(photo by Paul Sarkis)
For my friends in the GBC. I'll try not to bleed in the batter.
Is it strange that this woman reminds me of my sister-in-law?
Friday, February 29, 2008
This just about sums it up.
(photo by Paul Sarkis)
For my friends in the GBC. I'll try not to bleed in the batter.
Is it strange that this woman reminds me of my sister-in-law?
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Because she wants it, does it make it ok?
This from debauchette:
"Over dinner, he said, “It’s kind of weird that we met at a fivesome. I didn’t even know your name.” He didn’t even know my name, and yet he’d explored nearly every part of my body. I really like meeting people this way, sex first. No games. No small talk."
If she can post so openly about such things, why am I still mired in conflicted feelings about such anonymity? And about the immediacy of trusting the first flush of pheromonal response?
Am I Isadora Wing at the end of Fear of Flying? Clinging tenaciously to the vestiges of anxiety regarding the psychic ramifications of that proverbial "zipless fuck"?
Would that I were as evolved as I purport to be. As I hope to be.
WTF? A moment of self-doubt? Me? This never happens.
Never mind. I concur with debauchette. No small talk, please. Real talk is OK, though. Preferable, even. Real and expository and plentiful and plumbed up from the deepest recesses of your soul, please. Please. We can be naked, if that would make you more comfortable.
NB: The wikipedia entry about Fear of Flying and the zipless fuck doesn't really acknowledge that, at the end of the novel, Isadora finally gets her zipless fuck and she feels violated! She hates it and it makes her feel victimized. Isn't it funny how Third-Wave Feminism has co-opted this phrase to denote female ownership over our own sexuality and yet, in its source, it's as deeply enmeshed with internal conflict as any of us. Oh, it's a complicated study, it is.
"Over dinner, he said, “It’s kind of weird that we met at a fivesome. I didn’t even know your name.” He didn’t even know my name, and yet he’d explored nearly every part of my body. I really like meeting people this way, sex first. No games. No small talk."
If she can post so openly about such things, why am I still mired in conflicted feelings about such anonymity? And about the immediacy of trusting the first flush of pheromonal response?
Am I Isadora Wing at the end of Fear of Flying? Clinging tenaciously to the vestiges of anxiety regarding the psychic ramifications of that proverbial "zipless fuck"?
Would that I were as evolved as I purport to be. As I hope to be.
WTF? A moment of self-doubt? Me? This never happens.
Never mind. I concur with debauchette. No small talk, please. Real talk is OK, though. Preferable, even. Real and expository and plentiful and plumbed up from the deepest recesses of your soul, please. Please. We can be naked, if that would make you more comfortable.
NB: The wikipedia entry about Fear of Flying and the zipless fuck doesn't really acknowledge that, at the end of the novel, Isadora finally gets her zipless fuck and she feels violated! She hates it and it makes her feel victimized. Isn't it funny how Third-Wave Feminism has co-opted this phrase to denote female ownership over our own sexuality and yet, in its source, it's as deeply enmeshed with internal conflict as any of us. Oh, it's a complicated study, it is.
I DO care enough to hit send!
This is SO much better than Hallmark. God bless all that is snarkilicious in the world.
Here are some favorites (or, rather, ones for whom I can think of exceedingly appropriate recipients):
The internet is so good to me.
And an extra-special thanks to Laura for cluing me into this delicious resource for (in)appropriate cards for every occasion. So, Laura is also so good to me.
Here are some favorites (or, rather, ones for whom I can think of exceedingly appropriate recipients):
The internet is so good to me.
And an extra-special thanks to Laura for cluing me into this delicious resource for (in)appropriate cards for every occasion. So, Laura is also so good to me.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
the tragic physiognomies of the g-spot-less
On the car ride to Cleveland this last Christmas, with me and my screamingly injured hip wedged amidst suitcases and wrapped gifts in the back seat and my parents arguing about a banana peel in the front seat, I read Laura Kipnis' new book The Female Thing. Actually, I have a lot to say about all the issues upon which she touches in that book, but I'm going to save a lot of that for some other posts.
I bring up that book today, however, because she cites statistics about how hetersexual vaginal intercourse creates a pleasure deficit on the female side of the equation. Apparently, somewhere between 60% and 75% of women are unable to come via the ol' in-out-in-out method. Now, as I find myself among the blessed 25-40%, I kinda always figured it was something that could be taught and/or learned. I mean, it was certainly something that I didn't know I could do until I had some help learning how (more on that...maybe... if you're lucky... in future posts as well). Kipnis doesn't ever come out and say that she doesn't think that it's possible for women to learn to come that way, but her assertions that some women just "can't" suggests that she either hasn't considered whether it's a learned physiological response or an innate one or that she just plain thinks it's a matter of anatomy and that, no, some of us just aren't built for it.
And then along comes this article. Please excuse the ridiculously inappropriate and trite photo of Meg Ryan faking one in When Harry Met Sally. God, that's such a tired movie reference. I mean, surely women have faked it on screen better than that by now. Let's take, for instance, my own former classmate, l'il Laura Jean Reese Witherspoon in an atrocious movie called Fear. Who didn't know she was Oscar-bound when she quietly faked her little death on a roller coaster? Yeah, it's a bad movie, but so what? I can't say, however, that I anticipated her Oscar win when she was shooting me in the boob with a water gun out in front of our high school library building, but, you know-- shooting stuff onto boobs-- maybe it was anticipatorily symbolic of faking orgasms instead. Hmph. It appears I've digressed.
Anyway, I find the article interesting because it suggests that some of us are physiologically predisposed to being capable of g-spot orgasms and some (most) of us are not. And that explains a lot. But it's real sad, ain't it? Perhaps there is no teaching or learning to be had! Kipnis talks about how acts that perpetuate the species are, due to anatomical considerations alone, just plain more pleasurable for men-- and how fucking unfair that is. But while she acknowledges the ongoing debate about the existence of the g-spot, she never said one way or the other whether she personally believes in its existence, choosing instead to focus on the pleasure deficit. Now, all-in-all, Kipnis does a pretty good job of not presenting the female as a victim of a culture that privileges maleness... but she does give in to a little bit of frustrated teeth-gnashing that so many of our bodies are so unrelenting in their refusal to grant us internal orgasms. And that's fair, I guess.
I, too, am sorry about those bodies that lack thicker tissue between their vaginae and their urethrae.
I know what you're thinking. And yes. I do spend all day trolling the internet for crap like this. Why? What do YOU do all day?
