymore.
it's been a nice weekend, rainy and warm, and we spent hours at the movie theater yesterday. march of the penguins (hey, we thought it'd be educational!) was less than satisfactory. first, seeing any G-rated movie is a mistake if you see it in the afternoon. children. everywhere. really chatty children. we had to move to an empty part of the theater but we were pursued into that section, as well. here's a piece of movie theater etiquette: when your newborn starts wailing at the top of its lungs, pack up everyone and leave the theater. please.
we decided to wash the children's fare from our minds by taking in 'the aristocrats.' ah, profanity, vulgarity, incest, shit and bestiality. it was the perfect tonic to the curiously bloodless march of the penguins. (i'm sorry, if you intone pretty much from the beginning of the movie that some penguins won't survive the winter, i want to see penguin carcass; if you say predators are coming for the fuzzy babies i want to see that weird ass bird snatch a fuzzy baby, rip off its head and fly away with it. it's nature.)
we came home to watch tv (we're total potatos) and then had a brief discussion of race - again - and why people of color ask less questions about white people. roomie has come to terms with her privilege and i've reassured her i don't blame her for anything, though perhaps some reading would be in order. (remember that reading list?)
today, i stayed home to write. the Worst Romance Ever is in full swing, though i'm having some issues trying to keep my heroine from sounding like a humorless prig. it was good to puzzle some things out. i miss these times when it's just me, a cursor, a question and a pack of cigs. these are the things i miss most from graduate school.
...
B- sent me a short series of emails this week. it's been a couple of months (or has it been three?) since he and i were last together. our contact is spotty and usually follows a familiar cycle: a night together, several months apart, a tentative attempt at reestablishing contact, contact is made, another night together. and so on.
his last three messages went unanswered and sooner or later i'm going to have to figure out a way to say i'm not up for it anymore.
yikes
ever had one of those moments when you read something that makes you swear the person who wrote it is sitting right in front of you at your kitchen table? you know this voice. it belongs to the woman who says the angry uncomfortable truth that makes you look around wondering if anyone heard that. (my roomie is one of these women.)
they are AngryBlackBitch.
and, man, does she have ideas about that story last week about that jail break down in tennessee.
(she's going on the blog roll)
they are AngryBlackBitch.
and, man, does she have ideas about that story last week about that jail break down in tennessee.
(she's going on the blog roll)
please no
no. way.
i mentioned this to my roommate and she about had a fit. 'no, they can't do that!'
considering this article is from july and no one's heard anything about it, maybe we've all dodged a very icky bullet. television can barely raise itself above a junior high level of discourse; it's hardly a subtle enough tool to look at race.
i mentioned this to my roommate and she about had a fit. 'no, they can't do that!'
considering this article is from july and no one's heard anything about it, maybe we've all dodged a very icky bullet. television can barely raise itself above a junior high level of discourse; it's hardly a subtle enough tool to look at race.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Girl Crush; the times has a word for everything
first it was metrosexual.
then came man-date.
now it's girl crush.
my old roommate was fond of 'office boyfriend'.
pretty soon we won't be able to walk, the world will be so plastered with words defining relationships that had previously been unknown.
then came man-date.
now it's girl crush.
my old roommate was fond of 'office boyfriend'.
pretty soon we won't be able to walk, the world will be so plastered with words defining relationships that had previously been unknown.
All Cultures Are Not Equal: so says david brooks
sigh.
is it me or is david really talking about two different things when he uses the word 'culture'?
i'm prompted to ask, why write this column? what is he going after? does he think no one will really notice he's misusing terms?
i'm going to bed.
is it me or is david really talking about two different things when he uses the word 'culture'?
i'm prompted to ask, why write this column? what is he going after? does he think no one will really notice he's misusing terms?
i'm going to bed.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
birfday
So the birthday is next month.
It’s giving me a little trouble. Not the usual ‘I’m so old’ crap. I look forward to getting older – my body is changing (again), my outlook is changing and I’m only dreading menopause because of the discomfort (ding hates discomfort). The women I’ve gotten to know through the Social Do-Gooder Job are older, yet look and act younger because of the immense fire they have in their bellies; they are given youth through what they do.
So it’s not the fact of my age that’s throwing me for a loop.
It’s the aesthetics, or the imagery, of this number. I mean, when I was approaching 35, there was a roundness to it that appealed to me. It was dead center; 35 was such a good, steady number. It signified balance to me. 36, however, is off-center; 12 goes into it 3 times. (right?) It’s weird. It’s not a milestone age, like 30 or 35. It’s after the milestone. It’s sort of the chapter after Happily Ever After.
It’s the Then What? page.
So now what? These are the less than ambitious plans now that I'm officially approaching middle age:
Learn how to sew properly (which means I’d need my mom’s old Singer …)
Take a tango lesson (or maybe the foxtrot; I’ve always liked the foxtrot)
Take a vocal class (it’s been ages since I've belted anything out)
Have a girly golf outing (I know but it’s really about the drinks afterward, isn’t it?)
New pillows for my bed.
It’s giving me a little trouble. Not the usual ‘I’m so old’ crap. I look forward to getting older – my body is changing (again), my outlook is changing and I’m only dreading menopause because of the discomfort (ding hates discomfort). The women I’ve gotten to know through the Social Do-Gooder Job are older, yet look and act younger because of the immense fire they have in their bellies; they are given youth through what they do.
So it’s not the fact of my age that’s throwing me for a loop.
It’s the aesthetics, or the imagery, of this number. I mean, when I was approaching 35, there was a roundness to it that appealed to me. It was dead center; 35 was such a good, steady number. It signified balance to me. 36, however, is off-center; 12 goes into it 3 times. (right?) It’s weird. It’s not a milestone age, like 30 or 35. It’s after the milestone. It’s sort of the chapter after Happily Ever After.
It’s the Then What? page.
So now what? These are the less than ambitious plans now that I'm officially approaching middle age:
Learn how to sew properly (which means I’d need my mom’s old Singer …)
Take a tango lesson (or maybe the foxtrot; I’ve always liked the foxtrot)
Take a vocal class (it’s been ages since I've belted anything out)
Have a girly golf outing (I know but it’s really about the drinks afterward, isn’t it?)
New pillows for my bed.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
ouch. my ass.
this post officially goes in the TMI box. if you're squeamish then look away - like, here maybe.
if you're brave and bold, like a listerine breath pak, then read on:
i have a hemorrhoid.
it's making me afraid to poop. this fear, in turn, is making me constipated. which makes it harder to poop. which hurts my ass visitor. two weeks ago, after church, i went to walgreens. i just couldn't take it anymore. so there i stood, in the itch/burn/ben gay aisle puzzling over what to put up my butt to make it stop hurting. a suppository? i couldn't figure out the directions. a topical cream? my roomie told me stories of her dad complaining of leakage. the least invasive remedy i could think of: a medicated towelette.
i reached out to take a package when a guy came over and stood next to me, also pondering the mysteries of tucks vs. preparation H. we stood there, frozen, each with our own ass issues. i finally grabbed my box of towelettes and got the hell out of there. i even bought a box of girly laxatives (the box was pink!). but then my way too efficient cleaning lady came and threw them away.
tonight, while watching peter pan with my roommate, i decided to see what web md had to say. eesh. not good. words like 'vigorous wiping' 'pushing strain' 'probe' 'see your doctor right away' and 'fiber' throbbed at me.
i don't think i want to see a doctor about this, i said to roomie.
i think you should have a colonoscopy, she said.
i can't believe you just tossed that out like - like it was nothing! nothing is going up my ass! no one is going to send a periscope up my butt!
the fact that nothing is coming out my butt is not lost on me.
...
there's just no good way to finish a post like that, is there?
if you're brave and bold, like a listerine breath pak, then read on:
i have a hemorrhoid.
it's making me afraid to poop. this fear, in turn, is making me constipated. which makes it harder to poop. which hurts my ass visitor. two weeks ago, after church, i went to walgreens. i just couldn't take it anymore. so there i stood, in the itch/burn/ben gay aisle puzzling over what to put up my butt to make it stop hurting. a suppository? i couldn't figure out the directions. a topical cream? my roomie told me stories of her dad complaining of leakage. the least invasive remedy i could think of: a medicated towelette.
i reached out to take a package when a guy came over and stood next to me, also pondering the mysteries of tucks vs. preparation H. we stood there, frozen, each with our own ass issues. i finally grabbed my box of towelettes and got the hell out of there. i even bought a box of girly laxatives (the box was pink!). but then my way too efficient cleaning lady came and threw them away.
tonight, while watching peter pan with my roommate, i decided to see what web md had to say. eesh. not good. words like 'vigorous wiping' 'pushing strain' 'probe' 'see your doctor right away' and 'fiber' throbbed at me.
i don't think i want to see a doctor about this, i said to roomie.
i think you should have a colonoscopy, she said.
i can't believe you just tossed that out like - like it was nothing! nothing is going up my ass! no one is going to send a periscope up my butt!
the fact that nothing is coming out my butt is not lost on me.
...
there's just no good way to finish a post like that, is there?
Liberty University: where liberty means none
Student Affairs - LW - Code of Conduct - JudicialSys - Reprimands... - Liberty University
so imagine how much you'd have to cough up in fines if:
you visited your (illegal) non-catholic boyfriend at his apartment off campus, failed to identify yourself when you snuck back and then decided to cap off the evening at an illicit seance.
[via foreword]
so imagine how much you'd have to cough up in fines if:
you visited your (illegal) non-catholic boyfriend at his apartment off campus, failed to identify yourself when you snuck back and then decided to cap off the evening at an illicit seance.
[via foreword]
Monday, August 08, 2005
to see if i can, i've been writing a really crappy romance novella. i thought the discipline of regular writing would be good for me and, for once, to FINISH something would be nice. i had a few versions of it from a few years ago but, when i quit my job earlier this year, i dug them up, reread them, and started over. unemployment was the best thing to happen to this little project - whole days of writing crappily, yet happily.
i gave myself a goal - something in vague finished form by my birthday - but because i've been so consumed with work (which is good) i've had to catch up with my own writing. and, because i've been so consumed with politics, romance just hasn't been on my radar (erotica/porn, yes-romance, no) so i checked out a couple contemporary romances/chick lit last weekend, to get my feet wet again. research.
how's it going?
aack. i hate it. it's all crap. these books suck. kill me. kill me now.
(thank the book gods i also checked out a novel about a forensic entomologist and one about a gay man's wacky adventures with his butler.)
i gave myself a goal - something in vague finished form by my birthday - but because i've been so consumed with work (which is good) i've had to catch up with my own writing. and, because i've been so consumed with politics, romance just hasn't been on my radar (erotica/porn, yes-romance, no) so i checked out a couple contemporary romances/chick lit last weekend, to get my feet wet again. research.
how's it going?
aack. i hate it. it's all crap. these books suck. kill me. kill me now.
(thank the book gods i also checked out a novel about a forensic entomologist and one about a gay man's wacky adventures with his butler.)
Ms. Magazine | The Dialectic of Fat: From Kirstie Alley to Broadway to Fiji
if i wasn't so constipated and worried about renal failure i'd think harder about this.
but no matter your lower GI situation, it's a good read.
but no matter your lower GI situation, it's a good read.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Delicious Biting: Savory pancakes
what does a french literary icon have to do with buckwheat pancakes? plenty.
damned by faint praise
i like the word play in curtis' title "Terry McMillan - Waiting to excel" but, really, a whole literary history on the black aesthetic movement?
it's significant that most of the review is about that instead of mcmillan's new book.
in fact, this is about as much enthusiasm as he can muster:
The Interruption of Everything may not be a great novel, but it's a far more ambitious one than McMillan has written in years, and it seems like a lurch toward something important.
i stopped reading mcmillan years ago. i thought she was bland. boring. tired. done. cliched.
so, curtis, just break it to us: she's a bad writer. we can take it.
it's significant that most of the review is about that instead of mcmillan's new book.
in fact, this is about as much enthusiasm as he can muster:
The Interruption of Everything may not be a great novel, but it's a far more ambitious one than McMillan has written in years, and it seems like a lurch toward something important.
i stopped reading mcmillan years ago. i thought she was bland. boring. tired. done. cliched.
so, curtis, just break it to us: she's a bad writer. we can take it.
