The battle continues

I scrolled through my newly acquired RSS list the other day to find that the world has acquired another holy warrior in the battle against insipid yet somehow wildly offensive bullshit. Reading Mary's post reminded me that I had attempted to post a comment in response to the very Ask Sam post she is denouncing. Mysteriously, it didn't get past the mods, and I forgot about it. Mary has requested that the text be reproduced in full here so as to strengthen the anti-Sam movement's internet presence. I am more than happy to oblige. The following rhetoric may contain ranting.

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Hey, imogen and Magoo [sole voices of reason at the time of attempted posting -- ed], you beat me to it. I've never commented on this blog before, although I've often commented upon it (mainly upon its poorly constructed prose, total conformity to retrograde stereotypes and inherent anti-feminism), but the de Beauvoir comment was just the final straw.

I doubt very much that Simone de Beauvoir would read a syndicated dating column, but were she a) not dead and b) to peruse this blog, I am sure that she would throw up her hands at having her seminal treatise cited alongside this excruciating tripe and utter something violent and French.

Apart from having authored one of the most influential feminist works around, and as well as being a formidable scholar and philosophe, de Beauvoir was famously progressive in her relationship with Sartre, with both of them taking lovers and participating in menages a trois. This was before "feminism, the pill, and books like Why Men Marry Bitches", which I'm sure is a charming tome, turned women into voracious sexual creatures who are - quelle horreur! - having sex on the first date. Somehow, I think she’d be okay with having sex in a nightclub toilet.

Like I said, I read Ask Sam fairly regularly and usually respond with an eye-roll and a snarky comment, because I accept that there's not much meat in a dating column that maintains that everyone is equal, unique and deserving of respect, and because I accept that Ask Sam represents the views of one woman with whom I disagree heartily but who nonetheless has the right to her own opinions. But as soon as one of the founding mothers of feminism is used to justify the whining of a man who doesn't understand why women leave him when he makes no attempt to "please them or live up to their expectations", I find that I can’t just leave things with an eye-roll.

Its disappointing and upsetting the short shift feminism is given on this blog – it seems most often to paint feminists as man-hating, embittered hags who bitch at other women and constantly emasculate their men. All of which is fine as long as you accept that Ask Sam inhabits the same artificial landscape as Cosmo or Ralph, where the dynamics of social interaction are distorted and exaggerated for a cheap 300 words and which seems to be about 25 years behind the rest of society. But as soon as you invoke de Beauvoir, you describe another landscape, one where women (and men) can be strong, opinionated, promiscuous and independent without fear of being labeled ‘dominating’ (although I strongly suspect the word Sam is grasping about for here is ‘domineering’).

Simone de Beauvoir was such a woman, and the women who follow in her footsteps probably do scare the fuck out of Sam’s friend, who seems to look at the richness and intricacy of sexual and romantic relationships and see only constant opportunities for petty point-scoring. As to the question of whether women or men should be more ‘dominating’, I think the answer we are looking for is that no person should ever ‘dominate’ another based on something as arbitrarily prescribed as, say, gender. Hey, that’s pretty much feminism in a nutshell! Sometimes, it really is that simple.

"I'm an arsehole. Love me."

Yesterday Jelly and I decided to indulge in a Winonathon, which consisted of sparkling rose, popcorn, Girl, Interrupted (remember when Angie used to be hot?!) and the inimitable Reality Bites. So much Winona! You know, it's a real pity she doesn't make movies anymore, what with the shoplifting and the court case and all. She may be kind of one-note, but she does doe-eyed waif with a French haircut like nobody's business.

Anyway, Reality Bites has always been a movie that I love to hate, partly because I was seven when it was released and the references grated by the time I saw it, and partly because I have met too many people like the kids in Reality Bites - self-obsessed, annoying, angst-filled and under the impression that an exchange of pop-culture references is a decent substitute for originality and wit. More specifically, I have met too many guys like Ethan Hawke's Troy Dyer - "brilliant", subversive, and total, irredeemable arseholes.

