Poor Chelsea. This is a pain I, myself, know all too well. Is it some sort of divine retribution that we girls who embrace our inner sluts seem to get smote by this particular affliction all too often? Maybe god really doesn't like fornicators after all?
Her description of the misery is pretty accurate. Except she forgot to mention the sensation that your vagina is lined with sandpaper. And she forgot about the part wherein your entire abdomen convulses and spazzes out in the most all-consuming manner whenever you even attempt to pee. And she didn't really mention the "you know what causes this, don't you, you dirty, dirty, filthy whore" glare you get from your doctor. Sheesh. You may as well go in there bimonthly with recurrent and alternating cases of crabs and syphilis.
OK, OK... having your doctor think you're a whore is a *little* bit satisfying...
(Having anyone think you're a whore is, you know, kinda satisfying.)
UTI factoid/UPDATE: E. Coli is the most common bacteria found in the urine of women with UTIs. That's what grows in fecal matter. It's really incredibly poor evolutionary planning that the orifices that produce fecal matter and urine are so close to each other. It's just a recipe for, if not disaster, deeply problematic discomfort. Furthermore, as I continue in my reading of my stolen copy of The Omnivore's Dilemma, I'm learning much about this industrious little bacterium. Here's a little gem I've gleaned from Michael Pollan's research (for context, I'll tell you that at this point in the book, he's hanging out in one of the most godforsaken landscapes to be found in this existential plain: the commercial cattle feedlot):
One of the bacteria that almost certainly resides in the manure I'm standing in is particularly lethal to humans. Escherichia coli O157:H7 is a relatively new strain of the common intestinal bacteria (no one had seen it before 1980) that thrives in feedlot cattle, 40 percent of which carry it in their gut. Ingesting as few as ten of these microbes can cause fatal infection; they produce a toxin that destroys human kidneys.
Most of the microbes that reside in the gut of a cow and find their way into our food get killed off by the strong acids in our stomachs, since they evolved to live in the neutral pH environment of the rumen [the multi-chambered stomach cows have that allows them to digest grass, their natural diet]. But the rumen of a corn-fed feedlot steer is nearly as acidic as our own stomachs, and in this new, man-made environment new acid-resistant strains of E. coli, of which O157:H7 is one, have evolved--yet another creature recruited by nature to absorb the excess biomass coming off the Farm Belt. The problem with these bugs is that they can shake off the acid bath in our stomachs-- and then go on to kill us. By acidifying the rumen with corn, we've broken down one of our food chain's most important barriers to infection. Yet another solution turned into a problem.
Fantastic. Be prepared, fair readers. I'm on the verge of one of my semi-annual freak-outs about the world's food and water supply. Once I get this effin' antibiotic out of my system (yes, I'm REALLY feeling Chelsea's pain), I might have to fast again. And remember what fun that was last year? (See most of my posts from May 2007 for remembrances of food deprivations past).
Showing posts with label stripper-literati. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stripper-literati. Show all posts
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Exasperatedly getting on the anti-Gottlieb bandwagon
More than one of my friends have emailed me links to this article, wondering what I, a person who writes a lot of gobbledegook about female empowerment and 21st Century feminism, think about this Lori Gottlieb woman and her ideas about settling for Mr. Eh, instead of Mr. Fantastic. I've chosen not to write any posts about the article, despite the fact that, apparently, over 600 other blogs HAVE posted about it. I didn't want to write about it because I didn't want to dignify it.
I think it's one of the stupidest buckets of horse manure I've ever read. I actually wondered, during my initial perusal, whether it was meant as satire. I mean, no woman-- or man, for that matter-- really thinks that marrying a person about whom you can muster little more than indifference is preferable to being single. Right? Right? No man or woman is really so desperate to procreate, in this age of population explosions, war and pestilence, that he or she would sentence him or herself to a lifetime of boredom, mediocre fucking, bickering and other low-level irritations. Would they?