Friday, August 05, 2005
what to do...?
the day is bright and cool and i have the rest of the afternoon off...
what to do?
go back to the neighborhood and write in the cafe?
see a movie?
buy a comic book? (oooh)
window shop for fall stuff?
return overdue library books? (boo)
eat a cheap, yet satisfying, lunch?
try on shoes? (yay!)
museum?
walk in the park?
take a train ride to a new neighborhood?
sigh.
what to do?
go back to the neighborhood and write in the cafe?
see a movie?
buy a comic book? (oooh)
window shop for fall stuff?
return overdue library books? (boo)
eat a cheap, yet satisfying, lunch?
try on shoes? (yay!)
museum?
walk in the park?
take a train ride to a new neighborhood?
sigh.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
dove: i like the ads
and so does poundy, who penned a rebuttal to the lame asses at the sun-times who think the ads are ugly, offensive and gross.
fuck you, asshats.
(poundy's rebuttal is more articulate than that but you get my drift.)
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
yick.
Filipina Brides And Marriage Resource
i wish i knew the tagalog for 'you sad little man.'
all i know is tatay mo kalbo. (used to crack us up when we were kids.)
that doesn't fit the situation somehow.
[via feckless, though were she finds this stuff i don't know.]
i wish i knew the tagalog for 'you sad little man.'
all i know is tatay mo kalbo. (used to crack us up when we were kids.)
that doesn't fit the situation somehow.
[via feckless, though were she finds this stuff i don't know.]
sorta.
Salon.com Life | I want you to want me - NP
The letters in response to this essay are interesting.
Most of them accuse her of being a drama queen, contrary, 'white', whiny and to 'get over it.' Well, sorta.
Maybe the Beyonces or the Halle Berrys among us don't want to admit to being needy and so Dickerson’s need for affirmation from white people is too … ugly.
Maybe there’s a generational difference; in a lot of ways I have the same reaction to Terry Macmillan and her books. That particular slice of older black woman waiting to exhale was too dependent on male approval for my taste.
On the other hand…
As a reasonably cute brown girl who doesn’t fly off the handle for just any reason (cough) I think she has a point. But her position is a tricky one – using the Wedding Crashers to argue for cultural acceptance as sex object while black women are also objecting to being just a booty in hip hop videos is a highwire act I’m glad I don’t have to sustain.
I think her larger point is that black femininity is either one of two types – the Halle Berry/Beyonce/Dorothy Dandridge type (ultra feminine object) or the workaday capable black woman who’s so capable we’re hardly women (Missy Elliot before she lost weight.) Her point is that, for whatever reason, black women don’t count as representable cultural objects.
Is she wrong? I mean, other than Oprah, where are black women visible in our culture (other than entertainment) and how are we visible?
The letters in response to this essay are interesting.
Most of them accuse her of being a drama queen, contrary, 'white', whiny and to 'get over it.' Well, sorta.
Maybe the Beyonces or the Halle Berrys among us don't want to admit to being needy and so Dickerson’s need for affirmation from white people is too … ugly.
Maybe there’s a generational difference; in a lot of ways I have the same reaction to Terry Macmillan and her books. That particular slice of older black woman waiting to exhale was too dependent on male approval for my taste.
On the other hand…
As a reasonably cute brown girl who doesn’t fly off the handle for just any reason (cough) I think she has a point. But her position is a tricky one – using the Wedding Crashers to argue for cultural acceptance as sex object while black women are also objecting to being just a booty in hip hop videos is a highwire act I’m glad I don’t have to sustain.
I think her larger point is that black femininity is either one of two types – the Halle Berry/Beyonce/Dorothy Dandridge type (ultra feminine object) or the workaday capable black woman who’s so capable we’re hardly women (Missy Elliot before she lost weight.) Her point is that, for whatever reason, black women don’t count as representable cultural objects.
Is she wrong? I mean, other than Oprah, where are black women visible in our culture (other than entertainment) and how are we visible?
amen, sister.
via bitch (you know where to find her) a fab rant on nursing, professional obligations to provide patient care and why religion needs to stay out the medical business:
The Drunken Lagomorph :: Medical duty vs. faith and religion :: August :: 2005
there are some days when i wish i could take the pill just so i could ask for it and, when i'm refused, lose my shit on somebody.
it's one of those days, you know?
The Drunken Lagomorph :: Medical duty vs. faith and religion :: August :: 2005
there are some days when i wish i could take the pill just so i could ask for it and, when i'm refused, lose my shit on somebody.
it's one of those days, you know?
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
brilliant
in-fucking-credible. that didn't take long at all.
i thought we had at least a few years until the right started going after birth control wholeheartedly, but this was faster than expected: banning the dispensing of birth control at a university hospital.
what. the. hell.
'birth control leads to promiscuity'?
these are adult women who can make up their own minds and don't need a legislature telling them they're not supposed to have sex - and if they do, tough shit.
so let's keep a running tally of the conservative wish list for women:
no rape counseling
no emergency contraception
no regular contraception
no access to abortion
no pregnancy counseling
what's more likely to happen: women stop having sex or women start getting pregnant and catching diseases? women stop having sex or women drop out of college because they're pregnant and can't deal? women stop having sex or...what?
what?!
i thought we had at least a few years until the right started going after birth control wholeheartedly, but this was faster than expected: banning the dispensing of birth control at a university hospital.
what. the. hell.
'birth control leads to promiscuity'?
these are adult women who can make up their own minds and don't need a legislature telling them they're not supposed to have sex - and if they do, tough shit.
so let's keep a running tally of the conservative wish list for women:
no rape counseling
no emergency contraception
no regular contraception
no access to abortion
no pregnancy counseling
what's more likely to happen: women stop having sex or women start getting pregnant and catching diseases? women stop having sex or women drop out of college because they're pregnant and can't deal? women stop having sex or...what?
what?!
Monday, August 01, 2005
what's the effing point anymore, you know?
Bush Appoints Bolton as U.N. Envoy, Bypassing Senate - New York Times
why not just declare himself king and get it over with?
why not just declare himself king and get it over with?
Saturday, July 30, 2005
my moment of black zen: the dan band
I went to see the Dan Band last night (it was roomie’s birthday and they are funny) and there was a brief moment when it became problematic.
When I use the word problematic I’m using it in my ex-academic brown girl/UCLA activist kind of way. What this means is that one or more of the following triggers was pushed: race, class, gender, sexuality. My brain doesn’t necessarily go there all the time (you gotta choose your battles) but sometimes something pushes the buttons.
The lame-ass opening act Waiting Game already had me at a slow simmer when, because we all hated them, they forced a young woman to bare her breasts onstage to distract everyone from how fucking craptacular they were.
And when the Dan Band came on, I was enjoying it. They were funny – they’re like that wedding cover band that already seems to be drunk, so you either go with it or you hang out in the lounge and wait for them to be over. So I went with it. The Dan Band sings girl songs: Shoop, Whatta Man, No More Drama, Genie in a Bottle, Total Eclipse of the Heart, Get your Freak On, Nasty, Tyrone, Milkshake. Generally it’s like a huge frat party.
Not being a fan of the frat party I sort of detached. The crowd was into it, though: those there for the nostalgia factor of 80s songs and the frat kids there for the beery, accelerated, fun of three white guys doing bad choreography onstage to girl karaoke. I can appreciate that – his version of ‘Genie in a Bottle’? Fucking funny.
But there was a point when I thought, This is a moment of white male appropriation of the female voice (especially the black female voice) at its best. For example, Badu’s ‘Tyrone’ is so good because every black woman recognizes it as a song of empowerment; the black woman tells the truth, draws the line, asserts her power and that last line – ‘but you can’t use my phone.’ – this is the payoff. This is the knockout, the Amen moment. But take that song, strip it of context, speed it up, put flashing lights behind it and get the Dan Band to cover it for a bunch of kids and suburbanites who don’t get it, then it’s stripped of anything vital and just becomes another thing for a consumerist privileged audience.
(see, i'm rereading what i just wrote and i'm thinking, oh some folks aren't gonna get this and just think i pick on everything...maybe i should tone it down...maybe i'm thinking too hard about the dan band...they're just a fun band...maybe i should lay off for a bit...maybe i'm sounding too militant...
but no. i'm letting it stand.)
When I use the word problematic I’m using it in my ex-academic brown girl/UCLA activist kind of way. What this means is that one or more of the following triggers was pushed: race, class, gender, sexuality. My brain doesn’t necessarily go there all the time (you gotta choose your battles) but sometimes something pushes the buttons.
The lame-ass opening act Waiting Game already had me at a slow simmer when, because we all hated them, they forced a young woman to bare her breasts onstage to distract everyone from how fucking craptacular they were.
And when the Dan Band came on, I was enjoying it. They were funny – they’re like that wedding cover band that already seems to be drunk, so you either go with it or you hang out in the lounge and wait for them to be over. So I went with it. The Dan Band sings girl songs: Shoop, Whatta Man, No More Drama, Genie in a Bottle, Total Eclipse of the Heart, Get your Freak On, Nasty, Tyrone, Milkshake. Generally it’s like a huge frat party.
Not being a fan of the frat party I sort of detached. The crowd was into it, though: those there for the nostalgia factor of 80s songs and the frat kids there for the beery, accelerated, fun of three white guys doing bad choreography onstage to girl karaoke. I can appreciate that – his version of ‘Genie in a Bottle’? Fucking funny.
But there was a point when I thought, This is a moment of white male appropriation of the female voice (especially the black female voice) at its best. For example, Badu’s ‘Tyrone’ is so good because every black woman recognizes it as a song of empowerment; the black woman tells the truth, draws the line, asserts her power and that last line – ‘but you can’t use my phone.’ – this is the payoff. This is the knockout, the Amen moment. But take that song, strip it of context, speed it up, put flashing lights behind it and get the Dan Band to cover it for a bunch of kids and suburbanites who don’t get it, then it’s stripped of anything vital and just becomes another thing for a consumerist privileged audience.
(see, i'm rereading what i just wrote and i'm thinking, oh some folks aren't gonna get this and just think i pick on everything...maybe i should tone it down...maybe i'm thinking too hard about the dan band...they're just a fun band...maybe i should lay off for a bit...maybe i'm sounding too militant...
but no. i'm letting it stand.)
Friday, July 29, 2005
whoops. pardon me!
there is a certain someone i know who's been having a rather difficult week, digestically speaking. we still don't know the cause of all this lower-GI action and it's causing much discomfort, disruption (eruption) and strange noises.
but i think i've found the problem. clearly, this someone is a sea cucumber and, feeling endangered, is expelling themselves through the ass.
it's a theory.
[via smart bitches]
but i think i've found the problem. clearly, this someone is a sea cucumber and, feeling endangered, is expelling themselves through the ass.
it's a theory.
[via smart bitches]
Thursday, July 28, 2005
huzzah!: custom fit pants/jeans
Plain Jane custom design
i have a pair of jeans that i love love love. they're cut generously through the thigh and leg with a slight flare at the bottom; they have a good cuff and pockets that lay flat; they're the trouser equivalent of jeans and when i wear them to work, they look best with a mule or a shoe with a distinctive low heel.
i've had lincoln park trixies come up to me and say they love my pants. this NEVER happens to me unless i'm wearing these jeans.
and i want more. they fit perfectly and make me feel tall, sexy and action-oriented (i could run for a taxi!). i want another pair of jeans made like them and a pair of black pants cut just like them so i can wear office pants without looking like a postal office worker. (not that there's anything wrong with being a postal worker...just dressing like one.)
so take that, new york.
i have a pair of jeans that i love love love. they're cut generously through the thigh and leg with a slight flare at the bottom; they have a good cuff and pockets that lay flat; they're the trouser equivalent of jeans and when i wear them to work, they look best with a mule or a shoe with a distinctive low heel.
i've had lincoln park trixies come up to me and say they love my pants. this NEVER happens to me unless i'm wearing these jeans.
and i want more. they fit perfectly and make me feel tall, sexy and action-oriented (i could run for a taxi!). i want another pair of jeans made like them and a pair of black pants cut just like them so i can wear office pants without looking like a postal office worker. (not that there's anything wrong with being a postal worker...just dressing like one.)
so take that, new york.
sigh. still not it.