Why are we supposed to root for this character? He's nasty. He's jealous, petty, and condescending. His faux-Kerouac evangelising is supposed to be some kind of revelatory 'realness', but basically it smacks of the kind of arrogance that comes from a total disregard for everyone else. Troy, we're told, is some kind of disaffected genius, and because of that we're meant to think that his smart-arsery and mean-spiritedness about the world are somehow noble and pure - he's the savant that sees through the spin of the commercialised world and rejects it with a shrug and a quip.

Except, as mentioned, he's a total fucking prick. Winona Ryder's character isn't exactly sympathetic either, but at least she's flawed in a kind-of-identifiable-with way, and she's willing to see past the yuppie exterior of a woefully-miscast Ben Stiller and fall for his inherent sweetness. Of course, Ben Stiller is going to get a clunky nineties-style platform heel to the heart in this scenario - he wears a suit, for Christ's sake. That's part of the reason we know we're supposed to root for Troy. The other part is the speech he gives Winona when he tries desperately to make her love him. It goes, "I'm an arsehole. Love me."

Well, actually, it goes: "You can't navigate me. I may do mean things, and I may hurt you, and I may run away without your permission, and you may hate me forever, and I know that scares the living shit outta you 'cause you know I'm the only real thing you got." But the sentiment is the same. And let me tell you, Ethan Hawke - this is bullshit. Total, utter bullshit.

Disclaiming that you're likely to walk all over someone in a relationship does not, in fact, give you permission to walk all over them. Being 'upfront' about the fact that you're a prick does not give you a get-out-of-jail card for treating them with contempt. And telling someone that you're likely to treat them like shit because you're the only person that will love them is not in any way, shape, or form, romantic.

How many times have I heard variations of this speech? How many times have my friends? How many have you? And why do we keep putting up with this shit? In the end, Winona capitulates to Ethan's not-inconsiderable charms, because the dorky guy that adores her is worth less than the bad boy who treats her like dirt. Because she's not worth it - she doesn't deserve a guy who is charming and charismatic and emotionally functional. That's the implication.

She's not worth it, and hey, at least when Ethan cheats on her, ignores, hurts or condescends to her, it's not like she won't have been warned, right? Please. The fact that Winona Ryder falls for this shit - that we all, occasionally, seem to fall for this shit - is the number one, popcorn-throwing reason this movie makes me mad. That, and the fact that if you don't go out with Ethan Hawke, your only choice is Ben Stiller. But I don't even know where to start with that one.

Just a lovely day

I was walking down Johnston st today when a women dashed out of a hair salon and bailed me up on the footpath. Would I be interested in working as a hair model? Did I have time for a colour today? I was, and I did, and now my hair is a rich and chocolatey shade of brown.

I think I am going to have to accept the redhead experiment as somewhat of a failure... I loved the colour but every time I went to have it touched up it seemed to get darker and darker, inching back towards my natural colour. Perhaps I will accept defeat until I have grown my hair out a bit more, and then go somewhere really expensive (ie. competent) and emerge the mermaid-haired temptress of my dreams. Somehow I'm banking on mermaid hair, although mine is taking an excruciatingly long time to grow.

I had such a nice time walking around Collingwood. Somehow I've managed to spoil myself rotten today. I had breakfast with my lovely friend Josephine, real crumpets with blackberry butter and darky, muddy-coloured coffee, and some good conversation, then headed off towards Fitzroy, managing to make a small detour through a lovely little op shop and picking up a cheerful plaid summer jacker with cap sleeves, a scarf and some sunnies. Then hair-pampering, and a short walk to Per Square Metre, where I picked up my darling illustration. It is very darling. Shut up, it just is.