I'll concede that I personally am probably a little more singlehood-friendly than a lot of my friends are. No matter what my mother says, I ain't giving up the freedoms of being single just because it would be nice to have someone around upon whom I could depend when my car is in need or repair, either. Yes, I get lonely. But I've been single and I've been paired up. There are good and bad aspects to both scenarios. But nothing about singlehood is so bad that I'd jump into a meringue dress for the first dude who knew his way around a clogged kitchen disposer. And nothing about couplehood is so enticing that holding out for an honest-to-god Mr. Fantastic seems unreasonable. Mind you, my idea of Mr. Fantastic may be atypical, as he is certainly NOT a Mr. Perfect, nor does he really have much in common with any fairy-tale heroes. All I'm looking for is a person a) who can keep me in steady supply of orgasms (it should be clear by now that I'm decidedly committed to returning the favor(s)), b) who can keep up with me in a conversation without making me stop to define my word choice every 20 seconds and c) who isn't a totally insecure, combative and/or clingy dickhead (hey, it wouldn't actually break my heart if he was, you know, kind). It's ultimately not the tallest of orders.
So, essentially, I didn't really want to write about the article because I thought it represented nothing more than either the deranged and misguided rantings of one really fucking hard-up chick, or it was one big fat joke designed to provoke 600 bloggers into making a spectable of it, land Ms. Gottlieb a book-and-movie deal, and fill my email box with shocked-and-appalled commentary from my friends.
But, unfortunately, plenty of folks are giving it creedence. Creedence enough to actually land Ms. Gottlieb that book-and-movie deal, and not because people think the idea of "settling" is hilarious (as I do). I'm still having an awfully difficult time taking it seriously, though. Luckily for me, Chelsea G. has come to the rescue with a handy and thoughtful rebuttal. I strongly suggest you all read it, as she efficiently unpacks most of Gottlieb's bafflingly stupid assumptions.
Chelsea does miss one of Gottlieb's assumptions, though. She doesn't really say anything about the way Gottlieb seems to be suggesting that the actual value of a woman depreciates with every passing day. Sure, as we approach menopause, we become less reproductively viable. Our bodies become less sexually appealing, yes, absolutely. That's a given. But I find the notion that I'm only marriage material (read: worthy of being loved) so long as my uterus represents potential babies to be rather dehumanizing. This is not, perhaps, a tremendously ground-breaking sentiment, but there you have it.
Blech. So, there. I've done my feminist-blogger duty. I've acknowledged that damn article. Quite frankly, I feel a little sullied by the implied legitimacy that my giving you a link to it bestows.
Can I please go back to thinking it's a joke now? Ha ha ha. "Settling." Hil-AAAYYRR-ious! That Lori Gottlieb. Such a little prankster monkey!
I think it's one of the stupidest buckets of horse manure I've ever read. I actually wondered, during my initial perusal, whether it was meant as satire. I mean, no woman-- or man, for that matter-- really thinks that marrying a person about whom you can muster little more than indifference is preferable to being single. Right? Right? No man or woman is really so desperate to procreate, in this age of population explosions, war and pestilence, that he or she would sentence him or herself to a lifetime of boredom, mediocre fucking, bickering and other low-level irritations. Would they?
I'll concede that I personally am probably a little more singlehood-friendly than a lot of my friends are. No matter what my mother says, I ain't giving up the freedoms of being single just because it would be nice to have someone around upon whom I could depend when my car is in need or repair, either. Yes, I get lonely. But I've been single and I've been paired up. There are good and bad aspects to both scenarios. But nothing about singlehood is so bad that I'd jump into a meringue dress for the first dude who knew his way around a clogged kitchen disposer. And nothing about couplehood is so enticing that holding out for an honest-to-god Mr. Fantastic seems unreasonable. Mind you, my idea of Mr. Fantastic may be atypical, as he is certainly NOT a Mr. Perfect, nor does he really have much in common with any fairy-tale heroes. All I'm looking for is a person a) who can keep me in steady supply of orgasms (it should be clear by now that I'm decidedly committed to returning the favor(s)), b) who can keep up with me in a conversation without making me stop to define my word choice every 20 seconds and c) who isn't a totally insecure, combative and/or clingy dickhead (hey, it wouldn't actually break my heart if he was, you know, kind). It's ultimately not the tallest of orders.