For Sweet Size 16, Stylish Workout Wear - New York Times
call me crazy but the zaftique site mentioned in the article still has stomach shuddering ugly clothes for big soft girls. grr. a cute boot cut yoga pant! how hard is that??
call me crazy but the zaftique site mentioned in the article still has stomach shuddering ugly clothes for big soft girls. grr. a cute boot cut yoga pant! how hard is that??
sigh. inappropriate desire.
Girls in Boots: Attitude on the Hoof - New York Times
oh, the boots. i love the boots. ever since i was a kid, boots have been my friend - cowboy, lace up, ankle. bootie. motocicleta. love them all.
they're butch, they're hardy, they're femme.
they also don't get stuck in street grates and wack out your sciatica.
oh, the boots. i love the boots. ever since i was a kid, boots have been my friend - cowboy, lace up, ankle. bootie. motocicleta. love them all.
they're butch, they're hardy, they're femme.
they also don't get stuck in street grates and wack out your sciatica.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
duh.
HoustonChronicle.com - When spouses come out as gay, marriages suffer
i shouldn't laugh. really.
but i can't help it.
[via bookslut]
i shouldn't laugh. really.
but i can't help it.
[via bookslut]
Monday, July 25, 2005
Feckless Pursuit: in the navy
snort.
i no longer work for the Man so i'm all out of corporate bitchiness (it would be rude for me to be bitchy about my new gig) but thank god my roomie, still stuck in the corporate skinner box, has enough bile for us all:
I have been assigned three studies, one of which is headed by a Brazilian with a large head and very short legs. I was distracted thinking he may be a jockey, but decided that his parents must be cousins.
heh. i miss sharing an office with my roomie.
i no longer work for the Man so i'm all out of corporate bitchiness (it would be rude for me to be bitchy about my new gig) but thank god my roomie, still stuck in the corporate skinner box, has enough bile for us all:
I have been assigned three studies, one of which is headed by a Brazilian with a large head and very short legs. I was distracted thinking he may be a jockey, but decided that his parents must be cousins.
heh. i miss sharing an office with my roomie.
public sex: what's all the fuss?
'Oh, and for those of you who want to discuss your sex life on your blog: don't, it can only come back to bite you, and you gain nothing in doing so. If you must include some sex, feel free to steal this paragraph:
And then I [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] with my [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] and couldn't feel [censored] [censored] [censored] tuna salad.'
Those who occasionally stop by here know that, occasionally, I mention the fact that I, in fact, do have sex. Not always with the same person but the dry spells have been so far in between, the matter is pretty moot. (Or 'moo' as Joey would say.) So it's no wonder that I heartily disagree with the advice from Nathan at WebPronews.com (who can't seem to spell 'embarrassment' correctly.)
The nanny story from last week was pretty horrific; I don't think I can recall reading anything quite so self-righteous, self-indulgent and faux-thoughtful than Olen's piece about why she fired her nanny. I found her wide-eyed dismay in the face of her nanny's brief mentions of sex bourgeois (not 'seeming bourgeois' as Olen says in her essay but actually bourgeois). Olen can't be much older than I am and so she's surprised when a healthy woman in her mid-twenties has sex? She's shocked when a young woman mentions (again, briefly) that she's attracted to both men and women? Sweetie, please. I think the words you're actually looking for here are titillated and aroused.
Most of the response has been supportive of the nanny, who's off to grad school for her lit degree where she will undoubtedly encounter the same kind of 19th century squeamishness and prudery (there is nothing more hetero-coersively normative than graduate school), but always with a bit of avuncular advice thrown in: tut, tut, you should have known better than to write about your sex life.
Really? Why? How should women write and talk about sex? Where is the appropriate place to write about sex?
We're free to rant on about politics - just as long as it's not about sex. We're free to spew forth about religion - but, hey, nix the sex. We could rail about pop culture, current events, our latest recipes and even our job (whoops, maybe not that) but never ever about (shh) sex. Is it too embarrassing? To whom? The sexer or the person who reads about the sex? Who blushes when you read that the last time me and a certain someone got naked we experienced a total prophylactic malfunction and a condom got stuck inside my girly parts and it took me FOREVER to remove it, contorted in a funky yoga position in the bathroom while the boy knocked hesitantly on the door offering help and I, through gritted teeth, told him to fuck off?
Something happens when you write in/for the public. I daresay the same thing happens when you go onstage. A transformation takes place. The truth becomes Story. The truth becomes a narrative, one chunk of story set in place next to other chunks of narrative. My Prophylactic Malfunction becomes part of the dubious collection of stories about misplaced rubbers, emergency room disasters, broken off cucumbers and other such tales of modern sex. [This is not to say that feelings (especially for those intimately involved) should not be watched over; but that is an ethical issue with which all writers who write memoir or creative non-fiction struggle.]
So why the squeamishness? Some whisper that sex should not be spoken of in public, but I think that if you hang out with the average office worker on a Wednesday evening at a bar in the Loop, near the trading houses, you'll hear just about the same thing. Or during a girls' night over wine. No one's throwing up their handkerchiefs about that. In other words, it's already floating in our public discourse. Some whisper that it's indecent but I think that's a matter of taste and degree - there's a difference between writing like Washingtonienne and writing that you have sex, like it, and look forward to having it again soon.
Enough with the titters about sex. Enough with the horrified gasps that someone, especially a woman, writes about her sex life. Enough with the bullshit patriarchal words of advice to women about protecting ourselves when we mention our sexuality. Sex isn't a crime. It's not a shame.
And then I [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] with my [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] and couldn't feel [censored] [censored] [censored] tuna salad.'
Those who occasionally stop by here know that, occasionally, I mention the fact that I, in fact, do have sex. Not always with the same person but the dry spells have been so far in between, the matter is pretty moot. (Or 'moo' as Joey would say.) So it's no wonder that I heartily disagree with the advice from Nathan at WebPronews.com (who can't seem to spell 'embarrassment' correctly.)
The nanny story from last week was pretty horrific; I don't think I can recall reading anything quite so self-righteous, self-indulgent and faux-thoughtful than Olen's piece about why she fired her nanny. I found her wide-eyed dismay in the face of her nanny's brief mentions of sex bourgeois (not 'seeming bourgeois' as Olen says in her essay but actually bourgeois). Olen can't be much older than I am and so she's surprised when a healthy woman in her mid-twenties has sex? She's shocked when a young woman mentions (again, briefly) that she's attracted to both men and women? Sweetie, please. I think the words you're actually looking for here are titillated and aroused.
Most of the response has been supportive of the nanny, who's off to grad school for her lit degree where she will undoubtedly encounter the same kind of 19th century squeamishness and prudery (there is nothing more hetero-coersively normative than graduate school), but always with a bit of avuncular advice thrown in: tut, tut, you should have known better than to write about your sex life.
Really? Why? How should women write and talk about sex? Where is the appropriate place to write about sex?
We're free to rant on about politics - just as long as it's not about sex. We're free to spew forth about religion - but, hey, nix the sex. We could rail about pop culture, current events, our latest recipes and even our job (whoops, maybe not that) but never ever about (shh) sex. Is it too embarrassing? To whom? The sexer or the person who reads about the sex? Who blushes when you read that the last time me and a certain someone got naked we experienced a total prophylactic malfunction and a condom got stuck inside my girly parts and it took me FOREVER to remove it, contorted in a funky yoga position in the bathroom while the boy knocked hesitantly on the door offering help and I, through gritted teeth, told him to fuck off?
Something happens when you write in/for the public. I daresay the same thing happens when you go onstage. A transformation takes place. The truth becomes Story. The truth becomes a narrative, one chunk of story set in place next to other chunks of narrative. My Prophylactic Malfunction becomes part of the dubious collection of stories about misplaced rubbers, emergency room disasters, broken off cucumbers and other such tales of modern sex. [This is not to say that feelings (especially for those intimately involved) should not be watched over; but that is an ethical issue with which all writers who write memoir or creative non-fiction struggle.]
So why the squeamishness? Some whisper that sex should not be spoken of in public, but I think that if you hang out with the average office worker on a Wednesday evening at a bar in the Loop, near the trading houses, you'll hear just about the same thing. Or during a girls' night over wine. No one's throwing up their handkerchiefs about that. In other words, it's already floating in our public discourse. Some whisper that it's indecent but I think that's a matter of taste and degree - there's a difference between writing like Washingtonienne and writing that you have sex, like it, and look forward to having it again soon.
Enough with the titters about sex. Enough with the horrified gasps that someone, especially a woman, writes about her sex life. Enough with the bullshit patriarchal words of advice to women about protecting ourselves when we mention our sexuality. Sex isn't a crime. It's not a shame.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
future iconoclast or IT administrator?
via metafilter: a guy who made his prom tux out of coke cans. love it.
(and since today is hotter than the sun i'm staying in all day. so i have a LOT of time of my hands...)
(and since today is hotter than the sun i'm staying in all day. so i have a LOT of time of my hands...)
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Smart Bitches, Trashy Books
Romance Novel Reviews - Smart Bitches, Trashy Books
i dedicate this blog to my roomie. it's fabulous.
i dedicate this blog to my roomie. it's fabulous.
Phyllis Schlafly: talking out of her ass
Phyllis Schlafly: Time to dispose of radical feminist pork
why i'm spending sleep time responding to this, i don't know. but this burns me up.
a lot of people don't know what VAWA or VOCA is (VOCA=Victim of Crime Act). VAWA is up for reauthorization in the fall; if this act is unauthorized, how women and families who are victims of violence (often domestic) are treated in the legal system will change. and not in a good way.
what VAWA has accomplished:
- between 1993 to 2001 there was virtually a 50% drop in incidents of nonfatal domestic violence and from 1993 to 2000 there was a 20% drop in women killed by current or former intimate partners.
- between 1993 and 2001 there was a 50% decrease in the number of sexual assaults and rape perpetrated against individuals 12 years old and older.
- and in 2003, after being in existence for only seven years, the National Domestic Violence Hotline answered its one-millionth call for assistance. Today, the National Domestic Violence Hotline answers over 16,000 calls a month and provides access to translators in 139 languages.
phyllis may enjoy licking the blood off some man's knuckles but i don't think most women are down with that.
read up on the act and contact your rep to encourage them to reauthorize the bill. it's important.
why i'm spending sleep time responding to this, i don't know. but this burns me up.
a lot of people don't know what VAWA or VOCA is (VOCA=Victim of Crime Act). VAWA is up for reauthorization in the fall; if this act is unauthorized, how women and families who are victims of violence (often domestic) are treated in the legal system will change. and not in a good way.
what VAWA has accomplished:
- between 1993 to 2001 there was virtually a 50% drop in incidents of nonfatal domestic violence and from 1993 to 2000 there was a 20% drop in women killed by current or former intimate partners.
- between 1993 and 2001 there was a 50% decrease in the number of sexual assaults and rape perpetrated against individuals 12 years old and older.