Getting peckish again I hit upon a lovely, tiny, jumbly cafe with antiques and furniture cluttering up the back and paintbrushes drying out in the bathroom. A five dollar plate of spaghetti napoli later (the proper kind, with olives and capers and chilli) and I was basking in the sunshine, happy and replete.

It made me think how happy I am to be able to have my own life at the moment. I've done a lot of bleating on this blog about being a dismal romantic failure, but being able to wander around Collingwood, slip in and out of galleries, sit in a park, whatever, without needing to make plans or be accountable for my whereabouts is just a wonderful feeling. That total satisfaction you get from a successful day's solitude... it's nice. And it's nice to remember that I've always liked my own company. Especially on a holiday, in the sunshine, with a freshly-shampooed head.

Hot hot heat

My word, it is hot at the moment. Somehow without my even noticing it the weather's steamed up to a consistent 30 degrees plus. I guess this means summer has started.

I never used to be a summer person, and autumn is still my favourite season (do you have a favourite season? you're missing out if you don't), but this balminess is novel enough to be extremely pleasant. It was far too hot the other night to cook so I had a ten pm dinner of smoked oysters, crackers and gin on the front porch. Its easy to lose track of the hours out there, whiling away time immersed in novels and eating icy poles and swatting away bugs. Sometimes hot summer rain falls in sheets and sizzles on the footpath and the whole street has a Belinda Carlisle moment.

I'm in a funny situation at the moment where I am still getting paid but no longer have to work, so I'm having just about the laziest summer holiday on record. I spent all of today lying under the fan in Jelly's apartment, drinking beer and watching Press Gang. It was a nice way to wind up the working year, although life at the Farrago office didn't involve as many hostage situations, actual news stories or unresolved sexual tension as at the Junior Gazette. Still. It's something for next years' editors to work on.

Clumsy

I always thought that being clumsy was something that I'd grow out of, but now I'm beginning to wonder if it isn't. This depresses me because I've always thought that a sudden acquisition of grace would accompany some sort of magical turning point of grownupness, turning me from vague and dropsy child to elegant and poised adult. Also being able to round a sharp corner in the car without making sound effects, and being able to run down the street without starting to giggle. But it seems as though I am actually becoming more clumsy as the years go by.

Am I doomed then to remain an eternal adolescent, walking into chairs and spilling coffee on myself, and burning my fingers on the toaster? If so, I'd like some sort of gangly adolescent charm, please. And a thirteen-year-old's metabolism. As it is, the myriad bruises and scratches on my legs (hello table!) and the blisters and cuts on my feet (goodbye, kettle!) just seem to point to someone who is tragically inept at looking after her own physical wellbeing. That, and navigating successfully through space.

Somewhat delightfully, Jono has started to refer to my rather more goofy episodes as being intimidating - which is a nice joke even if it's born of his utter disbelief that anyone would ever find me even marginally impressive. Oh well, at least I'm not in hospitality anymore... I tended to be quite wildly intimidating around sandwich presses, pie ovens and freshly-washed glasses.
And tables, and chairs, and stairs... and the actual point of this post? I forget. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go find the band-aids.

Art bitch

This weekend has been a triumph of porch-lounging, punctuated with a couple of very cool shows. It's probably the bare minumum required to keep my art bitch status, but give me a break, it's not like I'm a professional.

The lovely Catherine Campbell had invited Jelly and I to a very, very cool illustration show at Per Square Metre gallery, and so we duly went and ate tiny cupcakes and marvelled at the pretty, pretty drawings. I ended up making my first ever art purchase, a Lilly Piri illustration. It was remarkably frustrating to only be able to afford one - to be honest, I can't really afford it - but I consoled myself by thinking that the others would be going to good and appreciative homes. Luckily, somebody snapped up the illustration of Catherine's that I was lusting over all night, because I was about to send myself broke to buy it. Maybe in five years' time...

