Archive for the ‘I Like To Read’ Category

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The delightful priggitude of the American workplace

August 7, 2010

There’s nothing quite like the righteousness that many Americans express when it comes to office dress-codes – so readily illustrated by the comments to this older Salon advice column I noticed a while back but never commented on, until now.

As the column and the comments illustrated – a woman who works in your average office has two options: be sexy, or be taken seriously. This is actually an oversimplification, when you think about it: a worker can be sexy, as long as she follows certain norms. Cleavage, particularly if the breasts on display are substantial (smaller-chested women can get away with so much more – as one of my mother’s well-endowed friends once said to me, “but I envy Tatiana in the summer. She can wear a tiny tank-top without guys yelling ‘ho’ from cars.”), is a no-no, but heels, on the other hand, tend to go over OK. Dramatic lipstick is more tolerable than dramatic eye-makeup. And so on.

Though then again, there are exceptions, and it all depends on who is looking. In another, recent piece on Salon, Beth Aviv writes of the young woman who replaced her on her teaching job:

…All I have to say to my girlfriends is, “knee-high boots, four-inch heels,” and they scream: “We hate her.”

The truth is, I can’t really say anything bad about Alex, who’s smart, hard-working, and liked and respected by her students and the teachers in our department. Except maybe she’s too pretty or dresses too sexy to be a high school English teacher….

Aviv’s piece is beautifully written and heart-breaking, and what it’s REALLY about, I think, is the crappy job market that teachers all across the country have to deal with, but its hook is the idea that an older woman was pushed out from a job by a younger, prettier woman. Even when we realize that Alex was most likely hired instead of Beth because Alex’s salary would be lower, that aftertaste remains.

Americans tend to view physical beauty – particularly physical beauty in women – as something extraordinary and even suspect. It can’t simply exist, it must have a purpose – usually, a nefarious purpose. Or just a slutty one.

In this situation, beauty also has a tendency to blind. As one of the commenters to Aviv’s piece pointed out – it’s very likely that pretty Alex is a recent graduate with oodles of student debt (a situation I am more than familiar with). But her skinny jeans have the power to obscure her possible life challenges. Aviv is too good and too self-aware a writer to outright trash Alex, and she explores her own tense, disappointing working situation wonderfully, so I don’t have a beef with her (and let’s face it, most Salon commenters are way more sympathetic to men who get “distracted” by pretty women at the office, as opposed to women who get overlooked in favour of them). I do think it’s important to note that Alex is a real person.

When we use words such as “tasteful” and “appropriate” to discuss workplace attire, what we are really doing is pointing out certain class-markers. It’s “trashy” women from the lower classes, or else powerful heiresses and entertainment figures and the like, who are expected or, at the very least, allowed, to put the goods on display. Madonna has spoken about eating popcorn out of her cleavage during business meetings – and there’s a reason she can get away with it. Madonna will do anything to get attention, but that’s because attention is a career strategy. Read the rest of this entry ?

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Agency Shmagency, or why I really couldn’t care less about “the new single womanhood”

July 2, 2010

While I read Rebecca Traister’s feature on recent memoirs by young, single American women (it’s one everything from the wonderful Carlene Bauer’s Not That Kind of Girl to the upcoming Bitch Is the New Black), I gradually became aware of the fact that I was not alone in the room. There was a persistent, monotone buzzing sound – the kind that signaled the arrival of a Moscow mosquito, one of those things with a “True Blood”-esque appetite. I got up and plugged in my little Raid anti-mosquito heater unit thingie, and kept reading. The monotone buzzing sound persisted. In true slapstick comedy fashion, I had to admit that the buzzing was actually confined to the insides of my head. In other words, I was annoyed, dear reader.

I wasn’t annoyed with Traister’s article itself. I think her observations are all very valid. She opens by talking about an essay by Sloane Crosley, in which Crosley takes a solo trip to Lisbon after randomly pointing to it on a map. It’s supposed to be fun – but it isn’t. Cue major life lesson.

It’s not that I don’t relate – I am privileged enough to do just that. But when Traister talks about how “the possibilities of success, wealth, happiness, true love, close girl-friendship and super-awesome spontaneous trips to Lisbon carry their own oppressive weight, the awareness that none of us can possibly live as cheerily and as gaily as we might fantasize about doing,” all I can think is “Anyone who doesn’t realize that past a certain age I honestly WANT TO SMACK.”