- and in 2003, after being in existence for only seven years, the National Domestic Violence Hotline answered its one-millionth call for assistance. Today, the National Domestic Violence Hotline answers over 16,000 calls a month and provides access to translators in 139 languages.
phyllis may enjoy licking the blood off some man's knuckles but i don't think most women are down with that.
read up on the act and contact your rep to encourage them to reauthorize the bill. it's important.
the ump: an unsung object of lust
baseball...it's a little boring. if not for the alcohol, the fact you're outside and the smell of grilled onions it would be the sporting equivalent of an evening of mime.
inning after inning of three quick outs, your side/their side. back and forth.
but then, one team hits two triples and changes everything.
ah, the white sox. roomie and i sat in some not-so-bad seats at comiskey (it's comiskey, not u.s. cellular field) and watched them beat the tarnation out of america's new favorite team, the red sox. it was also a perfect, warm, dry beautiful night spent checking out the rather adorable umpire behind home plate.
(the third base ump wasn't bad, either.)
...
the weekend is poor (literally) so i'm laying low, trying to avoid the heat wave that'll hit the city. i've already finished the potter (sob) and so will be desperately trying to get my hands on new books to carry me through the end of the month. i also have to do laundry.
...
this week i had an email from a man i had met for a drink a while ago. he'd been in town for a conference and so we met after his sessions to hang out and talk. one drink turned into a walk by the river and we stood in the freezing air talking while leaning over the dearborn bridge until i couldn't take the cold anymore and realized it was later than i thought. he was such a nice guy; so it was with pleasure i read he was back in town for a couple of lectures up north and could we meet again for a drink?
this is how things have changed with me, i think. six months ago, the old ding would have figured out a way to shuffle some appointments, borrow cab fare and get up north when the trains stopped running to meet this guy - especially with some sly offer on the table to share a hotel room if i got 'stuck.' hm. well, who hasn't gotten 'stuck' before? i haven't gotten 'stuck' in quite a few months. the old ding would have looked forward to the possibility of being 'stuck.'
but not this time. i let this one get by me. oh, i hope we have a chance to see each other again (like i said, he seems like a good guy and i felt a tiny little jump in the blood when we said goodnight) but i don't think i'm in the mood for distraction anymore. the idea of dallying makes me tired; i have too much work to do to be tired thinking about dallying. i know, i should be celebrating the one missed chance to (maybe) have boredom sex?
yeah, i should. in the face of boredom, my willpower and discipline usually resembles wet tissue paper.
...
and in other news, the new (still unsatisfactory) vibrator has mysteriously disappeared.
inning after inning of three quick outs, your side/their side. back and forth.
but then, one team hits two triples and changes everything.
ah, the white sox. roomie and i sat in some not-so-bad seats at comiskey (it's comiskey, not u.s. cellular field) and watched them beat the tarnation out of america's new favorite team, the red sox. it was also a perfect, warm, dry beautiful night spent checking out the rather adorable umpire behind home plate.
(the third base ump wasn't bad, either.)
...
the weekend is poor (literally) so i'm laying low, trying to avoid the heat wave that'll hit the city. i've already finished the potter (sob) and so will be desperately trying to get my hands on new books to carry me through the end of the month. i also have to do laundry.
...
this week i had an email from a man i had met for a drink a while ago. he'd been in town for a conference and so we met after his sessions to hang out and talk. one drink turned into a walk by the river and we stood in the freezing air talking while leaning over the dearborn bridge until i couldn't take the cold anymore and realized it was later than i thought. he was such a nice guy; so it was with pleasure i read he was back in town for a couple of lectures up north and could we meet again for a drink?
this is how things have changed with me, i think. six months ago, the old ding would have figured out a way to shuffle some appointments, borrow cab fare and get up north when the trains stopped running to meet this guy - especially with some sly offer on the table to share a hotel room if i got 'stuck.' hm. well, who hasn't gotten 'stuck' before? i haven't gotten 'stuck' in quite a few months. the old ding would have looked forward to the possibility of being 'stuck.'
but not this time. i let this one get by me. oh, i hope we have a chance to see each other again (like i said, he seems like a good guy and i felt a tiny little jump in the blood when we said goodnight) but i don't think i'm in the mood for distraction anymore. the idea of dallying makes me tired; i have too much work to do to be tired thinking about dallying. i know, i should be celebrating the one missed chance to (maybe) have boredom sex?
yeah, i should. in the face of boredom, my willpower and discipline usually resembles wet tissue paper.
...
and in other news, the new (still unsatisfactory) vibrator has mysteriously disappeared.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
mobilize until it hurts
It’s that time again.
Bush made his announcement and the rallying has begun. This morning, between emails and phone calls at the office, I made out checks to Planned Parenthood and HRC. Later, I’ll probably make another donation to another group. I suppose I should pay off my tax bill first, but you know, my priorities are different.
I think of what this country has become because of regressive policies and politics and I shiver; but I am also angry. We’ve become cowed, inured to the idea of helplessness – ‘oh, well, no one is going to do anything anyway. There’s no point.’ That may be. There very well may be no point. But I can’t live like that. I can’t live like there’s no point in fighting back.
So what to do?
Write your representatives – an actual letter with an actual stamp. The staffers in charge of the subject you’re writing about read them and actually pass them on. These matter more than an email or fax. You say you don’t know what to say? Say what you feel: I’m scared of what this person could do to the country; I’m scared of what my life will turn into because of the decisions this person may make; I’m angry that moderation matters less than ideological bullying.
Write your newspapers – become that wonky crank and give it your best, simple eloquence. Make them hear you – and keep writing.
Write the members of the Judiciary Com’tee. And keep writing them.
Write your family and friends – and ask them to pass it along.
Support those groups who wobble on a thin financial line so they can mobilize research and action in opposition to right-wing ideologues. ($20, people. We can spare $20, right?)
Bush made his announcement and the rallying has begun. This morning, between emails and phone calls at the office, I made out checks to Planned Parenthood and HRC. Later, I’ll probably make another donation to another group. I suppose I should pay off my tax bill first, but you know, my priorities are different.
I think of what this country has become because of regressive policies and politics and I shiver; but I am also angry. We’ve become cowed, inured to the idea of helplessness – ‘oh, well, no one is going to do anything anyway. There’s no point.’ That may be. There very well may be no point. But I can’t live like that. I can’t live like there’s no point in fighting back.
So what to do?
Write your representatives – an actual letter with an actual stamp. The staffers in charge of the subject you’re writing about read them and actually pass them on. These matter more than an email or fax. You say you don’t know what to say? Say what you feel: I’m scared of what this person could do to the country; I’m scared of what my life will turn into because of the decisions this person may make; I’m angry that moderation matters less than ideological bullying.
Write your newspapers – become that wonky crank and give it your best, simple eloquence. Make them hear you – and keep writing.
Write the members of the Judiciary Com’tee. And keep writing them.
Write your family and friends – and ask them to pass it along.
Support those groups who wobble on a thin financial line so they can mobilize research and action in opposition to right-wing ideologues. ($20, people. We can spare $20, right?)
Monday, July 18, 2005
Sunday, July 17, 2005
back from canada!
what to (dubiously) look forward to:
- the house where i lost my virginity is up for sale (yes, jp, we succumbed to the siren call of zingerman sandwiches and you'll be glad to know that the people of ann arbor are just as self-absorbed and infuriating as always. to the indecisive young man who couldn't pick a candy bar: you officially suck.)
- why my friend K- rules (and why shiba inus are the dog of the future. hint: no barking!!)
- why detroit road signage can kiss my ass
- why canadian couples need more help than the rest of us
- why reading vogue magazine can give a person gas
oh, and the harry potter book is stupendous.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
nostalgia and karma: payback's a bitch
remember what it felt like to be called in front of the class to solve an equation on the chalk board and explain your every move while you were doing it and you felt like diving through the chalkboard because you never understood the equation in the first place?
well, that's nothing compare to the squirminess scotty mcclellan is experiencing in this week's gaggles, here.
please, infinite lords of justice - please let the summer prove to be a long hard hot one for karl rove and all the rovian apologists. oh please let this be their swift boat summer.
well, that's nothing compare to the squirminess scotty mcclellan is experiencing in this week's gaggles, here.
please, infinite lords of justice - please let the summer prove to be a long hard hot one for karl rove and all the rovian apologists. oh please let this be their swift boat summer.
whither hied the week?
it hied out my ass.
so now i'm finishing up at the office and will meet roomie at home where her old friends M/B (married name = MeBrian) will have cocktails with us. i'm so glad that all i have to do is show up.
i'm knackered.
(shit. and i have to pack for a road trip to windsor. gaah, curse you aqua scum!!)
so now i'm finishing up at the office and will meet roomie at home where her old friends M/B (married name = MeBrian) will have cocktails with us. i'm so glad that all i have to do is show up.
i'm knackered.
(shit. and i have to pack for a road trip to windsor. gaah, curse you aqua scum!!)
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
in praise of procrastination
across the street, my neighbor (one of the arty boys) sits naked at his computer. this is the advantage of living on the third floor. in my email inbox there is a message from B-, also naked, wanting to know what my summer plans are.
i'm glad i'm going to windsor this weekend.
i get to avoid a difficult conversation.
i'm glad i'm going to windsor this weekend.
i get to avoid a difficult conversation.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
this is a hard week at work (tomorrow morning - pancake breakfast at the office), roomie is part of a sleep study tonight (poor thing's circadian rhythms are all blown asunder) and i just watched a 'queer eye' featuring a nudist...
(oooh, hot daddy from the neighborhood crossing the street....oh, yuck. it's only frank.)
all this makes me glad i'm going to canada with K- this weekend to buy the new harry potter.
(no! we can't wait for the u.s release date! we must have it now, i tell you, now!) ah, windsor...home of the Happy Tap.
(also home to the saddest male strippers you'll ever see, but that's a story for another time.)
(oooh, hot daddy from the neighborhood crossing the street....oh, yuck. it's only frank.)
all this makes me glad i'm going to canada with K- this weekend to buy the new harry potter.
(no! we can't wait for the u.s release date! we must have it now, i tell you, now!) ah, windsor...home of the Happy Tap.
(also home to the saddest male strippers you'll ever see, but that's a story for another time.)
heh.
White House Silence on Rove's Role in Leak Enters 2nd Day - New York Times
silence=guilt? consternation? anger? denial? this administration is a joke. it's not evil. it's just a bunch of corporate suits doing the usual - playing by their own rules and fucking everyone around them.
it's too banal to be evil.
silence=guilt? consternation? anger? denial? this administration is a joke. it's not evil. it's just a bunch of corporate suits doing the usual - playing by their own rules and fucking everyone around them.
it's too banal to be evil.
Monday, July 11, 2005
i'm full of sounds
gick. feh. ugh. meh. hmph. grr. aggh.
all because i'm working late. (i won't tell you what i'm doing except know that it's tedious and the words MAIL MERGE are heavily involved.) i'll be working late all this week and i even canceled my pelvic exam today because i just couldn't. tear. myself. away. (and i suspected Hal was still visiting. there's nothing worse than steeling yourself for a pelvic, your ankles in the air, when Hal waves his little red hand making the doctor snap off her gloves and tell you to come back in another week or two.)
but i've finished two phil rickman books (horribly addictive) and i'm starting with the last in the jane stevenson trilogy, empress of the last days, so maybe i'll just meander on home and stop to read somewhere. i've nearly forgotten the pleasure of sitting somewhere that's not my apartment or office, reading while smoking a cigarette, eventually losing track of where i am.
but until then i'll just languish here and sigh.
sigh.
grr.
all because i'm working late. (i won't tell you what i'm doing except know that it's tedious and the words MAIL MERGE are heavily involved.) i'll be working late all this week and i even canceled my pelvic exam today because i just couldn't. tear. myself. away. (and i suspected Hal was still visiting. there's nothing worse than steeling yourself for a pelvic, your ankles in the air, when Hal waves his little red hand making the doctor snap off her gloves and tell you to come back in another week or two.)
but i've finished two phil rickman books (horribly addictive) and i'm starting with the last in the jane stevenson trilogy, empress of the last days, so maybe i'll just meander on home and stop to read somewhere. i've nearly forgotten the pleasure of sitting somewhere that's not my apartment or office, reading while smoking a cigarette, eventually losing track of where i am.
but until then i'll just languish here and sigh.
sigh.
grr.
reason # 405 i'm glad i quit academia
because if some pissy ignorant undergrad decided to go after me because of my reading list i'd be one angry pissed off and BITTER brown professor.
and then someone would fail. jesus. why don't we just let undergrads teach the courses and grade themselves?
via michael berube (his photo makes me laugh...don't know why.)
and then someone would fail. jesus. why don't we just let undergrads teach the courses and grade themselves?
via michael berube (his photo makes me laugh...don't know why.)
the money meme: depressing
from wolfangel and dr. bitch.