I bring up that book today, however, because she cites statistics about how hetersexual vaginal intercourse creates a pleasure deficit on the female side of the equation. Apparently, somewhere between 60% and 75% of women are unable to come via the ol' in-out-in-out method. Now, as I find myself among the blessed 25-40%, I kinda always figured it was something that could be taught and/or learned. I mean, it was certainly something that I didn't know I could do until I had some help learning how (more on that...maybe... if you're lucky... in future posts as well). Kipnis doesn't ever come out and say that she doesn't think that it's possible for women to learn to come that way, but her assertions that some women just "can't" suggests that she either hasn't considered whether it's a learned physiological response or an innate one or that she just plain thinks it's a matter of anatomy and that, no, some of us just aren't built for it.
And then along comes this article. Please excuse the ridiculously inappropriate and trite photo of Meg Ryan faking one in When Harry Met Sally. God, that's such a tired movie reference. I mean, surely women have faked it on screen better than that by now. Let's take, for instance, my own former classmate, l'il Laura Jean Reese Witherspoon in an atrocious movie called Fear. Who didn't know she was Oscar-bound when she quietly faked her little death on a roller coaster? Yeah, it's a bad movie, but so what? I can't say, however, that I anticipated her Oscar win when she was shooting me in the boob with a water gun out in front of our high school library building, but, you know-- shooting stuff onto boobs-- maybe it was anticipatorily symbolic of faking orgasms instead. Hmph. It appears I've digressed.
Anyway, I find the article interesting because it suggests that some of us are physiologically predisposed to being capable of g-spot orgasms and some (most) of us are not. And that explains a lot. But it's real sad, ain't it? Perhaps there is no teaching or learning to be had! Kipnis talks about how acts that perpetuate the species are, due to anatomical considerations alone, just plain more pleasurable for men-- and how fucking unfair that is. But while she acknowledges the ongoing debate about the existence of the g-spot, she never said one way or the other whether she personally believes in its existence, choosing instead to focus on the pleasure deficit. Now, all-in-all, Kipnis does a pretty good job of not presenting the female as a victim of a culture that privileges maleness... but she does give in to a little bit of frustrated teeth-gnashing that so many of our bodies are so unrelenting in their refusal to grant us internal orgasms. And that's fair, I guess.
I, too, am sorry about those bodies that lack thicker tissue between their vaginae and their urethrae.
I know what you're thinking. And yes. I do spend all day trolling the internet for crap like this. Why? What do YOU do all day?
Saturday, February 23, 2008
So you have a problem with men?
Earlier this week, writer Tayari Jones posted a blogpost with the same title as this one over on the Kore Press blog, Persephone Speaks. In her essay, she speaks wondrously eloquently not only of the some of the conflicts that one encounters when one identifies as both a writer and a feminist, but of some of the conflicts one encounters when one identifies as as a writer, a feminist and a black woman. In fact, her topic, as illustrated with the example of Clinton vs. Obama, spins around the notion that "black women are pressured to decide if [they] are 'women' before [they] are 'black,'" She relates a story of sitting next to a black man on a plane who, upon her telling him that she's a writer and that, no, she does not write romance novels, he asked her this very question. (On a side note, is anyone else getting annoyed that we all (myself included, unless I catch myself and stop) constantly refer to the democratic race as one between Hillary and Obama? Given, I see the logic in calling her "Hillary" as opposed to "Clinton" so as to differentiate her from her husband in a shorthand sort of way. But dear lord. Haven't the media picked up on the notion that it's incredibly condescending to call a woman by her first name, especially when she is constantly being compared to a man-- who we all know primarily by his last name? ...and now, back on track!)
It occurs to me that I, too, am often asked this question and so I figured I'd better write about it. Often enough, I guess, it comes up in conversation with relative strangers and new acquaintances that I write this blog about gender issues and feminism and film and/or that I hope to go back to school for an interdisciplinary gender studies/critical film studies degree at some point in the near future. My confession that I write about sexuality and female-ness alone unfailingly prompts the question-- or some paraphrase of it. So, now, I kinda wonder why.
Shortly after reading Jones' post, I mentioned it to a friend of mine, saying that, yeah, guys ask me all the time if I like men when I say I write about gender issues. (Ironically, they hardly EVER asked the question during the 5 years in which I was in a monogamous relationship with a woman-- I dunno... maybe they could scent the hunger-for-cock on me then in a way that they can't now that the hunger is satisfied more often. Who knows?) My friend scoffed, saying something about how she didn't see how one so heterosexually charged as myself could ever be accused of man-hating. This particularly friend is one of the few women I know who professes a taste for sex with a frequency and an intensity that approaches my own predilections. So, I see why she scoffed. She was making the assumption that liking sex with men roughly equals actually liking men.
I, however, do not think these two things are analogous.
I would venture to say that there are few women who've had the pleasure of navigating the killing fields of the American dating scene who haven't spotted one of these not-rare-enough specimens that make my point for me. That specimen would be the dude to loves to fuck women but doesn't actually like women themselves. This is the specimen to whom we alternately refer to as "predator" and "asshole." And the truth is, I'm sure there's a female equivalent-- a man-hating sex-fiend who goes home at the end of the night and hates herself because she just can't get enough of these little vermin who just happen to have pleasure-causing equipment. Didn't Hall and Oates write a really shitty song about her (that one's for you, Jon!)?
And conversely, aren't there those among us who can genuinely enjoy the company of the opposite gender but just aren't blessed with kickin' libidos and therefore feel minimal pull to the more fleshly arts? Though, I don't figure too many people beyond Andrea Dworkin actually HATE sex... and even SHE felt conflicted enough about it to spend her whole life writing about it. My point here is just that me projecting a readily appreciable fuck-me vibe isn't what makes the question, "So you have a problem with men?" completely inappropriate-- when posed to me in particular.
It's true. I feel every bit as conflicted about my stance with regard to the opposite gender as pretty much every one else does. It bugs the piss out of me that I know I make a considerable percentage less money than several guys with whom I work-- who have fewer degrees than I have and have less experience (and who, frankly, aren't quite as good at their jobs as I am). I've spoken with some frequency about how I don't want to use my gender to assume a position of cultural victimhood-- there is nothing more disempowering that the self-disempowerment of identifying with the underdog. But honestly, the wage differential? Yeah, it makes me feel good 'n' helpless. Does it make me angry at men for establishing a system in which such unfairness is possible? Sure. Yeah. A little bit. But more than that, it makes me angry at all the women out there, just like me, who don't raise enough of a stink about it on a daily basis. I fucking HATE my own complicity. And why do we shrug our shoulders and say, "oh, it's just the way of the world?" Because it IS.