So, essentially, I didn't really want to write about the article because I thought it represented nothing more than either the deranged and misguided rantings of one really fucking hard-up chick, or it was one big fat joke designed to provoke 600 bloggers into making a spectable of it, land Ms. Gottlieb a book-and-movie deal, and fill my email box with shocked-and-appalled commentary from my friends.
But, unfortunately, plenty of folks are giving it creedence. Creedence enough to actually land Ms. Gottlieb that book-and-movie deal, and not because people think the idea of "settling" is hilarious (as I do). I'm still having an awfully difficult time taking it seriously, though. Luckily for me, Chelsea G. has come to the rescue with a handy and thoughtful rebuttal. I strongly suggest you all read it, as she efficiently unpacks most of Gottlieb's bafflingly stupid assumptions.
Chelsea does miss one of Gottlieb's assumptions, though. She doesn't really say anything about the way Gottlieb seems to be suggesting that the actual value of a woman depreciates with every passing day. Sure, as we approach menopause, we become less reproductively viable. Our bodies become less sexually appealing, yes, absolutely. That's a given. But I find the notion that I'm only marriage material (read: worthy of being loved) so long as my uterus represents potential babies to be rather dehumanizing. This is not, perhaps, a tremendously ground-breaking sentiment, but there you have it.
Blech. So, there. I've done my feminist-blogger duty. I've acknowledged that damn article. Quite frankly, I feel a little sullied by the implied legitimacy that my giving you a link to it bestows.
Can I please go back to thinking it's a joke now? Ha ha ha. "Settling." Hil-AAAYYRR-ious! That Lori Gottlieb. Such a little prankster monkey!
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Damn the Man! Rave on! Rave on! Save the Empire!
A couple of nights ago, I got stood up. Hard to believe, I know, given my undeniable nerd-tastic allure. I'll allow he had a reasonable reason, but that doesn't mean I'm above milking it a little. Really, I mention it now only because I'm sort of hoping this modestly public (and very gentle) guilt trip will win me a (not so gentle) spankin' at some point in the future. Well, a girl can dream, right? And drop hints?
In any case, faced with a lonely Thursday evening, I had a choice. I figured I could either do some internet shopping for vibrators so as to assuage my pining... or I could watch a movie about suicide. Yep, I chose the latter. And a couple of other movies, too. I haven't done a film round-up in a while anyway, so maybe it's time for some reviews-in-short. Yeah?
First up is the aforementioned suicide film. Wristcutters: ALove Story is probably one of the best comedies I've seen since Being John Malkovich. Admittedly, the ending is a little on the treacly sentimental side, but given my spring-is-coming serotonin level uptake lately, my mood's been so good that even I can stomach a little of that mushy kissy-face love crap. Moreover though, it's like a Matthea Harvey poem come to life (Pity the Bathroom Sink Its Receptivity of Human Blood?). It both despairs and smirks with regard to the human condition. It posits a world in which people who commit suicide all wind up in a parallel universe that's pretty much like a bleached-out, Southern Cali wasteland... but just a little bit worse than the one in our world. Everyone's clothes fit a little funny. Everything's a little rusty. There's an actual black hole beneath the passenger-side front seat of the car, as opposed to a metaphorical one. No one can smile. And you can bet you'll wake up with sand in your asscrack every morning. Patrick Fugit, who was saucer-eyed sweet in Almost Famous, seems to have acquired a patina of young-adult disenfranchisement that's really awfully soulful. And the music... well, between Tom Waits and Gogol Bordello (yep, same funky-ass-fantastic Russian band who had all that weirdness on the Everything Is Illuminated soundtrack), the whole movie crankily chortles at itself in pitch-perfect ennui. Also, Tom Waits has an actorly presence in this film alongside his musical one. His character might have something in common with The Chink from Even Cowgirls Get the Blues... maybe: a poker-faced sage with a missing dog and absence of dogma. With all it's idiosyncracies and malaise, there's not much about this film that doesn't appeal to my sense of what human-ness is: sweet and sad, a little put out, awash in resignation... or so it thinks, as it just can't help itself-- it seems even suicide can't squelch our ultimate instinct towards optimism. In other words, life sucks... but at least it's funny.