A little over a year ago, I took a trip to Britain. My then-boyfriend’s family generously allowed me to stay with them in London for a few days, and then I went up by myself to Edinburgh (just in time to catch the initial swine flu panic!), then traveled to Liverpool, also by myself, and then went down to visit a friend in Devon. It was a great trip, especially the Devon part – and the going back up to London to see my then-boyfriend part.

But I also felt the loneliness creep up – in Edinburgh, in Liverpool. I read my morning paper and drank my coffee. I bought postcards I used as bookmarks. I shined my boots before going to sleep at night. I was, for those few days, genuinely alone.

Why should anyone be surprised? Why is this even a revelation? Bear in mind, I’m not saying this to diminish Crosley’s writing itself – I just enjoy it for different reasons, I guess. I like the confessional style, not so much for its social underpinnings, but for the stories it tells. The moments it gives shape to. What it memorializes. What it discards.

I don’t need a book written by a young, single, American woman to shock me with some seminal truth about femininity – it shocks me first and foremost with its humanity. And I”m not saying that because I believe that all is dandy in American publishing and we can discard all of this gender stuff altogether (hell, I thrive on the gender stuff, being “fiercely feminine” in the finest tradition of random Tom Robbins phrases that stick to the insides of your brain for years). But neither do I pick up these books because I want my own lifestyle to be validated – or else explained to me. I’m too old for that now, that horse durn left the barn. I pick up these books when they happen to be damn good books.

And maybe I just don’t see anything brave in the  actual, literal admission that life is kinda ordinary. I mean, even my life, fairly extraordinary in the right light and from all sorts of angles, is kinda ordinary, I realize as much. I enjoy reading about ordinary lives, if the stories are told well – but not because I want to secretly pat myself on the back for using the freedom bestowed upon me to, like, make mistakes, and spill coffee on my dresses. And I’m not even saying this as one of those stereotypical “liberated American women” everyone loves to prattle on about. Hell, plenty of people will tell you that I’m anything but. From the sort of men I favour and down to the crap I put up with on a daily basis. *shrug* Whatever, you know? A week in my life can still makes for a good story to tell in bars, but only because I take the trouble to tell it right. It’s  important to care about the telling, I think.

I also realized this: Maybe, even as a young, single, educated woman with hair nicely-dyed-for-a-reasonable-price, I still just don’t believe in “expecting” happiness. Happiness is angelic. It comes and goes of its own accord.

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Beauty is the path

April 18, 2010

I had a distressing conversation the other day. It went something like this:

“Man. I am bummed. I was involved in an exciting project, and now it’s over. And there are, like, hurt feelings on both sides. Bummer. Man.”

“Well, considering the fact that you use your looks to get involved in most exciting projects…”

“Er, what?”

“Oh, you heard me.”

“WHAT?”

“You heard me say ‘you heard me.’ I know it, because you flinched.”

“OMG! WTF? STFU! GTFO! DIAF!”

Etc.

I’m not Angelina Jolie and never will be, but, sure enough, I perform beauty while I’m still young. I checked out the spring collection at Naf Naf the other day, for example. I made it out of there with a pink strapless minidress adorned with large, purple, blue and white flowers that are vaguely reminiscent of a blown-up Japanese print. It’s layered, and make me look like a very complicated dessert and makes me feel like I live in a painting. I love it.

As much as I love it, I know that even this little dress can come with some big consequences attached. Why, I find out new and exciting things about me and people like me every day:

Read the rest of this entry ?

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Tragedy uncovered by the Kyiv Post: men have a hard time finding toys… er, women they like in Ukraine! Yuliya Popova investigates this shocking trend

February 7, 2010

God bless the Kyiv Post. Here we are, waiting for the election exit polls to start rolling in, the weather is sunny, but cold, the dogs that Pan Chernovetskiy has allowed to run unchecked all over this great city are having a ball outside, and most normal people are in bed with a hangover. So what to do with myself on this fine Sunday afternoon? Be amazed.

Now, what’s amazing here is not the fact that such dehumanizing attitudes toward women, any women, exist. What’s amazing is that they are propagated so strongly by women themselves. I bet Yuliya Popova just wants to be one of the guys. Implicit in her statements is the old “dudebros, I feel your pain.” Also implicit in her words is the insistence that she, of course, isn’t anything like the women she derides via the platform generously given to her by the Kyiv Post. “Isn’t it sad about all those cynical whores/unfeminine bitches too focused on their careers? I would cry for the poor men. But it might make my mascara run.”

Come on, Natalia, you are saying to yourself. You’re old enough to know that sexism would never be as widespread if it wasn’t both covertly and overtly supported by women. Why do you always expect better from women such as Popova? Isn’t that its own form of sexism?