On a more interpersonal level, though, I'm troubled by the notion that, because I invest a significant quota of my consciousness into issues related to inter-gender relations, I might hate men. Have I been hurt by men? You betcha. Was it all their fault? Not even once (you know what they say about tangos). Do I have trouble trusting men as a result of my having been hurt by a couple of them? Well, no, honestly, not so much. Do I approach my interactions with them with caution? Well, sure, I'm not stupid, but it's an optimistic caution. The truth is that men are just people. Some of them are smart and sensitive and really do want real connection with women that includes but is not limited to sex. Some of them are retarded, sure, but hey-- mean-spiritedness and insensitivity and, well, even social retardation are certainly not specific to one gender.
And this brings me to an unpopular belief that I hold dear. I don't really believe in gendered behavior. Or gender difference in anything beyond anatomy. Men aren't men and women aren't women if men and women are all just humans. We're all pretty similarly motivated and, given allowances for differing (individual!) temperaments, backgrounds and chemical make-ups, one humanoid figure ain't so different from any other humanoid figure. Most people I know balk when I say such things, but I honestly think it's a lack of empathy that prevents us all from being on the proverbial same page, rather than something inherent in our chromosomes, hormonal differentials and erogenous zones. And the fact that I hold THAT belief is, actually, what I think makes me a feminist. Because not only do I believe men and women should be treated equally-- I actually believe that we ARE equal in pretty much every quantifiable way of which I can think. Incidentally, I think this belief is also when allows me to not only feel sexual attractions for men, but actually like them-- as people, not as providers or potential baby-daddies or whatever it is that our culture tells me I'm supposed to be seeking in my male companions. Is it a little solipsistic? This thinking that, because they're not so different from me, because I can, perhaps, see some of myself in them from time to time, I like them a little more than I might if I perceived men as wholly alien beings? Well, maybe it is. But if it fosters a more genuine effort towards connection, is that so bad?
So, this whole post boils down to the idea that feminism and heterosexuality (or, more accurately, the desire for heterosexual relationships, regardless of actual convoluted and un-label-able orientation) are not mutually exclusive. A deep and abiding interest in subjects related to gender and inter-gender negotiations and appreciating men as people worthy of my time are not mutually exclusive.
Yes, you who most recently asked me the question, I was offended. And I should have done as Tayari Jones admonished herself for not doing-- taken the moment as a teaching opportunity. But I did not. And, ultimately, it's hopelessly superior of me to assume that the offender actually needs teaching. Doubtlessly, the question was meant as a joke.
But, for future reference, please be advised: feminist sex is hotter. (Hit the label below for other information as might pertain to THAT idea.)
It occurs to me that I, too, am often asked this question and so I figured I'd better write about it. Often enough, I guess, it comes up in conversation with relative strangers and new acquaintances that I write this blog about gender issues and feminism and film and/or that I hope to go back to school for an interdisciplinary gender studies/critical film studies degree at some point in the near future. My confession that I write about sexuality and female-ness alone unfailingly prompts the question-- or some paraphrase of it. So, now, I kinda wonder why.
Shortly after reading Jones' post, I mentioned it to a friend of mine, saying that, yeah, guys ask me all the time if I like men when I say I write about gender issues. (Ironically, they hardly EVER asked the question during the 5 years in which I was in a monogamous relationship with a woman-- I dunno... maybe they could scent the hunger-for-cock on me then in a way that they can't now that the hunger is satisfied more often. Who knows?) My friend scoffed, saying something about how she didn't see how one so heterosexually charged as myself could ever be accused of man-hating. This particularly friend is one of the few women I know who professes a taste for sex with a frequency and an intensity that approaches my own predilections. So, I see why she scoffed. She was making the assumption that liking sex with men roughly equals actually liking men.
I, however, do not think these two things are analogous.
I would venture to say that there are few women who've had the pleasure of navigating the killing fields of the American dating scene who haven't spotted one of these not-rare-enough specimens that make my point for me. That specimen would be the dude to loves to fuck women but doesn't actually like women themselves. This is the specimen to whom we alternately refer to as "predator" and "asshole." And the truth is, I'm sure there's a female equivalent-- a man-hating sex-fiend who goes home at the end of the night and hates herself because she just can't get enough of these little vermin who just happen to have pleasure-causing equipment. Didn't Hall and Oates write a really shitty song about her (that one's for you, Jon!)?
And conversely, aren't there those among us who can genuinely enjoy the company of the opposite gender but just aren't blessed with kickin' libidos and therefore feel minimal pull to the more fleshly arts? Though, I don't figure too many people beyond Andrea Dworkin actually HATE sex... and even SHE felt conflicted enough about it to spend her whole life writing about it. My point here is just that me projecting a readily appreciable fuck-me vibe isn't what makes the question, "So you have a problem with men?" completely inappropriate-- when posed to me in particular.
It's true. I feel every bit as conflicted about my stance with regard to the opposite gender as pretty much every one else does. It bugs the piss out of me that I know I make a considerable percentage less money than several guys with whom I work-- who have fewer degrees than I have and have less experience (and who, frankly, aren't quite as good at their jobs as I am). I've spoken with some frequency about how I don't want to use my gender to assume a position of cultural victimhood-- there is nothing more disempowering that the self-disempowerment of identifying with the underdog. But honestly, the wage differential? Yeah, it makes me feel good 'n' helpless. Does it make me angry at men for establishing a system in which such unfairness is possible? Sure. Yeah. A little bit. But more than that, it makes me angry at all the women out there, just like me, who don't raise enough of a stink about it on a daily basis. I fucking HATE my own complicity. And why do we shrug our shoulders and say, "oh, it's just the way of the world?" Because it IS.
On a more interpersonal level, though, I'm troubled by the notion that, because I invest a significant quota of my consciousness into issues related to inter-gender relations, I might hate men. Have I been hurt by men? You betcha. Was it all their fault? Not even once (you know what they say about tangos). Do I have trouble trusting men as a result of my having been hurt by a couple of them? Well, no, honestly, not so much. Do I approach my interactions with them with caution? Well, sure, I'm not stupid, but it's an optimistic caution. The truth is that men are just people. Some of them are smart and sensitive and really do want real connection with women that includes but is not limited to sex. Some of them are retarded, sure, but hey-- mean-spiritedness and insensitivity and, well, even social retardation are certainly not specific to one gender.
And this brings me to an unpopular belief that I hold dear. I don't really believe in gendered behavior. Or gender difference in anything beyond anatomy. Men aren't men and women aren't women if men and women are all just humans. We're all pretty similarly motivated and, given allowances for differing (individual!) temperaments, backgrounds and chemical make-ups, one humanoid figure ain't so different from any other humanoid figure. Most people I know balk when I say such things, but I honestly think it's a lack of empathy that prevents us all from being on the proverbial same page, rather than something inherent in our chromosomes, hormonal differentials and erogenous zones. And the fact that I hold THAT belief is, actually, what I think makes me a feminist. Because not only do I believe men and women should be treated equally-- I actually believe that we ARE equal in pretty much every quantifiable way of which I can think. Incidentally, I think this belief is also when allows me to not only feel sexual attractions for men, but actually like them-- as people, not as providers or potential baby-daddies or whatever it is that our culture tells me I'm supposed to be seeking in my male companions. Is it a little solipsistic? This thinking that, because they're not so different from me, because I can, perhaps, see some of myself in them from time to time, I like them a little more than I might if I perceived men as wholly alien beings? Well, maybe it is. But if it fosters a more genuine effort towards connection, is that so bad?