1. how much money is in your wallet? enough to get me to work tomorrow. and some change.
2. how much money would you need in the bank to feel secure? rich? to feel secure (i.e, all my immediate responsibilities have been taken care of) 15k. to feel rich? anything above that would be gravy. (see? little dreams, little ones...)
3. if someone gave you $100 no strings attached, what would you do with it? i'd put it in my belly. in other words, someone is coming with me to check out the new bar by japonais.
4. if someone gave you $1 million no strings attached what would you do with it? in this order: pay off debt immediately; give some to my dad; give some to my sister; give some to my roomie; hammer out a financial plan; get a new laptop; go to england; go someplace warm for 5 days; worry about not giving all of it to the poor.
5. how much does something have to cost before it starts counting as 'real' money, as purchase to be considered and evaluated, but below which you’ll buy without really thinking about it?
i'm thinking about what i've done with shoes and bags...over $200 i'm wincing; below that i'm open. but it depends on what it is: up to 100 for skin care, up to 200 for shoes/bags, up to 50 for makeup; whatever i need for books; up to 60 for music (in one visit); clothes...i'm a plump girl so it's about what fits, damn the price. large ticket things? ugh. don't talk to me about that. it's why i'm still sleeping on a futon.
1. how much money is in your wallet? enough to get me to work tomorrow. and some change.
2. how much money would you need in the bank to feel secure? rich? to feel secure (i.e, all my immediate responsibilities have been taken care of) 15k. to feel rich? anything above that would be gravy. (see? little dreams, little ones...)
3. if someone gave you $100 no strings attached, what would you do with it? i'd put it in my belly. in other words, someone is coming with me to check out the new bar by japonais.
4. if someone gave you $1 million no strings attached what would you do with it? in this order: pay off debt immediately; give some to my dad; give some to my sister; give some to my roomie; hammer out a financial plan; get a new laptop; go to england; go someplace warm for 5 days; worry about not giving all of it to the poor.
5. how much does something have to cost before it starts counting as 'real' money, as purchase to be considered and evaluated, but below which you’ll buy without really thinking about it?
i'm thinking about what i've done with shoes and bags...over $200 i'm wincing; below that i'm open. but it depends on what it is: up to 100 for skin care, up to 200 for shoes/bags, up to 50 for makeup; whatever i need for books; up to 60 for music (in one visit); clothes...i'm a plump girl so it's about what fits, damn the price. large ticket things? ugh. don't talk to me about that. it's why i'm still sleeping on a futon.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
before bed: cultural criticism in the hinterlands...
this is my favorite part:
The aliens in War of the Worlds are supposed to represent terrorism.
I really feel we give terrorists too much credit when it comes to their organization and capabilities.
heh.
The aliens in War of the Worlds are supposed to represent terrorism.
I really feel we give terrorists too much credit when it comes to their organization and capabilities.
heh.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
the supremes: abortion, choice and polling data (exciting!)
Lawyers, Guns and Money: Abortion, Public Opinion, and Selling Out
i would have linked to this on my kos diary but, you know? fuckit. his site makes my little girly head hurt.
via bitch (who is chock full of useful links to other useful things re: academic freedom, the supreme court, abortion rights and how volcanoes are rude).
i would have linked to this on my kos diary but, you know? fuckit. his site makes my little girly head hurt.
via bitch (who is chock full of useful links to other useful things re: academic freedom, the supreme court, abortion rights and how volcanoes are rude).
judith miller: bad journalism, 101
the trib's public editor takes a step back from the miller/jail thing here.
i'm sorry but wasn't this the same judith miller who was also totally responsible for funneling less-than-credible reports about iraq's wmd capabilities and our ease with which we would win the war - which provided the foundation of the nyt's support of the iraq adventure? wasn't it judith miller who, way back in the day of 2002, wrote these stories also from anonymous sources? and wasn't her biggest 'anonymous' source ahmed chalabi (who later turned out to be a total con man and possible iran spy)?
and, when she was called out on it (and the nyt had to apologize), wasn't this also the judith miller who said that it wasn't her job to be a fact-checker? she was just reporting what someone told her? (listen to the entire interview or click here for the relevant bits.)
cuz if this is the same judith miller, i'd say that she has a habit of protecting rats who have hidden agendas - destructive and problematic agendas - she accepts without question.
i'm sorry but wasn't this the same judith miller who was also totally responsible for funneling less-than-credible reports about iraq's wmd capabilities and our ease with which we would win the war - which provided the foundation of the nyt's support of the iraq adventure? wasn't it judith miller who, way back in the day of 2002, wrote these stories also from anonymous sources? and wasn't her biggest 'anonymous' source ahmed chalabi (who later turned out to be a total con man and possible iran spy)?
and, when she was called out on it (and the nyt had to apologize), wasn't this also the judith miller who said that it wasn't her job to be a fact-checker? she was just reporting what someone told her? (listen to the entire interview or click here for the relevant bits.)
cuz if this is the same judith miller, i'd say that she has a habit of protecting rats who have hidden agendas - destructive and problematic agendas - she accepts without question.
Friday, July 08, 2005
speed of light
have been working so hard i'm like a one-legged man at a shit-kicking contest.
but i'm about to leave the office in 15 minutes (whee! summer hours!) to join my friend G- for a picnic with champagne to celebrate her new job. i can't wait to sit on a blanket in the sun and get totally roasted.
and, last night, i bowled an 85. not bad.
but in case the weekend is light for posting, have a good one y'all.
but i'm about to leave the office in 15 minutes (whee! summer hours!) to join my friend G- for a picnic with champagne to celebrate her new job. i can't wait to sit on a blanket in the sun and get totally roasted.
and, last night, i bowled an 85. not bad.
but in case the weekend is light for posting, have a good one y'all.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
found: african, gay and blogging
i fund this blog through an article on the bbc website: Black Looks.
the writer is gay african woman and it's great reading. (i'll add her to my blog roll as soon as i get home!)
especially take a look at her post 'we are not whales!'. it levels a very measured critique (and a useful one, i think) of the live 8 concert and effort.
the writer is gay african woman and it's great reading. (i'll add her to my blog roll as soon as i get home!)
especially take a look at her post 'we are not whales!'. it levels a very measured critique (and a useful one, i think) of the live 8 concert and effort.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
the supremes: "...all signs point to extremist"
Eschaton
eschaton notes that the conservatives are 'poised to dump $18 million into this process.'
it hurts but it looks like we'll have to dig deep again.
it'll be worth it.
eschaton notes that the conservatives are 'poised to dump $18 million into this process.'
it hurts but it looks like we'll have to dig deep again.
it'll be worth it.
Bush v Choice: new to the blogroll
i'm taking a break from cleaning and watching the live 8 concert.
i'm adding this link to Bush v Choice to keep track of what's going on with the supreme court nomination.
updated: and this is SCOTUS blog - extremely well-informed.
i'm adding this link to Bush v Choice to keep track of what's going on with the supreme court nomination.
updated: and this is SCOTUS blog - extremely well-informed.
Friday, July 01, 2005
oh crap: O'Connor is retiring from Supreme Court
via Bitch. Ph.D
let's lay a few bets...roe v wade toppled in...8 years? sooner?
crap.
[here's my favorite heretik with his always spot on take. can we hope the dems keep their shit together?]
let's lay a few bets...roe v wade toppled in...8 years? sooner?
crap.
[here's my favorite heretik with his always spot on take. can we hope the dems keep their shit together?]
it's summer; what else have you got to do?
Back when I was 19, I was cranky. Crankier than I am now. (Hard to believe, but it’s true.) I was also president of my Black Student Union, a position I abdicated when I thought it was ok for a white guy to join and, uh, my membership disagreed.
I know, hard to imagine, but there you are.
Anyway, back when I was 19, I was very tired of being everyone’s Guide to Blackness so I thought there should be a basic reading list of sorts to keep everyone from asking stupid questions. I've sensed the same feeling swelling in my breast quite recently so here are the texts that shaped my thinking early on (books and sometimes just authors, because it’s, like, past 1 am – it’s also lit heavy because, well, that’s my training):
For the very basics of black women’s history (literary and otherwise):
Where and When I Enter, Paula Giddings;
Reconstructing Womanhood, Hazel Carby;
Reading Black, Reading Feminist, Henry Louis Gates
Subjects & Citizens: Nation, Race and Gender from Oroonoko to Anita Hill, eds. Michael Moon & Cathy Davidson
For (colonized) black consciousness:
Black Skin, White Masks; The Wretched of the Earth, Franz Fanon
Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison
W.E.B DuBois
For white identity and performance, racial identity:
Love and Theft, Eric Lott;
How the Irish Became White, Ignatiev;
White Women, Race Matters, Ruth Frankenburg
For ethnicity:
The Invention of Ethnicity, Werner Sollors
Just because their essays kick ass:
Patricia Smith
bell hooks
Barbara Christian
Valerie Smith
Eric Sundquist
Richard Rodriguez (my old lover B- is actually in a correspondence with him…poor B-. Brilliant, yet unbearable.)
Hortense Spillers
Nellie McKay
Barbara Johnson
Paula Gunn Allen
Houston Baker
Homi Bhaba (incomprehensible but read at least one of his essays anyway)
Paul Gilroy (really terrific books on black Britain)
Ida B. Wells
The Grandissimes; Clotel; Passing; The Wedding (a bunch of tragic mulattoes)
Mary Louise Pratt
Gayatri Spivak (utterly incomprehensible, see Homi Bhaba)
Edward Said (cogent and rigorous on imperialism and colonialism)
Richard Yarborough (old prof at ucla)
Jean Fagan Yellin
A monster book titled something like ‘Critical Theory Since Plato’ (for terms)
The point of this list: know a little somethin’.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
latest obsession: mythbusters
um...
roomie is mystified whenever i con her into watching this show. but i can't help it: dorks, machines, explosions and a guy with a mustache who - well, sort of makes me feel naughty.
(of course he's a survival expert, boat captain, animal wrangler and speaks russian. i am fascinated by freaking strange men!! aghhh!)
roomie is mystified whenever i con her into watching this show. but i can't help it: dorks, machines, explosions and a guy with a mustache who - well, sort of makes me feel naughty.
(of course he's a survival expert, boat captain, animal wrangler and speaks russian. i am fascinated by freaking strange men!! aghhh!)
in mah belly!
i'm starving. i skipped lunch, worked all day, went to an after work thing for cheap white wine, met an old friend from grad school for drinks on michigan ave and walked home sweating like a puckered sphincter in polyester pants, it was so hot tonight.
no dinner. no snackage. hungry.
so here's a really good blog about eating, screenwriting and the delicate tension between an aging movie star and his bemused chef: Delicious! Delicious!: Near Miss: Gingered Peach Cobbler!
and here is my friend J's blog about korean food, l.a. and the art of living simply, well. her post about the nyt food critic who called korean food 'basically japanese food with spices' is priceless.
no dinner. no snackage. hungry.
so here's a really good blog about eating, screenwriting and the delicate tension between an aging movie star and his bemused chef: Delicious! Delicious!: Near Miss: Gingered Peach Cobbler!
and here is my friend J's blog about korean food, l.a. and the art of living simply, well. her post about the nyt food critic who called korean food 'basically japanese food with spices' is priceless.