Next up is Dancing at the Blue Iguana. This one's been out for quite a while, but I don't think I'd really heard of it until recently. Judging from its cover, you'd think it'd be the sort of movie I'd really like: it's about strippers! Given my fixation with the profession of peeling, it's kind of too bad that I found this sad-sack movie so lackluster. It capitalizes on every stereotype of pitiful stripperhood I've ever heard. It's got the ditzy love-starved Angel, who is simply CONVINCED one of the patrons is gonna wisk her away into a life of luxury. There's the rubber-clad dominatrix who overflows her corsetry in such a way as to bely her pregnancy. There's the golden and resplendent porn star, narcotized into an automaton. There's teenage beauty, simultaneously innocent and damaged, lost to her own erotic thrall. There's the poet, thesmart one, knowing she's "better than this," but unable to walk off the stage. And there's Stormy: enigmatic and angry-- a veteran. The thing that differentiates this sort of stripper story from that of Diablo Cody's Candy Girl is its utter absence of joy (even if it's snarky joy) with regard to that which is sexual. All these women feel trapped by their vocations. Cody's narrator persona recognizes the pitfalls of the stripper life, but that recognition doesn't ruin sex for her. It doesn't even ruin stripping for her! It seems to me that there's a subtle judgmentalism underpinning the story of all these women-- as in, the only way a girl would choose this line of work for herself is if she had no alternatives. Or as if the only people pathetic enough to take off their clothes for money simply MUST be victim-y in the worst senses. And that arch, removed rendering of these women undermines my sympathy for them-- who can feel anything for a cardboard cut-out of a fallen woman? Now, this isn't to say that there's no fun to be had in the watching of this film. It's pretty much an endless parade of perfect tits-- of all sizes and remarkable symmetries. Jennifer Tilly, Kristen Bauer, Charlotte Ayanna, Daryl Hannah and Sandra Oh are ALL fairly flawlessly endowed. And here, too, the soundtrack is impressive. It's mostly slow, languid strip-grooves, with nary a pump-n-grind in the midst. Can you imagine stripping to "Lips Like Sugar?" Or something Leonard Cohen? I wonder, perhaps if there had been a pump-n-grind, though, it might have resurrected this film from its abyss of joylessness. Ah, well.
And this brings me to a little nugget of nostalgic guilty pleasure. They've been running Empire Records on cable lately. I've caught bits and pieces of it here and there-- and, I must admit, I've stopped to watch it every time. This thing was released the year I graduated high school. At the time, I pretty much thought it was the best crappy teen movie ever made. Come to think of it, I still kinda think that. I know, I know... a snob like me isn't supposed to like schlock like this. But, oh, how I do. Most of the characters in it are the sorts of people I wished I could be when I was that age-- ironically cool, slightly silly, sexy without being too pretty, pierced, foul-mouthed, irreverent, beautifully self-involved as only teenagers can be -- and fuck-ups, every one of them. I was merely nerdy and sullen (hey, at least I gave up the sullen part, eh?). I won't say that it's a good movie because, ultimately, it's nearly as formulaic as anything else in its genre. But I still heart it. And though I've sat through this movie at least 13 times in the 13 years since I first saw it, I still laugh at Brendan Sexton's voice-cracky, Staten-Island-y yawp, "My name's not fucking WAR-ren!!" And, really, what film isn't complete without a guest appearance from Gwar?
And now, you'll allow me to return to my regularly scheduled internet shopping, yes?
In any case, faced with a lonely Thursday evening, I had a choice. I figured I could either do some internet shopping for vibrators so as to assuage my pining... or I could watch a movie about suicide. Yep, I chose the latter. And a couple of other movies, too. I haven't done a film round-up in a while anyway, so maybe it's time for some reviews-in-short. Yeah?