So, this whole post boils down to the idea that feminism and heterosexuality (or, more accurately, the desire for heterosexual relationships, regardless of actual convoluted and un-label-able orientation) are not mutually exclusive. A deep and abiding interest in subjects related to gender and inter-gender negotiations and appreciating men as people worthy of my time are not mutually exclusive.
Yes, you who most recently asked me the question, I was offended. And I should have done as Tayari Jones admonished herself for not doing-- taken the moment as a teaching opportunity. But I did not. And, ultimately, it's hopelessly superior of me to assume that the offender actually needs teaching. Doubtlessly, the question was meant as a joke.
But, for future reference, please be advised: feminist sex is hotter. (Hit the label below for other information as might pertain to THAT idea.)
Getting to know your favorite neighborhood blogger
OK, confession: I love personality tests. They're way fun. I like them for the same reasons I dabble in astrology. It's a fun game-- I'm often surprised in the ways in which I find myself pegged and yet I'm able to maintain enough distance from them to understand that I am defined neither by my Myers-Briggs type, nor the alignment of the cosmos at the moment at which I wriggled free of my mother's body.
And on a similar note, I love those email questionnaires that you send to your friends full of random questions, in hopes that they'll email you back with all the intimate details of their lives. For the most part, I could give a crap about the mundanities of a lot of my friends' lives-- the favorite color, where they were born, what they wanted to be when they were kids-- that kind of stuff. But the more random and/or intimate questions I find fascinating. So, this morning, I found one such questionnaire posted on a blog (one of little interest, or I'd have linked it) and I figured I'd fill it out and post it. That way, my reader(s) can get a bite of me and respond in like fashion without me imposing the email request upon them. Though, friends, I hope to see a response on a couple key blogs in the near future.
Here we go:
1. Do you like blue cheese?
BLEU cheese! It's spelled "BLEU cheese"! And yes, I heart it. Even though crumbling it over salads makes my fingers smell gross.
2. Have you ever smoked heroin?
Please. I've never so much as smoked a cigarette. Honest!
3. Do you own a gun?
For what would I possibly need one of those?
4. What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic?
Ew. Sonic.
5. Do you get nervous before doctors appointments?
The last sonogram I had on my right breast made me fairly queasy. It seems my (benign) lump has grown and now has a diameter of an inch and a half-- and it's brought friends-- and though I KNOW it's harmless, seeing its shadowy vacancy slump across the sonogram monitor, I couldn't help but be quite aware of the contents of my stomach.
6. What do you think of hot dogs?
As a symbol, I enjoy them quite a lot. As an actual food, well, I don't feel so great about ingesting something composed of 80% fat and spare pig parts.
7. Favorite Christmas song?
Sarah MacLachlan's "Song for a Winter Night"-- it's so ethereal and lovely.
8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning?
My one blessed cup of Misha's Rt. 66 Blend dark roast, followed by umpteen cups of green tea.
9. Can you do push ups?
I can do about a million of the girly on-your-knees kind (ha! surprised?) and a handful of the full-out kind. But when you can balance your body weight on the backs of your arms, push-ups seem rather superfluous.
10. What do you order at Starbucks?
In general, I boycott Starbucks and other big-chain coffee shops. The smaller local roasters typically have better coffee and cooler people, plus I like my money to support indie business anyway. But, in a pinch, if Starbuck's is all I've got, I'll get a Venti hot tea of some variety.
11. What’s your favorite piece of jewelry?
About the only two pieces I wear every day are a pair of diamond stud earrings my dad gave me and this terrific DKNY pave rhinestone watch. I heart that watch.
12. Favorite hobby?
This damn blog. Though, I wish it was my full-time occupation, and not so much a hobby.
13. How do you eat your eggs?
Hard-boiled, yolks only. Or in an omelet with sharp cheddar, spinach, mushrooms and the hottest damn salsa I can find.
14. Do you have A.D.D.?
I think I have Attention Surplus Disorder. There's a hamster who lives in my brain. He obsesses over little nodes of mono-focus and, like most hamsters, he's nocturnal. So, no.
15. What’s one trait you hate about yourself?
That I can't feel as independent as I want to be without, ultimately, getting lonely.
16. Your eye color?
Changeable blue. Sometimes grayer, sometimes greener.
17. Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment?
a) I'm so glad I'm not in Columbus. b) I really need to start my yoga practice and not waste so much time in the internet this morning (uh, afternoon). c) I'm dehydrated ...should maybe procrastinate from doing yoga for another half-hour while I drink water.
18. Name 3 things you bought yesterday?
A Venti hot tea at the Columbus airport Starbucks (yes, I felt pinched), 1/30th of a month's worth of living space even though I did not actually set foot in said living space until after midnight, and room service (shitty) coffee b/c housekeeping forgot to refill my (even shittier) coffee supply in my hotel room.
19. Three drinks you regularly drink?
Water, green tea and red wine
20. Current worry right now?
Dread about having to spend a large portion of my summer back in Columbus.
21. Current hate right now?
Columbus.
22. Favorite place to be?
Tie between home and Tucson. In comparison to Columbus, my god! I love DC!
23. How did you bring in the New Years?
After having spent the lion's share of December with either a buzz or a hangover, I boycotted NYE. And I slept and slept and slept. It was a really good choice.
24. Where would you like to go?
Tucson. I need to bake the Columbus out of me!
25. Name three people who will complete this?
Not tagging anyone, but I hope some friendly fellow bloggers will pick up the cue. C'mon, guys...
26. Do you own slippers?
They are a necessity. I'd prefer to go barefoot but my floors are too cold. I have a falling-apart beige pair, an insane pair with big pink and purple polka dots that my mom gave me and the ones I have on at the moment are fur-lined and kinda pinkish colored.
27. What shirt are you wearing?
A turquoise tank top. Sans bra.
28. Do you like sleeping on satin sheets?
No-- they don't retain body heat the way cotton does.
29. Can you whistle?
Yeah, but only weakly and tunelessly. As though I am half-heartedly calling my dog.
30. Favorite color?
That deep pendulous blue the Tucson sky acquires during the hottest months.
31. Would you be a pirate?
Only if you added "wench" to my title.