Monday, June 27, 2005
sweet baby jesus: a feminist man
This Space For Rent: I Am Not My Cock
via bitch, a glorious post about, well, not being your cock.
'nuff said.
via bitch, a glorious post about, well, not being your cock.
'nuff said.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Bitch. Ph.D.: It's America, learn some black history
Bitch. Ph.D.: It's America, learn some black history
amen. amen. amen.
a-non said it's time for our cultural wiring to be ripped out.
this is the most basic way to do it.
amen. amen. amen.
a-non said it's time for our cultural wiring to be ripped out.
this is the most basic way to do it.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
the split me
My roommate called me out tonight. In the middle of another ill-advised discussion of politics she called me out: “And what about you? You’re working for your non-profit but what do you really care about people in other states? What’s abortion compared to black men being in prison, our education system falling apart, the classes being separate? To get down on rich progressives for not doing enough and you’re as rich as the rest of us. What are you doing?”
And there it was. What was I doing? Here I am arguing for more grassroots activism from the left, but what am I really doing? (leaving aside what my roommate is doing aside, for the moment.)
I’m not a lawyer. I don’t argue cases in front of the Supreme Court to protect our basic rights.
I’m not a social worker. I don’t have daily contact with poor black women and girls every day. (Truth to tell, tutoring every week was a trial for me. My student’s basic ignorance of her own history made me angry.)
I’m not an activist. I don’t march in parades against the WTO; I don’t agitate against the government; I don’t get on federal watch lists because of my activities against the state.
I’m not even a local politician. I go to work every day and push paper and work for a women’s non-profit; I don’t have contact with the women who use our services. I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing so; their and my experiences are so different.
I’m sick of the way our national Democratic party only seems to agitate on behalf of elections instead of people’s real needs. (Abortion being only one of them.) So what am I doing?
I’m thinking that if my roomie really knew what I was thinking, she probably wouldn’t be my roommate. I think this is so for many black/white folks who are friends. We all like Nina Simone, but black folk thrill to "Pirate Jenny" a whole lot more than, say, "Autumn Leaves." For, to be as militant as I want to be means that there are things that go by the way side. Gone are the cocktail parties, decadent and meaningless, not really important in the big scheme of things; gone are the easy entertainments, insensitive when you think about what kind of entertainments others don’t really have; gone are the indulgences, products of a bourgeois life. What is a person like me supposed to do? I’m the product of a poor black childhood with miraculous access to higher education; to be the good black woman I’m supposed to succeed in this world – be articulate, social, mobile. But success here also means to be separate.
An acquaintance of mine, H-, grew up in a militant family. I wonder if she feels this double consciousness – to want to lift as we climb, but not knowing how, because to lift would be to cut ourselves off from white people. Because my roommate called me out, I had a rare chance to look at what my life has become but maybe this introspection is a long time coming. I met a black woman at a party over the weekend; we sat and talked with her boyfriend about the election results in Ohio, the need for grassroots organization in the black community, the need for mobilization against certain power structures in this country. I ignored everyone else.
Which is the true self? Is the real me the me who speaks well, who can cook peach-bourbon glazed pork chops, and reads Jane Austen, or is the real me the black woman who reads Angela Davis, doesn’t want white people to touch her hair anymore (or really talk about it at all) and wants to see the city aflame in revolution? (I’ll say it: when the LA riots happened and white people were scared, I exulted in it. Yes, even with all my ‘advantages.’) Which is it? Is it the me who wistfully thinks about shopping at Bloomingdale’s and what social events could fill the summer, or is it the me who wants to see the black community stop being quite so polite and start putting Frantz Fanon in action? Is the real me bill cosby (which makes my friends more comfortable, I think) or is the real me bell hooks (who would freak them out, if they even fucking read her)?
I don’t think they ever questioned the me they have; I don’t think I did, either.
(i'm not the only one with a split pov.)
And there it was. What was I doing? Here I am arguing for more grassroots activism from the left, but what am I really doing? (leaving aside what my roommate is doing aside, for the moment.)
I’m not a lawyer. I don’t argue cases in front of the Supreme Court to protect our basic rights.
I’m not a social worker. I don’t have daily contact with poor black women and girls every day. (Truth to tell, tutoring every week was a trial for me. My student’s basic ignorance of her own history made me angry.)
I’m not an activist. I don’t march in parades against the WTO; I don’t agitate against the government; I don’t get on federal watch lists because of my activities against the state.
I’m not even a local politician. I go to work every day and push paper and work for a women’s non-profit; I don’t have contact with the women who use our services. I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing so; their and my experiences are so different.
I’m sick of the way our national Democratic party only seems to agitate on behalf of elections instead of people’s real needs. (Abortion being only one of them.) So what am I doing?
I’m thinking that if my roomie really knew what I was thinking, she probably wouldn’t be my roommate. I think this is so for many black/white folks who are friends. We all like Nina Simone, but black folk thrill to "Pirate Jenny" a whole lot more than, say, "Autumn Leaves." For, to be as militant as I want to be means that there are things that go by the way side. Gone are the cocktail parties, decadent and meaningless, not really important in the big scheme of things; gone are the easy entertainments, insensitive when you think about what kind of entertainments others don’t really have; gone are the indulgences, products of a bourgeois life. What is a person like me supposed to do? I’m the product of a poor black childhood with miraculous access to higher education; to be the good black woman I’m supposed to succeed in this world – be articulate, social, mobile. But success here also means to be separate.
An acquaintance of mine, H-, grew up in a militant family. I wonder if she feels this double consciousness – to want to lift as we climb, but not knowing how, because to lift would be to cut ourselves off from white people. Because my roommate called me out, I had a rare chance to look at what my life has become but maybe this introspection is a long time coming. I met a black woman at a party over the weekend; we sat and talked with her boyfriend about the election results in Ohio, the need for grassroots organization in the black community, the need for mobilization against certain power structures in this country. I ignored everyone else.
Which is the true self? Is the real me the me who speaks well, who can cook peach-bourbon glazed pork chops, and reads Jane Austen, or is the real me the black woman who reads Angela Davis, doesn’t want white people to touch her hair anymore (or really talk about it at all) and wants to see the city aflame in revolution? (I’ll say it: when the LA riots happened and white people were scared, I exulted in it. Yes, even with all my ‘advantages.’) Which is it? Is it the me who wistfully thinks about shopping at Bloomingdale’s and what social events could fill the summer, or is it the me who wants to see the black community stop being quite so polite and start putting Frantz Fanon in action? Is the real me bill cosby (which makes my friends more comfortable, I think) or is the real me bell hooks (who would freak them out, if they even fucking read her)?
I don’t think they ever questioned the me they have; I don’t think I did, either.
(i'm not the only one with a split pov.)
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
texas: no place to be gay
i don't know how i missed this speech, but here is rep. senfronia thompson pulling all the relevant strands together in support of gay rights. here.
they passed that bill.
and that makes her words even more stark.
they passed that bill.
and that makes her words even more stark.
Monday, June 20, 2005
what a whirl: weekend update
Friday:
lovely gorgeous day. just cool enough you need to bring a sweater to the boat you and your coworkers will be on for the rest of the afternoon. just warm enough you're glad you tied your hair back. i discovered many things on the boat cruise with the non-profit folks: never eat chinese food when you're on a boat, it's important to target the non-drinkers in your group so you can use their drink tickets, and it's never a good idea to be in a soul train line in front of people who sign your paychecks. when will i learn?
toddled home to meet roomie who, bless her heart, rented The Corporation (which made me hate corporate capitalist america all over again) and carlo ponti's 'yesterday, today, tomorrow.' can i just say that sophia loren is my idol and i want to be her? really. i want to be her - all rounded, voluptuous womanhood and sassy hips and mouth. i especially want to learn how she can take off stockings like that.
Saturday:
slept late and went with roomie to evanston to see 'batman begins.' i rather liked it - for what it was. was it fabulous? no. i must confess that i preferred christian bale in 'equilibrium' than in this movie. i mean, how can you resist the allure that is gunkata? you can't. you are powerless to resist. roomie hated batman with a passion and so we passed the rest of the afternoon in silence, portraits of disaffection brought on by bad cinema. after reading a bit i dug out a cocktail dress for a martini party in river west, with a fantastic view of the Mart and the trains leaving the city. nights like this almost make me wistful for companionship. i hung out, ran into old friends, made dinner plans with a friend and his adorable little girlfriend (fresh like a daisy, she was, and made me feel like a hoary crusty old piece of toast), then came home where i ate half a can of cashews and watched the bbc.
Sunday:
rotarians descended on the city. did you know the rotary club began in chicago? i had no idea. neither did roomie as we left the apartment early to fulfill our church duties downtown. we skipped the actual services to drive down lake shore drive and michigan avenue, killing time. when we blithely arrived at the stately gray church, we were prepared to speed through church tours, intercessory prayer and a little glad-handing. the presbyterians know how to really make you relaxed, you know? no baptist-like stress or angst here.
i sat in the stone chapel, waiting for someone to come in for prayer. everyone had told me, 'it's no problem; no one ever comes in.' oh! foolish hope! the final hymn had barely finished before a neatly dressed woman stepped inside and shut the door behind her. she sat next to me and whispered that her brother had recently died alone and unclaimed in another state. so we prayed together. when she left, i stayed behind and sobbed for five minutes. (bad time of year for me to be thinking about dead family members.) my roomie was faring no better; her church tour was stalled at the transcept while a short asian woman grilled my roomie on the exact doctrinal tenets of our church and the specific wording of the apostles creed. i could see the sweat on my roomie's brow as she desperately tried to wrench back control of the tour group and direct their attention to the fine skinner pipe organ in our choir loft.
needless to say, we spent the rest of the afternoon shunning contact with our fellow man, watching taped episodes of british serial killer tv shows.
lovely gorgeous day. just cool enough you need to bring a sweater to the boat you and your coworkers will be on for the rest of the afternoon. just warm enough you're glad you tied your hair back. i discovered many things on the boat cruise with the non-profit folks: never eat chinese food when you're on a boat, it's important to target the non-drinkers in your group so you can use their drink tickets, and it's never a good idea to be in a soul train line in front of people who sign your paychecks. when will i learn?
toddled home to meet roomie who, bless her heart, rented The Corporation (which made me hate corporate capitalist america all over again) and carlo ponti's 'yesterday, today, tomorrow.' can i just say that sophia loren is my idol and i want to be her? really. i want to be her - all rounded, voluptuous womanhood and sassy hips and mouth. i especially want to learn how she can take off stockings like that.
Saturday:
slept late and went with roomie to evanston to see 'batman begins.' i rather liked it - for what it was. was it fabulous? no. i must confess that i preferred christian bale in 'equilibrium' than in this movie. i mean, how can you resist the allure that is gunkata? you can't. you are powerless to resist. roomie hated batman with a passion and so we passed the rest of the afternoon in silence, portraits of disaffection brought on by bad cinema. after reading a bit i dug out a cocktail dress for a martini party in river west, with a fantastic view of the Mart and the trains leaving the city. nights like this almost make me wistful for companionship. i hung out, ran into old friends, made dinner plans with a friend and his adorable little girlfriend (fresh like a daisy, she was, and made me feel like a hoary crusty old piece of toast), then came home where i ate half a can of cashews and watched the bbc.
