It’s a post-Gogolfest Monday, and I’m wrung out. My body is sore from dancing, brain sore from stimulation, throat sore for screaming songs outside. I do, however, have a new love, and this would be the old Swedish punk band Ebba Grön. I found out about them when talking to a friend about all great things that also happen to be Swedish. I would love to be able to get some of their lyrics translated, because right now I am mostly digging the way they sound, not being able to speak Swedish and all (it’s among one of my many faults, I’m afraid). Their Wikipedia page says that this one time, their bassist totally fought back against a neo-Nazi with his bass. It rarely gets more awesome than that.
Det Måste Vara Radion – Ebba Grön
Same In Any Language – I Nine
Fa-Fa-Fa – Datarock
Kosili Mi Sino – Soncekliosh
Sun King – the Beatles
Crossroads – Cowboy Junkies
Hold Music – Architecture in Helsinki
Got My Mojo Working – Muddy Waters
Same Shirt, Different Day – Tin Hat Trio
Flyktsoda – Ebba Grön
Don’t you just want to be there, in this video? I do:
And since we’re going with the whole Swedish goodness angle and I am in that kind of mood, here is one of Sookie’s dream sequences from the second season of “True Blood” (if you are, say, in Britain and not caught up with the show, do NOT watch this, there is a spoiler here):
Eric and Sookie are like… cream cheese and capers together – delicious.
There’s lots to cringe at over at the Sense & Sexuality blog, but this particular essay jumped out at me. Of course, it’s not like I haven’t heard the same thing over and over again: “you’re trying to have it all and hence you’re unhappy,” “gender equality kills romance,” “porn is SATAN – and your inappropriate desire to be treated like a human being is the reason men watch it,” et cetera.
What interested me here are Ashley’s statements on femininity:
“Could it be that in the helter-skelter clamoring for equality and liberation, women have forgotten to maintain their femininity, that unique quality which attracts men to women, precisely because it is different from them. Masculine men are attracted to feminine women. The old adage “opposites attract” applies here.”
Helter skelter? Are you comparing us to Charles Manson or the Beatles now? Because there’s a very crucial distinction… OK, seriously, as a stereotypically feminine feminist, I feel I need to represent here for a moment.
First of all, femininity is a highly subjective concept. In some people’s eyes, I may very well not be feminine enough – boobs not big enough, perhaps, or the tendency to bitch people out when they patronize me might be considered way too “masculine,” but “gender neutral” I am not. I wear make-up and rub my body down with a massage bar from Lush before I go out. I dye my hair, and I do it at one of those places where they bring you tea. I have a dangly earring habit and a mesh underwear habit and a pictures-of-our-Viking-vampire-friend-Eric-Northman habit.
One of these days, he'll stop biting hot chicks and settle for my... great personality.
I fret about my looks and getting older. I’m not proud of it, but it’s hard to disengage from the neuroses. I was recently talking to a man about how good the wrinkles around his eyes look, and had to stop and acknowledge the fact that when I start getting them, the effect won’t be the same. I will hate them. I hate them already, and they haven’t arrived yet.
I probably shouldn’t be admitting this, but I’m a little obsessed with the male orgasm. I hate it when it’s portrayed as something that’s either sleazy or predatory or just dull.
I don’t like opening my own champagne bottle if there’s a man around to do it. I don’t like wearing clothes that conceal my shape, because damn, I want it out there. I have no qualms about crying in public, should the occasion call for it.
I firmly believe that sexism is often mistaken for chivalry, but real chivalry I like. I don’t mind it if a man pulls my chair out for me or opens the door for me, though it doesn’t always mean I won’t do the same for him next time. I love getting flowers. I’ll beam if you compliment me on the way I look today. I once called a boy and begged him to come to my house and dispose of an enormous cockroach (I have a phobia, OK?) and he did (thank you, Duncan – I have not forgotten, and never will, unless dementia gets me first).
Am I happy? Sometimes, sure. I’m certainly not stupid enough to believe that my happiness is somehow dependent on gauzy bits of fabric or the way that I coo over men. It’s dependent on being myself. I take great pleasure out of doing things my way, but I like to think I don’t have a superiority complex. See – and I know this might seem like a crazy idea, Ashley, considering that you blog for a site that’s all about finger-wagging at young hussies – I think people should mostly do whatever it is they want to do.
In all of this talk about female unhappiness, we forget the fact that it is much more acceptable for modern American women to actually talk about how they think and feel today. There is less sugar-coating. You don’t have to pretend that you love making less money than a man, or that marriage is a wonderful institution for all six billion of us. Self-reporting is a tricky business, so when we point to studies that say that women are not nearly as happy today as they were yesterday, we could actually be muddying the waters.
I was also struck when you, Ashley, said this:
Women are capable and strong and certainly equal, yet would do well to remember that they have a unique and particular role to play in society.
What is that role and how do you define it for half of the human race? Does it involve making babies? Being decorative? Um, last time I checked, this hasn’t exactly changed much for women. We still give birth, and the beauty and diet industries would not be making billions if we weren’t concerned with being pretty. And how come there is never any talk about a man’s “role,” unless we’re talking about money? (Something that’s frustrating for a lot of men I know, especially know that the recession is in town)
Yes, I do believe that married couples need to humour each other occasionally, if they want to stay married. However, I am sick and tired of the old cliche that women are responsible for men’s behaviour. Men are not children, Ashley. It’s a very neat and convenient set-up however, a woman must be responsible for herself and her husband when he’s out of line. This is the same logic used to justify rape: “it wouldn’t have happened if the dumb bitch didn’t secretly want it! She used her mind control ray to reel him into her pants, and now she wants him to go to prison!” Can we just drop it, please?