32. What songs do you sing in the shower?
I can't hold music in my head. I probably talk to myself in the shower, though. Fuck. I must talk to myself a lot. I get busted by fellow drivers all the time when I'm doing it alone in my car.
33. Favorite girl’s name?
Mejelia. This is the name of the plant that sits on my desk in my office. The "j" is pronounced with an "h" sound. Cuz it's Spanish.
34. Favorite boy’s name?
Peanutio P. That would be my favorite nickname for my dog, Noah and he's a boy so that works, right? The "t" in "Peanutio" is pronounced like "sh." Cuz it's a made-up Marjorieism and I said so.
35. What’s in your pocket right now?
They don't put pockets in girls' underwear. And now you know I write blog posts in my underwear.
36. Last thing that made you laugh?
Me calling myself a wench up there in Question #31.
37. Most frequently dialed phone number?
Jon's
38. Worst injury you’ve ever had?
One Thanksgiving morning when I was in high school, I was walking and reading (a thing I have not yet learned better than to do) and I walked straight into the door jamb between my bedroom and my bathroom. Four of my toes went on one side of the door jamb and my pinky toe went on the other side. I broke the SHIT out of that pinky toe. One whole side of my foot turned black and I got out of PE for, like, 6 weeks! Wow, that's lame. Given the walking-while-reading predilection, I guess I'm remarkably non-accident prone...though, my parents do tell a story about me, at about 18 months, putting my palm flat upside a Weber grill. That can't have been pretty, but fortunately, I seem to have blocked it out.
39. Do you love where you live?
I do. I do! Thank Jimmy in heaven that I don't live in Columbus. Oh. Have I mentioned that I hate Columbus?
40. How many televisions do you have?
Three-- though, one of them is in my storage closet.
41. Who is your loudest friend?
I don't think any of my friends are inordinately loud. Does that mean I'm the loud one? I don't really think that's the case... though, I will sometimes say something borderline inappropriate just a little TOO loudly-- but that's only because it's funny when strangers look at you like you're a freak or a pervert.
42. How many dogs do you have?
One-ish. El Senor Peanutio P. (aka Noah) is currently living with his Granmom and Grandad. They love him, I know, but I continue to pine for his little mushface ever so much.
43. What are you thrilled about right now?
And here we find the line at which I draw the privacy curtain over this blog. Just not quite willing to share right now. This is my best Mona Lisa smile.
44. Do you have a crush on someone?
A life without a constant stream of crushes could only be made more miserable if one was both without a crush and living in Columbus. So, yes.
45. What is your favorite book?
Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things has held the honors for the last few years. Ondaatje's Coming Through Slaughter has come close to dethroning her.
46. What is your favorite candy?
Those hardcore spicy ginger chewy things. Or crystallized tamarind.
47. Favorite Sports Team?
Not applicable. Though, some boys I knew in college had an intramural basketball team called The Yiddish Ponies. As most of them were short Jewish guys, they were the worst in the league. I guess I can root for them because that name STILL makes me laugh. Yay, Yiddish Ponies.
48. What song do you want played at your funeral?
"You Sexy Thing" by Hot Chocolate.
49. What were you doing at 12 AM last night?
Checking my email after having been dolefully sans internet access for several hours. Oh, and opening a box of shoes that had arrived at my doorstep while I was in Columbus. They're hot.
50. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up?
DC beds are SOOOOOO much better than Columbus beds. And rapidly on the heels of that one came, Oh my effin' god! It's effin' freezing in here! I shoulda left the heat on last night!
And on a similar note, I love those email questionnaires that you send to your friends full of random questions, in hopes that they'll email you back with all the intimate details of their lives. For the most part, I could give a crap about the mundanities of a lot of my friends' lives-- the favorite color, where they were born, what they wanted to be when they were kids-- that kind of stuff. But the more random and/or intimate questions I find fascinating. So, this morning, I found one such questionnaire posted on a blog (one of little interest, or I'd have linked it) and I figured I'd fill it out and post it. That way, my reader(s) can get a bite of me and respond in like fashion without me imposing the email request upon them. Though, friends, I hope to see a response on a couple key blogs in the near future.
Here we go:
1. Do you like blue cheese?
BLEU cheese! It's spelled "BLEU cheese"! And yes, I heart it. Even though crumbling it over salads makes my fingers smell gross.
2. Have you ever smoked heroin?
Please. I've never so much as smoked a cigarette. Honest!
3. Do you own a gun?
For what would I possibly need one of those?
4. What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic?
Ew. Sonic.
5. Do you get nervous before doctors appointments?
The last sonogram I had on my right breast made me fairly queasy. It seems my (benign) lump has grown and now has a diameter of an inch and a half-- and it's brought friends-- and though I KNOW it's harmless, seeing its shadowy vacancy slump across the sonogram monitor, I couldn't help but be quite aware of the contents of my stomach.
6. What do you think of hot dogs?
As a symbol, I enjoy them quite a lot. As an actual food, well, I don't feel so great about ingesting something composed of 80% fat and spare pig parts.
7. Favorite Christmas song?
Sarah MacLachlan's "Song for a Winter Night"-- it's so ethereal and lovely.
8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning?
My one blessed cup of Misha's Rt. 66 Blend dark roast, followed by umpteen cups of green tea.
9. Can you do push ups?
I can do about a million of the girly on-your-knees kind (ha! surprised?) and a handful of the full-out kind. But when you can balance your body weight on the backs of your arms, push-ups seem rather superfluous.
10. What do you order at Starbucks?
In general, I boycott Starbucks and other big-chain coffee shops. The smaller local roasters typically have better coffee and cooler people, plus I like my money to support indie business anyway. But, in a pinch, if Starbuck's is all I've got, I'll get a Venti hot tea of some variety.
11. What’s your favorite piece of jewelry?
About the only two pieces I wear every day are a pair of diamond stud earrings my dad gave me and this terrific DKNY pave rhinestone watch. I heart that watch.
12. Favorite hobby?
This damn blog. Though, I wish it was my full-time occupation, and not so much a hobby.
13. How do you eat your eggs?
Hard-boiled, yolks only. Or in an omelet with sharp cheddar, spinach, mushrooms and the hottest damn salsa I can find.
14. Do you have A.D.D.?
I think I have Attention Surplus Disorder. There's a hamster who lives in my brain. He obsesses over little nodes of mono-focus and, like most hamsters, he's nocturnal. So, no.
15. What’s one trait you hate about yourself?
That I can't feel as independent as I want to be without, ultimately, getting lonely.
16. Your eye color?
Changeable blue. Sometimes grayer, sometimes greener.
17. Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment?
a) I'm so glad I'm not in Columbus. b) I really need to start my yoga practice and not waste so much time in the internet this morning (uh, afternoon). c) I'm dehydrated ...should maybe procrastinate from doing yoga for another half-hour while I drink water.