Sunday:
rotarians descended on the city. did you know the rotary club began in chicago? i had no idea. neither did roomie as we left the apartment early to fulfill our church duties downtown. we skipped the actual services to drive down lake shore drive and michigan avenue, killing time. when we blithely arrived at the stately gray church, we were prepared to speed through church tours, intercessory prayer and a little glad-handing. the presbyterians know how to really make you relaxed, you know? no baptist-like stress or angst here.
i sat in the stone chapel, waiting for someone to come in for prayer. everyone had told me, 'it's no problem; no one ever comes in.' oh! foolish hope! the final hymn had barely finished before a neatly dressed woman stepped inside and shut the door behind her. she sat next to me and whispered that her brother had recently died alone and unclaimed in another state. so we prayed together. when she left, i stayed behind and sobbed for five minutes. (bad time of year for me to be thinking about dead family members.) my roomie was faring no better; her church tour was stalled at the transcept while a short asian woman grilled my roomie on the exact doctrinal tenets of our church and the specific wording of the apostles creed. i could see the sweat on my roomie's brow as she desperately tried to wrench back control of the tour group and direct their attention to the fine skinner pipe organ in our choir loft.
needless to say, we spent the rest of the afternoon shunning contact with our fellow man, watching taped episodes of british serial killer tv shows.
Friday, June 17, 2005
everyone likes good hygiene
this needs to be on a t-shirt (you won't be able to wear the t-shirt but the sentiment needs to be acknowledged):
Hobo: How you doin'? How you doin'? I'm doin' good. Yeah, you know I'm doin' good, cause I'm lookin' good! And you know why I look good? 'Cause I clean mah ass!
--1 train
and with that, i say good night.
Hobo: How you doin'? How you doin'? I'm doin' good. Yeah, you know I'm doin' good, cause I'm lookin' good! And you know why I look good? 'Cause I clean mah ass!
--1 train
and with that, i say good night.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
ooh, hot
I’ve been having strangely erotic dreams lately. They aren’t the hot and sweaty dreams, the ones that make you wake up suddenly thinking ‘holy shit, if only I could meet five sailors in an elevator who want to take me to visit their pet donkey!’ No, these have been different.
In one, I was a fabulously devastated widow. My husband had died too young and I couldn’t let go. I carried his ashes in a beat up metal box that would sit in the front seat beside me as I would drive up the California coast, the ocean to my left, and the brown hills on the right. On one of these trips I drove toward a black mountain with a tunnel running through it. My convertible Mini chugged through the broken terrain inside the tunnel and I complained to my dead husband’s ashes about the broken axle I was sure to get, the damage to the tires, my hair getting all messed up and how fucking long it was taking me to get out the tunnel. When I finally emerged, it was into a beautiful department store, all honeyed wood and velvet curtains, like a David Lynch movie.
I parked my little Mini in the special parking lot for special guests and a thin blade of a man was about to escort me away from the car when I remembered my husband – I went back and scooped up his box, as well as a couple of pounds of his favorite cheeses – a Morbier and the Humboldt Fog.
I walked slowly through the department store, carrying my stinky cheeses and my dead husband’s ashes, and I passed Gil Grissom (yes, from CSI) in the men’s fragrance department. I’m twisting open a small dark green bottle shaped like a twig and the scent makes me cry. He comes along to tell me some obscure story about smell and an equally obscure culture; he offers to walk with me. We’re looking at beautiful glass things and there’s something about his spectacles, his rumpled little jacket, his bow-legged walk and his weird little stories that makes me decide to put my husband’s ashes in the trunk of my car along with the stinky cheeses.
We leave the department store and then we’re in an empty house by the ocean; we’ve made love. (Yes, my dream had completely skipped the sex!!) Like a cheesy French perfume ad, the sheer white curtains at the windows overlooking the beach are fluttering, the sun is either setting or rising and Gil Grissom and I are nestled snug in a bed with a quilt on it. It’s quiet and I am filled with such lassitude it almost makes me want to cry. I can hear his voice rumble through his chest, can feel him stroking my back and he begins to tell me another queer story. This is how it ends.
Yeah. An erotic dream where NOTHING happens. I woke up feeling like I had a secret.
In one, I was a fabulously devastated widow. My husband had died too young and I couldn’t let go. I carried his ashes in a beat up metal box that would sit in the front seat beside me as I would drive up the California coast, the ocean to my left, and the brown hills on the right. On one of these trips I drove toward a black mountain with a tunnel running through it. My convertible Mini chugged through the broken terrain inside the tunnel and I complained to my dead husband’s ashes about the broken axle I was sure to get, the damage to the tires, my hair getting all messed up and how fucking long it was taking me to get out the tunnel. When I finally emerged, it was into a beautiful department store, all honeyed wood and velvet curtains, like a David Lynch movie.
I parked my little Mini in the special parking lot for special guests and a thin blade of a man was about to escort me away from the car when I remembered my husband – I went back and scooped up his box, as well as a couple of pounds of his favorite cheeses – a Morbier and the Humboldt Fog.
I walked slowly through the department store, carrying my stinky cheeses and my dead husband’s ashes, and I passed Gil Grissom (yes, from CSI) in the men’s fragrance department. I’m twisting open a small dark green bottle shaped like a twig and the scent makes me cry. He comes along to tell me some obscure story about smell and an equally obscure culture; he offers to walk with me. We’re looking at beautiful glass things and there’s something about his spectacles, his rumpled little jacket, his bow-legged walk and his weird little stories that makes me decide to put my husband’s ashes in the trunk of my car along with the stinky cheeses.
We leave the department store and then we’re in an empty house by the ocean; we’ve made love. (Yes, my dream had completely skipped the sex!!) Like a cheesy French perfume ad, the sheer white curtains at the windows overlooking the beach are fluttering, the sun is either setting or rising and Gil Grissom and I are nestled snug in a bed with a quilt on it. It’s quiet and I am filled with such lassitude it almost makes me want to cry. I can hear his voice rumble through his chest, can feel him stroking my back and he begins to tell me another queer story. This is how it ends.
Yeah. An erotic dream where NOTHING happens. I woke up feeling like I had a secret.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
clearly, it's abortion week here on screed
t r u t h o u t - Ann Crittenden | The Price of Denying Choice
more flames being thrown over at the abortion=autonomy diary on kos (there was a side thread about why women don't just get sterilized if they don't want kids so much and this was my cue to take a breather) but who cares what's going on over there?
over here...nothing much is happening. just abortion, slavery, lynching...
sigh.
more flames being thrown over at the abortion=autonomy diary on kos (there was a side thread about why women don't just get sterilized if they don't want kids so much and this was my cue to take a breather) but who cares what's going on over there?
over here...nothing much is happening. just abortion, slavery, lynching...
sigh.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
see? not scary at all.
You scored 33% Gender-Abolitionist, 100% Sexually Liberal, and 40 % Socialist
The other feminist types:
gag
Next Generation of Conservatives (By the Dormful) - New York Times
so, since the media is all balanced and shit, i'm sure an article about the new crop of progressives will pop up, right?
(how many times do we have to read this story? it's in every magazine and newspaper every quarter. why not really have a challenging feature - find conservatives of color. any color. do it. write about how they're invited to the heritage foundation. really. i'd really like to read about it.)
no? didn't think so.
so, since the media is all balanced and shit, i'm sure an article about the new crop of progressives will pop up, right?
(how many times do we have to read this story? it's in every magazine and newspaper every quarter. why not really have a challenging feature - find conservatives of color. any color. do it. write about how they're invited to the heritage foundation. really. i'd really like to read about it.)
no? didn't think so.
Monday, June 13, 2005
sigh.
you're effing kidding me.
a week after my rather long and rambly musing on the lynching exhibit, the senate issues a cosmetic apology for not outlawing lynching earlier - well, except for 12 senators who shall remain nameless (thanks, procedural rabbit hole.)
our nation is amazing. really. look the other way while over 4700 black men, women and children get lynched and then, at a symbolic moment of reconciliation, show how begrudging you really are. nice.
a week after my rather long and rambly musing on the lynching exhibit, the senate issues a cosmetic apology for not outlawing lynching earlier - well, except for 12 senators who shall remain nameless (thanks, procedural rabbit hole.)
our nation is amazing. really. look the other way while over 4700 black men, women and children get lynched and then, at a symbolic moment of reconciliation, show how begrudging you really are. nice.
Bitch. Ph.D.: Do you trust women?
over at kos, i'm afraid i let my rhetoric get the best of me. yes, big surprise. some guy said that he was 'queasy' at the tone and tenor of the comments in response to the diary i posted below. and, well, ding took it upon herself to say 'get over your nausea.' i mean, come on. who cares about your wishy-washy pro-choice 'but i'm uncomfortable with abortion' queasiness?
then the guy said 'i'm just saying there are moral questions that need to be considered and the reservations of pro-choice allies should be...blah blah blah.' and i said 'so your moral quandaries and reservations matter more than a woman's decision to have an abortion or not? give me a break. your moral quagmire isn't the point.' or something along those lines (or more strongly worded.)
so, for that guy and others like him, here's an oldie but goodie from our favorite bitch:
Bitch. Ph.D.: Do you trust women?
then the guy said 'i'm just saying there are moral questions that need to be considered and the reservations of pro-choice allies should be...blah blah blah.' and i said 'so your moral quandaries and reservations matter more than a woman's decision to have an abortion or not? give me a break. your moral quagmire isn't the point.' or something along those lines (or more strongly worded.)
so, for that guy and others like him, here's an oldie but goodie from our favorite bitch:
Bitch. Ph.D.: Do you trust women?
boys club - again
in the heat of the election, i read kos every day (hence the link on my blogroll). but after the election, during all the post-mortems, i started noticing an alarming trend: more and more calls from the boys' treehouse over there to take a step back from abortion rights because it's so 'narrow' and 'single-issue' and scares the moderates out there. hm. it mirrored the mewling backpedaling going on in the democratic party at the time and it enraged me so much, i stopped reading so regularly. now, to be honest, i stop over only to check out the big-boy gossip. it really is like a tabloid magazine of what's going on at the DNC. infighting, schisms, breakups, hookups.
well, the 'no girls allowed' sign on the daily kos tree house gets good treatment in the comments section over at Bitch. Ph.D.
and here is a very good (and angry) diary on kos telling him to stuff his 'abortion isn't really important to our strategy' up his ass.
update: here is the original post (with his update) that started the whole thing. um, check out the references to 'sanctimonious,' 'humorless' , 'extremist subset' and 'important shit' (as if to say that feminist concerns aren't important compared to masculinist strategies and shit like that.)
know your fucking feminist history, kos. [deleted because even i recognize what i said made no sense.]
update 2: since the original post humorless, women-studies types and unshaven hags alike have weighed in and found kos, his treehouse and his posse wanting. heh.
well, the 'no girls allowed' sign on the daily kos tree house gets good treatment in the comments section over at Bitch. Ph.D.
and here is a very good (and angry) diary on kos telling him to stuff his 'abortion isn't really important to our strategy' up his ass.
update: here is the original post (with his update) that started the whole thing. um, check out the references to 'sanctimonious,' 'humorless' , 'extremist subset' and 'important shit' (as if to say that feminist concerns aren't important compared to masculinist strategies and shit like that.)
know your fucking feminist history, kos. [deleted because even i recognize what i said made no sense.]
update 2: since the original post humorless, women-studies types and unshaven hags alike have weighed in and found kos, his treehouse and his posse wanting. heh.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Thursday, June 09, 2005
did you get the memo?
in case there's anyone out there who's just emerged from a cave and still thinks our iraq adventure was justified, here's the memo that says 'uh...no.'
come on, we impeached clinton for a blow job!
how about impeaching someone for something REALLY important!
come on, we impeached clinton for a blow job!
how about impeaching someone for something REALLY important!
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
an excellent composition exercise
who says politics can't be useful? Bush Aide Softened Greenhouse Gas Links to Global Warming - New York Times
the attached graphic is a textbook example showing how vague language destroys a paragraph's intent. yay for the white house.
[Update: according to the white house, global warming is a myth. so...why are these people moving again? things are melting, but it's not global warming. just...melting. got it.]
the attached graphic is a textbook example showing how vague language destroys a paragraph's intent. yay for the white house.
[Update: according to the white house, global warming is a myth. so...why are these people moving again? things are melting, but it's not global warming. just...melting. got it.]
man-hula
guilty confession of the week:
dwayne johnson sort of makes me wanna see him do the man-hula.