First up is the aforementioned suicide film. Wristcutters: A
Next up is Dancing at the Blue Iguana. This one's been out for quite a while, but I don't think I'd really heard of it until recently. Judging from its cover, you'd think it'd be the sort of movie I'd really like: it's about strippers! Given my fixation with the profession of peeling, it's kind of too bad that I found this sad-sack movie so lackluster. It capitalizes on every stereotype of pitiful stripperhood I've ever heard. It's got the ditzy love-starved Angel, who is simply CONVINCED one of the patrons is gonna wisk her away into a life of luxury. There's the rubber-clad dominatrix who overflows her corsetry in such a way as to bely her pregnancy. There's the golden and resplendent porn star, narcotized into an automaton. There's teenage beauty, simultaneously innocent and damaged, lost to her own erotic thrall. There's the poet, the
And this brings me to a little nugget of nostalgic guilty pleasure. They've been running Empire Records on cable lately. I've caught bits and pieces of it here and there-- and, I must admit, I've stopped to watch it every time. This thing was released the year I graduated high school. At the time, I pretty much thought it was the best crappy teen movie ever made. Come to think of it, I still kinda think that. I know, I know... a snob like me isn't supposed to like schlock like this. But, oh, how I do. Most of the characters in it are the sorts of people I wished I could be when I was that age-- ironically cool, slightly silly, sexy without being too pretty, pierced, foul-mouthed, irreverent, beautifully self-involved as only teenagers can be -- and fuck-ups, every one of them. I was merely nerdy and sullen (hey, at least I gave up the sullen part, eh?). I won't say that it's a good movie because, ultimately, it's nearly as formulaic as anything else in its genre. But I still heart it. And though I've sat through this movie at least 13 times in the 13 years since I first saw it, I still laugh at Brendan Sexton's voice-cracky, Staten-Island-y yawp, "My name's not fucking WAR-ren!!" And, really, what film isn't complete without a guest appearance from Gwar?
And now, you'll allow me to return to my regularly scheduled internet shopping, yes?
Sunday, March 9, 2008
And where exactly WILL this line of thinking deposit me?
So, it seems that I, along with the rest of America, have developed a little crush on Diablo Cody. Move over, David Duchovny. I know, I know-- I, too, am riding our culture's wave of affection for all things stripper-iffic. I read their blogs, vehemently argue with friends that sex workers can be smart too(!) and cheer when they win Oscars. And on the urging of a friend with closer ties to the adult entertainment industry than those of which I could ever dream (let's face it, folks: my sexpottymouth blogging posture is just that--posturing (abstractly hopeful, perhaps, that it'll eventually get this nerd-girl laid (Yeah. I write a blog because it really turns dudes on. Eat me. (Please.)))), I read Ms. Cody's little memoir Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper.
So, I spent probably 5 hours, grand total, of this weekend doing just that. It's total fluff and fast reading-- it really is. She doesn't dwell too long on any one stripperly neurosis or creepy interlude with a gawker. Her experience seems to have been largely drug-free. And despite having developed a comfort with what sounds about like the stageshow version of my last pelvic exam, she seems to have emerged from her year in the erotic netherworld basically unscathed. She makes panty auctions and masturbating for your supper behind plexiglass sound downright apple-pie-like. But damnit, if the book isn't entertaining as hell. Her prose is fairly dense with puns and cultural references (ones I'm just barely cool enough to get, for the most part). If not a brilliant writer, she is, at least, a *clever* writer. "Clever" of course, being the second-worst insult one can receive in a creative writing workshop (the worst would be "precious"-- as in, "She's just so precious about her work! She really oughtta tear it apart and get at something more raw/real/tight/authentic/dangerous/new/antagonistic/scary/ragged (all synonyms for "good" (yes, antagonistic writing can still be "good."))). (Man, I'm really parens-happy tonite, aren't I?) And I don't mean "clever" as an insult here at all-- the book is legitimately funny, with its dry, matter-of-fact tone that makes any of the more risque content go down like a hot, sweet glob of.... well, I've said enough.