18. Name 3 things you bought yesterday?
A Venti hot tea at the Columbus airport Starbucks (yes, I felt pinched), 1/30th of a month's worth of living space even though I did not actually set foot in said living space until after midnight, and room service (shitty) coffee b/c housekeeping forgot to refill my (even shittier) coffee supply in my hotel room.
19. Three drinks you regularly drink?
Water, green tea and red wine
20. Current worry right now?
Dread about having to spend a large portion of my summer back in Columbus.
21. Current hate right now?
Columbus.
22. Favorite place to be?
Tie between home and Tucson. In comparison to Columbus, my god! I love DC!
23. How did you bring in the New Years?
After having spent the lion's share of December with either a buzz or a hangover, I boycotted NYE. And I slept and slept and slept. It was a really good choice.
24. Where would you like to go?
Tucson. I need to bake the Columbus out of me!
25. Name three people who will complete this?
Not tagging anyone, but I hope some friendly fellow bloggers will pick up the cue. C'mon, guys...
26. Do you own slippers?
They are a necessity. I'd prefer to go barefoot but my floors are too cold. I have a falling-apart beige pair, an insane pair with big pink and purple polka dots that my mom gave me and the ones I have on at the moment are fur-lined and kinda pinkish colored.
27. What shirt are you wearing?
A turquoise tank top. Sans bra.
28. Do you like sleeping on satin sheets?
No-- they don't retain body heat the way cotton does.
29. Can you whistle?
Yeah, but only weakly and tunelessly. As though I am half-heartedly calling my dog.
30. Favorite color?
That deep pendulous blue the Tucson sky acquires during the hottest months.
31. Would you be a pirate?
Only if you added "wench" to my title.
32. What songs do you sing in the shower?
I can't hold music in my head. I probably talk to myself in the shower, though. Fuck. I must talk to myself a lot. I get busted by fellow drivers all the time when I'm doing it alone in my car.
33. Favorite girl’s name?
Mejelia. This is the name of the plant that sits on my desk in my office. The "j" is pronounced with an "h" sound. Cuz it's Spanish.
34. Favorite boy’s name?
Peanutio P. That would be my favorite nickname for my dog, Noah and he's a boy so that works, right? The "t" in "Peanutio" is pronounced like "sh." Cuz it's a made-up Marjorieism and I said so.
35. What’s in your pocket right now?
They don't put pockets in girls' underwear. And now you know I write blog posts in my underwear.
36. Last thing that made you laugh?
Me calling myself a wench up there in Question #31.
37. Most frequently dialed phone number?
Jon's
38. Worst injury you’ve ever had?
One Thanksgiving morning when I was in high school, I was walking and reading (a thing I have not yet learned better than to do) and I walked straight into the door jamb between my bedroom and my bathroom. Four of my toes went on one side of the door jamb and my pinky toe went on the other side. I broke the SHIT out of that pinky toe. One whole side of my foot turned black and I got out of PE for, like, 6 weeks! Wow, that's lame. Given the walking-while-reading predilection, I guess I'm remarkably non-accident prone...though, my parents do tell a story about me, at about 18 months, putting my palm flat upside a Weber grill. That can't have been pretty, but fortunately, I seem to have blocked it out.
39. Do you love where you live?
I do. I do! Thank Jimmy in heaven that I don't live in Columbus. Oh. Have I mentioned that I hate Columbus?
40. How many televisions do you have?
Three-- though, one of them is in my storage closet.
41. Who is your loudest friend?
I don't think any of my friends are inordinately loud. Does that mean I'm the loud one? I don't really think that's the case... though, I will sometimes say something borderline inappropriate just a little TOO loudly-- but that's only because it's funny when strangers look at you like you're a freak or a pervert.
42. How many dogs do you have?
One-ish. El Senor Peanutio P. (aka Noah) is currently living with his Granmom and Grandad. They love him, I know, but I continue to pine for his little mushface ever so much.
43. What are you thrilled about right now?
And here we find the line at which I draw the privacy curtain over this blog. Just not quite willing to share right now. This is my best Mona Lisa smile.
44. Do you have a crush on someone?
A life without a constant stream of crushes could only be made more miserable if one was both without a crush and living in Columbus. So, yes.
45. What is your favorite book?
Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things has held the honors for the last few years. Ondaatje's Coming Through Slaughter has come close to dethroning her.
46. What is your favorite candy?
Those hardcore spicy ginger chewy things. Or crystallized tamarind.
47. Favorite Sports Team?
Not applicable. Though, some boys I knew in college had an intramural basketball team called The Yiddish Ponies. As most of them were short Jewish guys, they were the worst in the league. I guess I can root for them because that name STILL makes me laugh. Yay, Yiddish Ponies.
48. What song do you want played at your funeral?
"You Sexy Thing" by Hot Chocolate.
49. What were you doing at 12 AM last night?
Checking my email after having been dolefully sans internet access for several hours. Oh, and opening a box of shoes that had arrived at my doorstep while I was in Columbus. They're hot.
50. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up?
DC beds are SOOOOOO much better than Columbus beds. And rapidly on the heels of that one came, Oh my effin' god! It's effin' freezing in here! I shoulda left the heat on last night!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
This one's for Jen
Maybe I really only love strippers when they're good and angry. It's not that I don't *like* them at other moments-- but there's something truly heady about catching a (former) stripper in a delicious moment of righteous indignation. Case in point.
Once again, Chelsea G. has hit the nail on the head about why I-- and others-- find the insipid euphemism "va-jay-jay" truly repugnant. Really, ladies. There are just better words! Hell, I've even got one of the best right up there in that shimmeringly punny Eleni Sikelianos quotation in this blog's title banner. In fact, here's a colorful list! Yes, the offensive moniker is included in this list, along with several other cheesy, annoying ones, but there's also a healthy mix of sexier ones. Knock yourselves out. Profane on, my sisters!
Now, it should come as no surprise that I'm incredibly comfortable with the word "vagina." But really, what gives about this impulse to dumb down, demystify and sanitize female genitalia? Especially with a word that has rapidly become such a favorite amidst my own gender? Honestly, no self-respecting MAN would ever call one (especially one he was desirous of penetrating) by such an effacing nickname. And if some guy ever tells me I have a pretty va-jay-jay, you can bet he ain't ever seeing it...ever...again! (Yes, that's both advice and a threat.)
Jen had a great post on this very topic on her old, now-defunct blog... and I'd link to it because she's every bit as pissed off and resplendent as Chelsea G. is... but alas, it seems to have disappeared into the great information ether. Sad.
Jen, mon cheri, care to reprise your wise and witty assertions?
Goddamn it. It's really no wonder why I get so damn many hits from people looking for porn. I'm sure I'm a sad, sad, SAD disappointment!