Perhaps. Maybe I just can’t get over the fact that Kyiv’s “leading English-language newspaper” keeps “leading” us into deeper and deeper bullshit. Hey, I get their agenda. It gets them attention, it gets a bunch of douchebags to sagely bloviate in the comment section, drives up hits, and drives up hits some more when it gets passed around by people like me. This doesn’t mean that such content sucks any less though.

The eternal question of “but why can’t a nice expat man find an equally nice woman who sucks dick more than once a day and ruminates on Voltaire once she’s wiped the come from her mouth and makes lasagna and profiteroles and never asks for shopping money yet somehow manages to dress like Carla Bruni and is wise beyond her years but always knows her place (whether it be on her back or on top or bent over the washing machine she thoughtfully runs every day so that his shirts are always clean) and has a great education but never makes a man feel as if he is *gasp* not as smart as she is and wants babies but will never expect their father to change a single diaper in his lifetime, nor will inconvenience him by losing her waistline” is a pressing one, to be sure.

I toss and turn at night, trying to find a solution. I have lost weight, concerned as I am by this dilemma. People ask, “Natalia, why do you look like such crap today? And I go, “I’m trying, guys, to solve a problem that’s just a little more serious than national debt and corruption in the public education sector. Give me a break, you insensitive assholes.”

A woman’s greatest achievement is offering herself up to a man, of course. I don’t mean sexually (I’m not about to start knocking sex on this blog), but, to borrow Popova’s own phrase, as a “universal package.” A woman must give her body and her soul, and never forget that she is the lucky one, as opposed to the man, or, really, the demigod in question. If she doesn’t like it, too bad. Ten others will be more than willing to take her place on the trophy shelf tomorrow.

This is all beside the fact that men must choose women. Never the other way around. If you’re not picked out of the line-up, on account of your trashy short skirt or constantly ringing Blackberry or whatever, sorry, sister; resign yourself to bitterness, financial destitution, and banging gross guys you meet at bars in Hydropark until you’re too old even for them, at which point you will die, in some flat in Borschagovka, your feeble cries for help drowned out by the neighbours’ bad rap music.

and she will. alooooooooone!

In this light, Popova’s column is really more akin to a public service announcement: Girls, do something with yourselves before the expat men all move on to raping child prostitutes in Thailand and the local men develop gout and ED just to spite you!

Men can choose to be single, after all. A single man of advancing years is a freedom-loving bachelor. We’d never feel sorry for, say, Jean-Luc Picard, for staying single. A single woman of advancing years, on the other hand, is a dismal hag, who ought to be performing harakiri on Independence Square, as opposed to knitting or babysitting her neighbours’ kids or working or doing whatever it is that single women do when they are no longer out there looking for a man to please. And if young Ukrainian women inspire lust as well as disgust, older Ukrainian women inspire outright disdain, particularly in the expats. Why are they crowding the buses and streets with their no-longer-fuckable bodies? Don’t they know that they are taking up valuable room?

If there is any wisdom that is to be derived from this morass, I think it is the following: everything in life has its price. When I say that, I don’t mean monetary value. I mean the shocking idea that life, in general, is not quite perfect, for anyone. When we are single, we complain about missing intimacy. When we are with someone, we complain about making sacrifices on their behalf.

We say that your typical chauvinist expat man moves to a poorer country to experience a “sexual fantasy,” but the fantasy, I believe, is bigger than that. The fantasy is the idea, the hope, even, that somewhere out there, life doesn’t run according to the rules: that it will be kinder, better, more accommodating. That in this new, exciting world, they will finally be owed. That they will get what they deserve, and nothing less. It is the same fantasy that men of any background, fairly insulated by their superior social position, can afford to entertain about women in general.

“Who are we to break their dream?” Popova seems to be asking. Well, fellow human beings, maybe?

No way, right? No way.

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Tuesday goodness: Stereotyping People by their Favorite Indie Bands

December 22, 2009

According to this, I’m a gay guy.

Alternatively, I’m a boy who thinks that Ocarina of Time is the greatest game ever made — which is frighteningly close, except for the “boy” part. Or just a frequent transcendental experience haver. But mostly, I’m a gay guy.

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My friends do cool things: link round-up

December 17, 2009

Michael Forster Rothbart, who’s really cool and whom I interviewed earlier this year, has a new site dedicated to his photography, After Chernobyl. It’s interactive.

A couple of people I adore have just created an equally adorable — and convenient — app: Pushme.to. Even as a stubborn, pedantic, even illogically hysterical anti-iPhoner, I can recognize the benefits of this app. For one thing, it allows me to conveniently harass my friends while I’m online.