Christ. I've been reading altogether too much of this shit, haven't I? It's really starting to rub (one) off (ha!). Jesus! I can't stop!!
Anyhoo...
I guess what I find so appealing about Cody's story is that she is a self-described goober-- a libidinous four-eyed intellectual with pasty skin and some degree of self-consciousness about her thighs. And yet, when she was 25 or so-- long past the age at which most girls are considered prime for peelage-- she began stripping on a lark and then proceeded to quit her day job and make a living by providing sexual surrogacy for an army of penises. While I sit at home, a Cranky Spiteful Spinster at 31, and envy her the audacity and self-knowledge that allowed her to achieve a commanding ownership over her own sexuality by her mid-20s. It's taken me 6 more years and several relationships of the "learning experience" variety to even get close. And I'm not there yet. And, probably, the person of Cody isn't so evolved as her memoiristic persona-- none of us really are. But man oh man, does this book ever make me wish I it had occurred to me to take up stripping as a hobby before I started noticing the herald angels of crow's feet perching in the corners of my eyes.
Why must we wait to get brazen in our old age?
Oh, I would have made a lousy stripper anyway. I can't internalize music to save my life. I have plenty of A but a distinct deficit of T, by girlie show standards. And my body looks better naked now than it did 13 years ago, anyway. Thank you, yoga.
So much for my little Diabolic fantasy.
So, I spent probably 5 hours, grand total, of this weekend doing just that. It's total fluff and fast reading-- it really is. She doesn't dwell too long on any one stripperly neurosis or creepy interlude with a gawker. Her experience seems to have been largely drug-free. And despite having developed a comfort with what sounds about like the stageshow version of my last pelvic exam, she seems to have emerged from her year in the erotic netherworld basically unscathed. She makes panty auctions and masturbating for your supper behind plexiglass sound downright apple-pie-like. But damnit, if the book isn't entertaining as hell. Her prose is fairly dense with puns and cultural references (ones I'm just barely cool enough to get, for the most part). If not a brilliant writer, she is, at least, a *clever* writer. "Clever" of course, being the second-worst insult one can receive in a creative writing workshop (the worst would be "precious"-- as in, "She's just so precious about her work! She really oughtta tear it apart and get at something more raw/real/tight/authentic/dangerous/new/antagonistic/scary/ragged (all synonyms for "good" (yes, antagonistic writing can still be "good."))). (Man, I'm really parens-happy tonite, aren't I?) And I don't mean "clever" as an insult here at all-- the book is legitimately funny, with its dry, matter-of-fact tone that makes any of the more risque content go down like a hot, sweet glob of.... well, I've said enough.
Christ. I've been reading altogether too much of this shit, haven't I? It's really starting to rub (one) off (ha!). Jesus! I can't stop!!
Anyhoo...
I guess what I find so appealing about Cody's story is that she is a self-described goober-- a libidinous four-eyed intellectual with pasty skin and some degree of self-consciousness about her thighs. And yet, when she was 25 or so-- long past the age at which most girls are considered prime for peelage-- she began stripping on a lark and then proceeded to quit her day job and make a living by providing sexual surrogacy for an army of penises. While I sit at home, a Cranky Spiteful Spinster at 31, and envy her the audacity and self-knowledge that allowed her to achieve a commanding ownership over her own sexuality by her mid-20s. It's taken me 6 more years and several relationships of the "learning experience" variety to even get close. And I'm not there yet. And, probably, the person of Cody isn't so evolved as her memoiristic persona-- none of us really are. But man oh man, does this book ever make me wish I it had occurred to me to take up stripping as a hobby before I started noticing the herald angels of crow's feet perching in the corners of my eyes.
Why must we wait to get brazen in our old age?
Oh, I would have made a lousy stripper anyway. I can't internalize music to save my life. I have plenty of A but a distinct deficit of T, by girlie show standards. And my body looks better naked now than it did 13 years ago, anyway. Thank you, yoga.
So much for my little Diabolic fantasy.
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