NB: I did not mean to suggest that Jen is like Chelsea G. in that she is a former stripper, but rather, only that she is equally effulgent when feeling incendiary. Not that she couldn't be a stripper if she felt like it... and not that she feels like it... Shit. I'm digging myself a huge hole. (Ha! I didn't really intend that pun, but now that it's here, I'm happy to see it.) Ugh. Sorry.
Once again, Chelsea G. has hit the nail on the head about why I-- and others-- find the insipid euphemism "va-jay-jay" truly repugnant. Really, ladies. There are just better words! Hell, I've even got one of the best right up there in that shimmeringly punny Eleni Sikelianos quotation in this blog's title banner. In fact, here's a colorful list! Yes, the offensive moniker is included in this list, along with several other cheesy, annoying ones, but there's also a healthy mix of sexier ones. Knock yourselves out. Profane on, my sisters!
Now, it should come as no surprise that I'm incredibly comfortable with the word "vagina." But really, what gives about this impulse to dumb down, demystify and sanitize female genitalia? Especially with a word that has rapidly become such a favorite amidst my own gender? Honestly, no self-respecting MAN would ever call one (especially one he was desirous of penetrating) by such an effacing nickname. And if some guy ever tells me I have a pretty va-jay-jay, you can bet he ain't ever seeing it...ever...again! (Yes, that's both advice and a threat.)
Jen had a great post on this very topic on her old, now-defunct blog... and I'd link to it because she's every bit as pissed off and resplendent as Chelsea G. is... but alas, it seems to have disappeared into the great information ether. Sad.
Jen, mon cheri, care to reprise your wise and witty assertions?
Goddamn it. It's really no wonder why I get so damn many hits from people looking for porn. I'm sure I'm a sad, sad, SAD disappointment!
NB: I did not mean to suggest that Jen is like Chelsea G. in that she is a former stripper, but rather, only that she is equally effulgent when feeling incendiary. Not that she couldn't be a stripper if she felt like it... and not that she feels like it... Shit. I'm digging myself a huge hole. (Ha! I didn't really intend that pun, but now that it's here, I'm happy to see it.) Ugh. Sorry.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Let me just call myself the prodigal daughter, as I'll be returning.
It's official.
I've booked my tickets. I've gotten leave from my supervisor. I've warned my parents that I'll be camping out in their spare room. I've secured the company of Jon, my usual sparring partner in all things film-related.
Be forewarned: 2008 Nashville Film Festival, here come the brown rabbits, half-rabid and prepared to consume you whole! I still can't afford Sundance, but as this thing's grown to be the 4th biggest film festival in the country and attracts scads of truly fine filmic works, you can color me excited! Pinkly so!
If I see anything near as good as last year's Milk in the Land, I'll consider it worth the trip.
Oooh, I'm all a-tremble!
I've booked my tickets. I've gotten leave from my supervisor. I've warned my parents that I'll be camping out in their spare room. I've secured the company of Jon, my usual sparring partner in all things film-related.
Be forewarned: 2008 Nashville Film Festival, here come the brown rabbits, half-rabid and prepared to consume you whole! I still can't afford Sundance, but as this thing's grown to be the 4th biggest film festival in the country and attracts scads of truly fine filmic works, you can color me excited! Pinkly so!
If I see anything near as good as last year's Milk in the Land, I'll consider it worth the trip.
Oooh, I'm all a-tremble!
Friday, February 8, 2008
uh-huh
Here. Yes.
This is probably Part II of my "excerpt on the topic of loneliness" post. Probably.
NB: The best dating tip ever for men (who date women who like to wear sexy shoes) is to be found here.
This is probably Part II of my "excerpt on the topic of loneliness" post. Probably.
NB: The best dating tip ever for men (who date women who like to wear sexy shoes) is to be found here.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
The video made flesh
Jon, was it on your recommendation that I watched Videodrome? I think it was. While you were doubtlessly watching some well-padded, helmeted, heavily ritualized homoerotica this evening, I plugged this little bit of weirdness into my DVD player. I can see why you liked it, as it seems so much like an outcropping of Shivers and a herald of eXistenZ, two other oddities from the mind of David Cronenberg that have seemed to interest you. As usual, I can't so much give a thumbs up/thumbs down, but I will say that Cronenberg's recurring images seem worth discussing.
So tell me: what exactly is the deal with James Woods having a vagina on his stomach? And isn't it just so interesting that it's the place where he keeps his gun? And isn't it interesting when that which is phallic is associated with that which brings death-- violent death, even?! And isn't it also interesting that the gun which so often penetrates his belly-vagina is the instrument of his own death? And does Debbie Harry not have the sexiest speaking voice under the sun?
OK, I should back up. For my readers who aren't Jon, (who are probably limited to my mom... and one funny little Republican) I suppose I should assume that Videodrome isn't high on too many peoples' must-see lists. Certainly not my mother's and I would hedge my bets that it's not on Joe's either. And therefore I should explain it and those other aforementioned Cronenberg ventures. Let's see: Shivers is about an invasion of little alien parasites that look like a cross between giant slugs and bloody severed penises. And once one of those little fuckers (yeah, entendre intended) gets in you, you suddenly become a sex-zombie and are, basically, a walking orgy unto yourself. The high point of this film is when all the imagistic implications of the parasites are fulfilled: one of them assaults a woman in the bathtub, crawling along the bottom of the tub between her spread legs, unbeknownst to her, until, hey! Surprise! It finds a logical point of entry.
And then eXistenZ, a much more recent endeavor ('99), stars Jennifer Jason Leigh and Jude Law as players of this funky bio-gaming device, into which they literally plug their bodies. On a conceptual level, this reminds me of a piece by the artist Nicole Eisenman, in which she cut a hole in a pinball machine and if you won, your prize was that you got to fuck the machine. Assuming you had the proper penetrative parts, that is. (On a side note, I got to visit her studio in NYC shortly after her huge success in the 1995 Whitney Biennial. She was, at the time, working on a series of little drawings of Jesus fucking Christ-- in the most literal sense you can imagine. I can't help it-- I thought they were really funny.) Anyway, it's been a while since I've seen this movie, but as I recall, it's one of those stories that loops back and around on itself and you're never entirely sure when the characters are "in the game" or living their real lives. It's one of those Matrix-y questioning-your-existence, you-just-might-be-a-brain-in-a-jar-being-prodded-by-electrodes-for-all- you-know kind of things. But, the game unit is super fleshy-looking and a little slimy and draws a clear analogy to other slimy, fleshy, ominous bodily orifices we all know and love.