(As an aside, Catherine is one of the illustrators who gave stuff to our magazine and was incredibly gracious about the not getting paid stuff. Another of our illustrators, Andrea Innocent, was also in the PSM show, and it just made me feel incredible lucky that there are creative young people in Melbourne who were willing to donate their time and effort for a project that looked at one point like it might not even get off the ground. They are both fucking talented and if you have money and you like good art, get down to Collingwood and buy their stuff.)

Tonight, after debating the value of theory in art with my housemates for a couple of hours, I hauled myself down to Utopian Slumps for the Nathan Grey closing exhibition. Also very cool, with some wonderful sound art and many many cute boys. Oh, and the installation itself was very good...

Throw in some pizza-eating, and some Pimm's-stealing, and some wee-hours-of-the-morning porch-drinking, and some brunch-devouring and lake-sitting, and that's pretty much the sum of my weekend. Maybe tomorrow I'll get down to the Gallery. You know, dressed in black, with a flask of gin. This art bitch life is pretty fucking sweet.

Teef

Recently I've been dreaming that my teeth are falling out. A lot. Like, every second night. Most of the time I'm going about my business and I realise that one of my molars is missing, then a few of my teeth just start dropping out, and then a few more, until I am frantically trying to keep them in and running madly to the nearest dentist. A couple of times they've been smashed out violently. Once I had that dream within a dream thing where I woke up and gave a sigh of relief that I still had all my teeth, and then they started falling out again and that's when I actually woke up.

What the fuck? According to Google (or more accurately, the number one Google hit, Dream Moods),

One theory is that dreams about your teeth reflect your anxiety about your appearance and how others perceive you. Sadly, we live in a world where good looks are valued highly and your teeth play an important role in conveying that image. Teeth are used in the game of flirtations, whether it be a dazzling and gleaming smile or affectionate necking. These dreams may stem from a fear of your sexual impotence or the consequences of getting old. Teeth are an important feature of our attractiveness and presentation to others. Everybody worries about how they appear to others. Caring about our appearance is natural and healthy.

Apparently, it can also signify that I am nervous about public speaking, feeling powerless, or "putting [my] faith, trust, and beliefs in what man thinks rather than in the word of God." Um, not going to argue with that last one... According to my housemate Surineh, it could also mean that I am coming into money, which, as nice as that would we, just does not seem likely at this particular juncture. I don't know. Most likely it just means that I forgot to buy floss or something - I am, after all, a dentist's daughter...

Feel free to add your own interpretation.

Farewell, Lucky: we barely knew ye

It's incredibly quiet around here; soft, peaceful, the night air unbroken by man or fowl. I can't get used to the lack of noise, although it's a welcome quiet. It's quiet because today a nice man came and took the rooster away. Farewell, Lucky: you've gone to a better place.

For those of you not in the know, Lucky was one of a pair of chooks bought to keep the duck company. The other one didn't quite make it, poor darling. For the longest time we were in denial about the fact that Lucky was not a girl chicken, but as with so many other male-types to which we had become attached, inevitably we had to face the fact that he was a cock.

Anyway, as well as being incredibly not kosher with the city council, Lucky was waking me up at five am every morning and continuing to crow throughout the day, as well as attacking Hegel and anyone who got too close. We didn't want to take him to the RSPCA, since we realised he'd promptly be put down, so Georgia listed him on the Trading Post ("Well-fed rooster, $1, price negotiable) and someone called up jubilant and came and collected Lucky. He breeds chickens, apparently - instead of getting the needle, Lucky is being put out to stud. There could be worse fates.

In any case, I can't quite get used to the lack of noise. Fortunately our street has some weird sound dynamics, otherwise the neighbours would have lynched us by now - that's how piercing the damn bird. It will be blissful to sleep past five tomorrow. Hegel is getting used to being an only child - he's getting more attention from us at the moment that he has since he was a duckling. And instead of a dollar, Georgia is getting a free soft drink next time she goes to Mr Breeder's 7-11. We're still trying to figure out who got the better end of the deal.