I love Matthew Sheret, because he produces the kind of music writing I live to publish. Here’s Matt on The Nightmare Before Christmas curated by My Bloody Valentine.

And for a good literary dork-out, look no further than my friend Heidi Steimel, who edited Music in Middle-earth. OK, so the book is in German. I own the collected works of Goethe in German (thanks to a certain Exmouthian), can’t read much except for the stuff I already went over in high school and college and such, but hey, whatever. German is a beautiful language. English is a Germanic language. Never forget, bitches.

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One would think that it is not scientifically possible for Patrick Stewart to be even more amazing

November 29, 2009

And one would be incorrect.

And, you know, the thing about Patrick Stewart, what makes him so infinitely watchable, is the fact that whenever a character of his has a supremely difficult moment, you know that it’s coming from a real place inside of him, and yet it is also very dignified. And I don’t mean “dignified” as in “uptight.” I mean that Patrick Stewart has freaking dignity, man. A single half-smile from Stewart is more profound than an entire lifetime of shenanigans from most of Hollywood. And there are reasons for that, reasons that have to do with his talent, and reasons that, I realize now, must have so much to do with what he lived through. Patrick Stewart, I salute you.

And because things are getting intense around here, here’s a LOLPicard (I guess technically it’s a LOLPatrickStewart, since he’s not really in character here, but no need to get pedantic, really):

He most likely could, dudes. He most likely could.

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Cormac McCarthy’s “faux-arty machismo”? Say what?

November 26, 2009

Iker Casillas begs to differ.

So Stephanie Zacharek used her review of the film adaptation of The Road to bash the original source material. There’s no accounting for taste, but does Cormac McCarthy really have a “he-man streak”? And even if he does… why is that bad?

I rarely agree with Zacherek’s reviews, though I think she gets unfairly lambasted all of the time, and really don’t appreciate the meanness in the comments directed to her (Salon’s commenters, of which I frequently am one, have a bad reputation for a reason). I just don’t understand the criticism being leveled at McCarthy here, I guess. I still get chills just thinking about his description of the Man who contemplates whether or not anything is living in the sea – giant squid, perhaps. I mean, think about it, a post-apocalyptic wasteland in which a man dreams of squid in the cold, dark sea. I don’t even… That’s terrifying. And brilliant.

And the details of “The Road” — which must be particularly wrenching for people who have children, given that nearly every page stokes a common parental fear — repeatedly ask the same question: Are you man enough to take it?

You know, as a woman who read the book and enjoyed it – although perhaps the word “enjoyed” is wrong here, perhaps “admired” works better – I really didn’t get the sense that McCarthy was asking me if I was “man enough.” He was just telling a story in a hard (no pun intended), unflinching style. I didn’t think there was anything gendered about the way he was treating his readers or his subject matter. Sure, it’s a tale of a man and his son, and the mother is gone and not by accident, so there’s that aspect of it. But the man and his son didn’t make me feel as though I was an outsider at He-Man Thunderdome. If anything, I spent a long time thinking about my brother afterward, wondering if I’d be able to take care of him like that if shit should hit the fan. That’s because the writing is so personal; I think it clearly comes from a place wherein McCarthy himself was contemplating various scenarios, and wondering if he could take it.

[The director of "The Road", John Hillcoat] also knows that sometimes it’s not just healthy to recoil — it’s essential.

Well now. First of all, you can’t deny that these are two different mediums we’re talking about here. Because of the way we interact with the written word, and because of the way that the written word interacts with us, there are images we can conjure up in books that don’t translate well when it comes to film. The gruesome image of an infant roasting on a spit is the one that Zacharek has particular issues with, and she praises Hillcoat for not dwelling on it in the film. I think that’s a little like praising Stanley Kubrick for not attempting to re-enact Nabokov’s image of “a sultan, his face expressing great agony (belied, as it were, by his molding caress), helping a callypygean slave child to climb a column of onyx.” Hells to the yeah! Who cares about Oscars, let’s start giving out Common Sense Awards!

I also think that there is quite a bit of “recoiling” going on in The Road, it’s just done in this very graceful, penetrating (bwahaha – OK, fine, I’m intending all of these puns) manner. Like many of the writers I admire, McCarthy writes beautifully about absolutely horrifying things. That’s not so much a recoil as it is an act of transcendence. And if you can’t avoid stepping in blood or shit, you might as well transcend it – is what I always say.