OK, so: Videodrome. This one stars James Woods as a guy in charge of procuring illicit videos for a kinky cable network, specializing in porn, torture, and, as it turns out, snuff films. And Debbie Harry, who is mainly there just to be luscious. She is just so effin' cool. Anyway, he stumbled upon a weird pirated broadcast of people being tortured and killed. Soon thereafter, he begins to hallucinate-- or so we think. He delves even further into an underworld of which he, given his job, was always destined to be part. And we learn that the transmissions are supposedly causing a brain tumor, which causes the hallucinations. And a bunch of stuff happens that I didn't quite follow, during the course of which, I guess, he takes on the responsibility of eradicating the syndicate behind the transmissions. However, he's also in the process of bodily transforming into some human/VCR hybrid (either he really is, or his hallucinations make him think so--- it's hard to tell). And this is how he gets a vagina in his stomach. It's the port for these hilarious-looking things that are basically video cassettes that are pinkish and pulse with life-- a little fetus-like, one might say. One bad guy shoves one of these cassettes into the James Woods character and the belly-vagina actually eats the guy's hand. Vagina dentata myth, anyone? But, also, Woods' character puts his gun inside the slit in his stomach for safe-keeping. And when he pulls it out-- god! It drips with what looks like a mixture that would be familiar to even the most casual of porn viewers-- KY jelly and feminine excretions, instead of the blood one might expect to find inside a chest cavity. Really, the image couldn't be more obvious. And it is with this gun that he kills a bunch of people and then himself. Because cocks are big, scary instruments of death and violence. Particularly if you happen to have a vagina. In your belly. Get it?
So, I know my overall tone in this post is hopelessly glib, but I guess I feel like I'm quite removed from the sexual anxieties as played out in this film. And in Cronenberg's other forays into horror and science fiction. Hello, penises of the world! I'm not scared of you! And I really kinda hope you're not scared of me either.
So, Jon, as usual, I can't seem to produce an actual opinion about this movie. Certainly, I found it interesting. But I don't think I was supposed to find it funny, was I? Please don't be mean to me in my comments thread. I'd put a hopefully, expectantly, innocently grinning emoticon here, but emoticons are beneath me. And I don't think there's a please-don't-hurt-me emoticon anyway.
And wouldn't you have rather been here watching movies with me than watching dumb ol' football anyway?
So tell me: what exactly is the deal with James Woods having a vagina on his stomach? And isn't it just so interesting that it's the place where he keeps his gun? And isn't it interesting when that which is phallic is associated with that which brings death-- violent death, even?! And isn't it also interesting that the gun which so often penetrates his belly-vagina is the instrument of his own death? And does Debbie Harry not have the sexiest speaking voice under the sun?
OK, I should back up. For my readers who aren't Jon, (who are probably limited to my mom... and one funny little Republican) I suppose I should assume that Videodrome isn't high on too many peoples' must-see lists. Certainly not my mother's and I would hedge my bets that it's not on Joe's either. And therefore I should explain it and those other aforementioned Cronenberg ventures. Let's see: Shivers is about an invasion of little alien parasites that look like a cross between giant slugs and bloody severed penises. And once one of those little fuckers (yeah, entendre intended) gets in you, you suddenly become a sex-zombie and are, basically, a walking orgy unto yourself. The high point of this film is when all the imagistic implications of the parasites are fulfilled: one of them assaults a woman in the bathtub, crawling along the bottom of the tub between her spread legs, unbeknownst to her, until, hey! Surprise! It finds a logical point of entry.
And then eXistenZ, a much more recent endeavor ('99), stars Jennifer Jason Leigh and Jude Law as players of this funky bio-gaming device, into which they literally plug their bodies. On a conceptual level, this reminds me of a piece by the artist Nicole Eisenman, in which she cut a hole in a pinball machine and if you won, your prize was that you got to fuck the machine. Assuming you had the proper penetrative parts, that is. (On a side note, I got to visit her studio in NYC shortly after her huge success in the 1995 Whitney Biennial. She was, at the time, working on a series of little drawings of Jesus fucking Christ-- in the most literal sense you can imagine. I can't help it-- I thought they were really funny.) Anyway, it's been a while since I've seen this movie, but as I recall, it's one of those stories that loops back and around on itself and you're never entirely sure when the characters are "in the game" or living their real lives. It's one of those Matrix-y questioning-your-existence, you-just-might-be-a-brain-in-a-jar-being-prodded-by-electrodes-for-all- you-know kind of things. But, the game unit is super fleshy-looking and a little slimy and draws a clear analogy to other slimy, fleshy, ominous bodily orifices we all know and love.
OK, so: Videodrome. This one stars James Woods as a guy in charge of procuring illicit videos for a kinky cable network, specializing in porn, torture, and, as it turns out, snuff films. And Debbie Harry, who is mainly there just to be luscious. She is just so effin' cool. Anyway, he stumbled upon a weird pirated broadcast of people being tortured and killed. Soon thereafter, he begins to hallucinate-- or so we think. He delves even further into an underworld of which he, given his job, was always destined to be part. And we learn that the transmissions are supposedly causing a brain tumor, which causes the hallucinations. And a bunch of stuff happens that I didn't quite follow, during the course of which, I guess, he takes on the responsibility of eradicating the syndicate behind the transmissions. However, he's also in the process of bodily transforming into some human/VCR hybrid (either he really is, or his hallucinations make him think so--- it's hard to tell). And this is how he gets a vagina in his stomach. It's the port for these hilarious-looking things that are basically video cassettes that are pinkish and pulse with life-- a little fetus-like, one might say. One bad guy shoves one of these cassettes into the James Woods character and the belly-vagina actually eats the guy's hand. Vagina dentata myth, anyone? But, also, Woods' character puts his gun inside the slit in his stomach for safe-keeping. And when he pulls it out-- god! It drips with what looks like a mixture that would be familiar to even the most casual of porn viewers-- KY jelly and feminine excretions, instead of the blood one might expect to find inside a chest cavity. Really, the image couldn't be more obvious. And it is with this gun that he kills a bunch of people and then himself. Because cocks are big, scary instruments of death and violence. Particularly if you happen to have a vagina. In your belly. Get it?
So, I know my overall tone in this post is hopelessly glib, but I guess I feel like I'm quite removed from the sexual anxieties as played out in this film. And in Cronenberg's other forays into horror and science fiction. Hello, penises of the world! I'm not scared of you! And I really kinda hope you're not scared of me either.
So, Jon, as usual, I can't seem to produce an actual opinion about this movie. Certainly, I found it interesting. But I don't think I was supposed to find it funny, was I? Please don't be mean to me in my comments thread. I'd put a hopefully, expectantly, innocently grinning emoticon here, but emoticons are beneath me. And I don't think there's a please-don't-hurt-me emoticon anyway.
And wouldn't you have rather been here watching movies with me than watching dumb ol' football anyway?
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