(don't tell me you don't know the man-hula. aka, the angry, 'we're gonna kick some missionary ass-making us wear this baggy baptist dress shit' hula.)
dwayne johnson sort of makes me wanna see him do the man-hula.
(don't tell me you don't know the man-hula. aka, the angry, 'we're gonna kick some missionary ass-making us wear this baggy baptist dress shit' hula.)
Monday, June 06, 2005
gimme
look.
pretty. (did you know they make lunch boxes? wouldn't this be cute, on the cta, going to work with my sammich in it?)
update: credit where credit is due. via my friend at delicious biting.
pretty. (did you know they make lunch boxes? wouldn't this be cute, on the cta, going to work with my sammich in it?)
update: credit where credit is due. via my friend at delicious biting.
and now for something lighter: chick lit
Nerve.com Screening Room
we have a friend who has a friend who, last year, wrote just about the worst chick lit book EVER and got it published. my roommate, bless her stalwart heart, read it and grew so angry she'd interrupt her reading to shout, 'this is crap!! aghh, i hate her!'
well, roomie shouted again when she read that this woman has written a second book (please let her have kept out her crappy ass poetry) and has been invited to the printers row book fair this weekend. 'aagh! she wrote another one! god!' was my roomie's refrain.
i have to agree. while i enjoyed bridget jones (years ago) i don't think i want to read another book about a mediocre woman who deserves to get run over by a bus get romance instead. quite frankly, i'd never be friends with any of those women. or, if i was, i'd tolerate them in silence and wonder why the hell i didn't just shoot myself for having bad taste in companions.
i blame this crapload of chick lit on an apalling misreading of austen and her domestic fiction, and a complete ignorance of bronte. why not have some kick ass chick lit based on the bronte model of female behavior: be the smartest girl in the room and don't apologize for it; get the hots for the hottest man in the room and don't apologize for it; get wet, often; run away from the lame ass social mores of your society; get wild; get destitute; get dirty; get punished; get even; get wet again. burn down someone's house.
we have a friend who has a friend who, last year, wrote just about the worst chick lit book EVER and got it published. my roommate, bless her stalwart heart, read it and grew so angry she'd interrupt her reading to shout, 'this is crap!! aghh, i hate her!'
well, roomie shouted again when she read that this woman has written a second book (please let her have kept out her crappy ass poetry) and has been invited to the printers row book fair this weekend. 'aagh! she wrote another one! god!' was my roomie's refrain.
i have to agree. while i enjoyed bridget jones (years ago) i don't think i want to read another book about a mediocre woman who deserves to get run over by a bus get romance instead. quite frankly, i'd never be friends with any of those women. or, if i was, i'd tolerate them in silence and wonder why the hell i didn't just shoot myself for having bad taste in companions.
i blame this crapload of chick lit on an apalling misreading of austen and her domestic fiction, and a complete ignorance of bronte. why not have some kick ass chick lit based on the bronte model of female behavior: be the smartest girl in the room and don't apologize for it; get the hots for the hottest man in the room and don't apologize for it; get wet, often; run away from the lame ass social mores of your society; get wild; get destitute; get dirty; get punished; get even; get wet again. burn down someone's house.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Chicago Historical Society - Without Sanctuary
this was not a picker upper. as soon as i got off the bus in front of the chicago historical society, the skies turned black and a wall of rain blew horizontally down the street. inside, the mood was just as somber, if not less violent.
we all know this summer is the 50th anniversary of emmett till's lynching. pairing that anniversary with this exhibit showed it wasn't an isolated incident. it wasn't just the event that made white america open its eyes about what was happening down south. till's death was a tiny death in a huge group of deaths from reconstruction to 1968. that's a year before i was born. that's only 35 years ago.
the rooms were dead silent. post card after post card, photo after photo - of black people hanging, burned, mutilated. it was intense. these aren't images you see every day - or at all, anymore. did you know there's barely a state in this country that didn't have a lynching in it? illinois, california, minnesota, washington, connecticut. these are nothern states. montana, nebraska. oregon. did you know that women and children were lynched? immigrants, jews, communists, chinese. lynched because they were the other. what was the very academic phrase the society used to describe it? 'extra-legal deaths at the hands of unknown persons.'
but in the photos you see who did it. they aren't unknown. they're whole crowds of people. imagine wrigley field on a game day. imagine what wrigleyville looks like. the crowds, the vendors, the traffic, the holiday spirit. buy a hot dog. drink a beer. now imagine, on the mound, dusty baker naked, covered with gasoline, swinging from a telephone pole, about to be torched. that's what a lynching was. an event. a public spectacle. everyone out in the open, staring at the camera, holding their piece of the body. looking at those faces in the background was hard. they're smiling, relaxed, excited, pointing to the corpse.
the exhibit came from a book i found a few years ago: Without Sanctuary: Lynching Photography in America. i found it in a bookstore while i was still living in boystown. i felt like i was looking at pornography so i had to shut the book and walk away. but the images alone aren't what make you set your mouth and try not to make a sound. there are only about 100 photos, after all. the stories behind the images make you sick. this man and that man were accused of rape...of talking back to a white man...didn't get out of the road fast enough...dragged from the jail...courthouse burned to the ground. the narratives of violence, insanity and hysteria make you look at your fellow human beings and want to vomit.
they had a story of a man named caldwell. he owned 400 acres of the prettiest cotton land in the county. he financed a school. he was a big man at his church. had 12 kids, all lived on his property and the land was their legacy. one day he took his cotton to town to sell it; he wasn't given a fair price so he said someone else would pay more; he was accused of lying; he became angry and cursed the man who called him a liar. he was hit with a hammer, driven into the street where a mob of 200 men stabbed and beat him until the law stopped them; he was jailed, dying from his untreated injuries, when the mob came back and got him, dragging him behind a cart through the black and the white part of town. then he was lynched. the next day, the mob ran his family out of town and seized his land. (did you know blacks owned between 12-15 million acres of land at the turn of the century? did you know that number had decreased to just a little over 1 million acres by the 30s and 40s? a journalist said in an interview, 'follow the lynchings and you'll follow the land. they run side by side.')
this man's great-granddaughter was there. she read his name out at the naming ceremony and a little ripple moved through the crowd. this is all her family can think about. they talk about the murder like it happened yesterday. they tell you how they ran and hid in the woods while their land was taken. better the land than your life, they say.
what was it the president of the historical society said..."There is nothing more powerful than a people, and a nation, steeped in their own history." too often, we're presented with the history of lynchings or the civil rights struggle or anything about black people as black history - like it has nothing to do with white people, or anyone else. but this afternoon showed me that's not true. this is our history. it shouldn't be isolated and cut off from the people who descend from it.
we all know this summer is the 50th anniversary of emmett till's lynching. pairing that anniversary with this exhibit showed it wasn't an isolated incident. it wasn't just the event that made white america open its eyes about what was happening down south. till's death was a tiny death in a huge group of deaths from reconstruction to 1968. that's a year before i was born. that's only 35 years ago.
the rooms were dead silent. post card after post card, photo after photo - of black people hanging, burned, mutilated. it was intense. these aren't images you see every day - or at all, anymore. did you know there's barely a state in this country that didn't have a lynching in it? illinois, california, minnesota, washington, connecticut. these are nothern states. montana, nebraska. oregon. did you know that women and children were lynched? immigrants, jews, communists, chinese. lynched because they were the other. what was the very academic phrase the society used to describe it? 'extra-legal deaths at the hands of unknown persons.'
but in the photos you see who did it. they aren't unknown. they're whole crowds of people. imagine wrigley field on a game day. imagine what wrigleyville looks like. the crowds, the vendors, the traffic, the holiday spirit. buy a hot dog. drink a beer. now imagine, on the mound, dusty baker naked, covered with gasoline, swinging from a telephone pole, about to be torched. that's what a lynching was. an event. a public spectacle. everyone out in the open, staring at the camera, holding their piece of the body. looking at those faces in the background was hard. they're smiling, relaxed, excited, pointing to the corpse.
the exhibit came from a book i found a few years ago: Without Sanctuary: Lynching Photography in America. i found it in a bookstore while i was still living in boystown. i felt like i was looking at pornography so i had to shut the book and walk away. but the images alone aren't what make you set your mouth and try not to make a sound. there are only about 100 photos, after all. the stories behind the images make you sick. this man and that man were accused of rape...of talking back to a white man...didn't get out of the road fast enough...dragged from the jail...courthouse burned to the ground. the narratives of violence, insanity and hysteria make you look at your fellow human beings and want to vomit.
they had a story of a man named caldwell. he owned 400 acres of the prettiest cotton land in the county. he financed a school. he was a big man at his church. had 12 kids, all lived on his property and the land was their legacy. one day he took his cotton to town to sell it; he wasn't given a fair price so he said someone else would pay more; he was accused of lying; he became angry and cursed the man who called him a liar. he was hit with a hammer, driven into the street where a mob of 200 men stabbed and beat him until the law stopped them; he was jailed, dying from his untreated injuries, when the mob came back and got him, dragging him behind a cart through the black and the white part of town. then he was lynched. the next day, the mob ran his family out of town and seized his land. (did you know blacks owned between 12-15 million acres of land at the turn of the century? did you know that number had decreased to just a little over 1 million acres by the 30s and 40s? a journalist said in an interview, 'follow the lynchings and you'll follow the land. they run side by side.')
this man's great-granddaughter was there. she read his name out at the naming ceremony and a little ripple moved through the crowd. this is all her family can think about. they talk about the murder like it happened yesterday. they tell you how they ran and hid in the woods while their land was taken. better the land than your life, they say.
what was it the president of the historical society said..."There is nothing more powerful than a people, and a nation, steeped in their own history." too often, we're presented with the history of lynchings or the civil rights struggle or anything about black people as black history - like it has nothing to do with white people, or anyone else. but this afternoon showed me that's not true. this is our history. it shouldn't be isolated and cut off from the people who descend from it.
givin' a brother a chance
Thursday, June 02, 2005
diddle diddle ding
today...blew. (how can you tell? it took me three tries to spell blew.) went into work early to get a head start of prepping for board meeting and annual meeting; all sorts of things went wrong. (note to vendor: when you fail to do your job three times, do not bother to invoice me.) went to meeting site and set up meeting; attended board meeting, noting that female philanthropists in the city like the color beige; drank white wine while tangling in name tags and registration forms; sold books; broke down meeting; drank more wine; got book signed by local author; walked halfway home, discovered i have $17 in my checking account and am grateful that masturbation is free. got home, said hi to roomie (who, poor thing, languishes with phlegm) and ate a late dinner of leftover homemade fried rice (the garlic content is way too much - for a while there, it opened roomie's sinuses!)
what will i like about tomorrow? i get to wear jeans and i get out of the office at one. (i'm so poor i'll just come home and touch myself.)
what will i like about tomorrow? i get to wear jeans and i get out of the office at one. (i'm so poor i'll just come home and touch myself.)
Blogebrity: The List
just in case you didn't feel bad enough about yourself, they do it for you.
la shawn barber is a b-list blogger? i guess that's what you get for sucking the cock of patriarchy.
la shawn barber is a b-list blogger? i guess that's what you get for sucking the cock of patriarchy.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
waxing turkish
ok ok. i know i vowed not to blog at my new job because i loved it so much. but it's the end of the day and this is the best story of best friends, hot wax, back hair and turkish masculinity that i've read - ever.
gaggle: scottie bobs and weaves
if you don't have the stomach to read all the way to the end scroll almost to the bottom and catch the exchange between scottie mcclellan (our fave rent-boy loving press secretary) and les, a journalist who just wants to know:
does bush oppose contraception?
*crickets*crickets*
does bush oppose contraception?
*crickets*crickets*
whoops.
i still don't get why contraceptives aren't automatically part of a woman's health care plan... anyone? anyone?
look here.
look here.
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