You don’t deal with unhappiness by trying to put on some Magical Costume of Femininity, Complete With Apron and Garter Belt (I do think garter belts are hot, though). It’s both sexist and simplistic to suggest that. You deal with it as two individuals who are negotiating their life together. It sucks, it’s thorny as hell and delicate bits of our soul get caught on the thorns and bleed all over the place, and there is no guarantee that it will work out in the end. Boo hoo. Such is life. If you don’t ever want to get hurt, don’t ever leave your front porch – as I have found out more and more recently.
It’s easy to blame the high divorce rate on uppity women, instead of investigating the general human tendency to make mistake and, well, be human. Hey, Eve at the apple and Madonna made that horrible “Swept Away” remake, so it’s fair, right?
If you have seasonal depression like me – especially if said depression is being abetted by something else that’s crappy – you need this list. It was put together with help and inspiration from Sarah, who is a true autumn-lover. Autumn, for me, is like some good-looking but terrible man who arrives in town once every nine months and messes with my head for a while before he rides off into the sunset to mess with someone else’s head, probably blaring Leatherbag or Noir Desir on his stereo as he goes.
And here is how I cope with him and his bullshit:
Mulled wine (served at Gogolfest last night, yea-ah) Gogolfest
Octoberfest
Apples
Cider
Wearing boots
Crunching on leaves
The smell of leaves burning
An excuse to stay in with a book when it’s raining
An excuse to sit in a cafe with a book when it’s raining
An excuse to blare “November Rain”
An excuse to give someone a dirty look when they criticize you for blaring “November Rain,” and tell them to fuck right off
Less annoying insects
Less sweat
Meditating upon the transience of all biological life (in an enlightened, Keatsian way)
The sound of leaves scraping against pavement in the wind
Harvest
Wearing slippers indoors (my new ones feature caveman-esque drawings of reindeer)
Colour
Getting into a hot bath after freezing your ass off outside
Any excuse to get warm (haw haw)
Better vodka-drinking weather
Better everything-drinking weather, actually
Wearing stockings
Conspicuous lack of bloated summer blockbusters
Coats. With pockets. For storing MP3 players and other items crucial to one’s psychological well-being (such as gum)
No worrying about how your ass looks in those shorts
Children are back in school and thus have less time and energy to draw dicks on the sidewalk with chalk (or maybe that’s a bad thing?)
I think this is a pretty good list, but if you’ve got stuff to add, please do so.
Ever since Mackenzie Phillips dropped her bombshell on Oprah – her father John Phillips raped her while high on drugs, and the sex even eventually became consensual – there’s been all of this discussion. Some people have been focusing on whether or not father-daughter incest is always rape, and others have been screaming “she has a book coming out! Poor John’s not even here to defend himself! She’s a money-grubbing skank!”
Oh dear, oh dear.
First of all, it makes perfect sense for Mackenzie Phillips to start talking about this long after her father’s death. Who could deal with the fall-out of a public revelation like this when both parties are still around? Very few people, I think.
But most importantly, Mackenzie Phillips has every damn right to cash in on this. Believer her or not, she’s telling a story, and that story is her own. Michelle Phillips might disagree. We might question Mackenzie’s motivation. But ultimately, I’m all for taking something that has hurt you terribly and making money off of it. As Steve Buscemi famously said in the postmodern cinematic masterpiece known as “Armaggedon,” – “I don’t mean to be the materialistic weasel of this group, but do you think we’ll get hazard pay out of this?”
If she wants to make money off of it, then that’s what it is, hazard pay. And anyone shedding big fat tears over poor John should honestly be glad he’s not around anymore, ’cause it would be that much bigger and uglier if he was.
As for Tracy Clark-Fory’s question – is it always rape? I’m going to go with a yes. Mackenzie Phillips was actually pretty brave to admit that the sexual relationship became “consensual,” but to an outsider looking it, it just looks like a case of Stockholm Syndrome taking hold, because – and this is important – I’m sure she cared about her father. No matter how awful he got, she probably loved him. And when the people we love do horrible things to us, we tend to disassociate from what the hell is going on in an attempt to protect ourselves from the betrayal being perpetrated against us.
As her dad, John Phillips had tremendous power over Mackenzie Phillips. On top of that, you must consider the drugs and the general batshit lifestyle of the man in question. This is John Phillips we’re talking about here.
Do all unequal relationships automatically translate to rape? I don’t know. I don’t think so. If you’re lucky enough to want the person in power, you might be alright. For a while, at least. But in the case of, say, a dad and his daughter, or, as recently discussed on Feministe, a slave owner and his slave, how real can consent be?
For Yaroslava, the queen of good dick jokes. Maybe not the most appropriate eulogizing on the day of her death, but dammit, I am tired of sitting here with a frowny face, and don’t think she would approve anyway – she always told me to smile, under penalty of death. Please don’t read this if you’re going to give me crap about how crass it is.
Natalia A. 