Anyway, all of this is very depressing. Let’s end this post on a happy note, by objectifying Viggo Mortensen for a second:

He may not have made a particularly King, but he was still the best Strider a dork could hope for. Haters to the left.

He may not have made a particularly excellent King, but he was still the best Strider a dork could hope for. Haters to the left.

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“Do you like being unhappy?” “Do you like the fact that rain is wet?”

October 18, 2009

No one single instant of it was unendurable. Here was a second right here: he endured it. What was undealable-with was the thought of all the instants all lined up and stretching ahead, glittering… – David Foster Wallace.

Someone asked me recently if I “like” being unhappy. It’s a strange and, at the same time, normal question. Unhappiness can, after all, become familiar, like a pair of well-worn boots you slip into with a little sigh of satisfaction, even if you actually think that the heel is fugly or whatever.

What do you do when you isolate and recognize the feeling of familiarity? Look for a consenting rainbow to have sex with? Hop along the yellow brick road to enlightenment picking up endearingly creepy companions along the way?

These aren’t just rhetorical questions on my part, because I’ve been thinking about the idea of acceptance lately. In TIME*, the awesome Barbara Ehrenreich recently wrote that:

We don’t have to dwell incessantly on the worst-case scenarios — the metastasis, the market crash or global pandemic — but we do need to acknowledge that they could happen and prepare in the best way we can. Some will call this negative thinking, but the technical term is sobriety.

Ehrenreich is talking about responding to the ongoing economic crisis here, but I find that this kind of wisdom applies equally to other, even more abstract areas of life. Sometimes, things suck, and you have to admit it. Sometimes, you suck, and not in the fun way either. The night gets longer, and colder, and even more densely populated by howling stray dogs and drunks. Your idiot neighbours leave the building door open, and someone swipes your welcome mat, and probably trades it for heroin – along with their firstborn. A creature slithers out of a Stephen King story and sits on your chest at night, drinking your blood and breath. You struggle to write clever blog entries, when you really should be working.

Read the rest of this entry ?

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Depression: at the Black Gate with Anton Chekhov and Leroy Jenkins

October 8, 2009

I admire Chekhov, and not just for his writing, and not just because he was startlingly hot either. To paraphrase Ivan Bunin, Chekhov was not a little bitch. Even when he knew he was dying from TB, he didn’t whine hysterically from the pages of Russian literary journals. He didn’t ask his readers for hugs. His last words were, “I haven’t had champagne in a while,” as opposed to “OMG OMG IS DYING HALP.”

Dear sheepie, won't you hold me tighter.

Dearest sheepie, won't you hold me tighter in this winter of discontent (and sketchy hot water issues)

As you can guess, I admire Anton Pavlovich for qualities I lack. It’s like admiring a purse on someone else’s shoulder – a heart-patterned Moschino, maybe – something you couldn’t afford if you pimped yourself out to every halfway-decent publication in this city. It’s not jealousy per se, it’s more like awe. “Anton Pavlovich, where did you get that heart-patterned… I mean, Anton Pavlovich, how on earth did you manage to keep your cool like that? Is it a genetic thing? An ancient art?”

Because of passport issues, I’m grounded in Ukraine right now. On one hand, this is good, as it forces me to save money. On the other hand, this is bad, because there is nothing that I can physically do to escape the soul-crushing, cold, deep, starless darkness that blooms in vivid, elaborate splotches all over my being, like the bubonic plague. I’ve been depressed since last year, since moving to Amman. But it’s like a fever that’s spiking now. I knew I’ve lost some weight recently, but nothing could have prepared me for the actual numbers when I finally stepped on a scale. It affords me with an excuse to go shopping, and I can’t even muster up enough energy to rejoice about that. Unmoved by bright-lit shops and the swish of plastic. The seventh seal has been opened.

A Vulcan would be bemused by depression. There’s nothing logical about it. Friends will say, “you have a job, a family, and your tits are still fairly perky. Snap out of it.” By all rights, you should. The world does not suffer from lack of tragedy. Your grandmother is in hospital with a crusty rash on her skin that makes it hard to move. Someone tried to rape your friend, and there will be no legal repercussions. Your aunt’s heart has been reduced to a vaguely pitter-pattering piece of gristle after her daughter’s death. Ralph Lauren is threatening people for making deserved fun of its “X-Files”-inspired Photoshop disaster. “Peace is an illusion, says Israel FM.” And so on.

Ultimately, it’s hard to get depression to kick off the blinders and be appraised of its own insignificance. Pain is narcissistic. It’s the belle of the ball. It’s a douchebag with spiky hair, a miasma of Axe, and a publicist.

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