Fucked up books of my childhood

Respectively, the Sweet Valley High (and satellites) books, as examined at The Dairi Burger

and VC Andrews (Inc), Trapped in the Attic.

If you, too, had your formative years at all warped by these literary classics, and had blissfully put most of the details out of your consciousness, now's your chance to have it all come flooding back to you, with hilarious commentary.

If you don't know what I'm talking about...check the sites out anyway. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll spork. Most important, you'll realize "Twlight" had nothing on the 80's for professional Mary Sues. Tragic orphans! Terrible accidents! Murder, even! Ghosts, werewolves, and vampires! And that's just the Sweet Valley series.

Perfect size six suburban twins with sparkling blonde hair! Perfect helpless heroines locked away in secret-and-spider-riddled garrets! With sparkling blonde hair! Many, many lovingly described outfits and other material details, which were of course in no way why I read the things in the first place. And of course, a whole shitload of men, some of whom are teh sexxy and buy pretty things before revealing themselves to be as bastard-y as all the others, not that there is ever any other ultimate goal besides landing one.


******

Edited to update:

A conversation elsewhere got me thinking more seriously about this essay by Joanna Russ in To Write Like A Woman on the modern Gothic, "Somebody's Trying To Kill Me And I Think It's My Husband." It's basically second-wave feminist analysis applied to lit crit, but she's by far one of the better ones out there.

More details and quotage shortly, but essentially her point is that in the Gothic the female "subject" position isn't really much of one; the protagonist doesn't really initiate plot, she stands there and things happen to/around her. Her main task is figuring out the "mystery" of what the hell is going on around her. Much of which involves figuring out other peoples' feelings
(especially the Man, natch).

It's interesting because her thesis not only fits the gothics she was writing about as well as the more sensationalistic VC Andrews books that probably came out after she wrote the essay, but also applies to True Blood and of course Twilight, no doubt among other contemporary hits.

As far as that goes, I was snarking when I first noted that the Sweet Valley Books, once they started not just jumping the shark but doing trapeze acts with it, eventually have all the elements associated with more standard "gothic" books like the VC Andrews books, but actually, it's not that dissimilar. There *is* no real action in SVH as such-the girls don't really *go* anywhere, despite having cunning plots to defeat rivals and hook boys and career aspirations and such-they stay forever frozen at a perfect age, and they don't ever really set anything in motion. So in order to be "exciting" it has to get soapier and soapier...

I had figured that the reason for this in the SVH books was more because having them actually change and grow would defeat the magic fantasy stasis of Perfect Teen Suburbia, but actually the Mary Sue-ism isn't at all unrelated to that fetish. I mean, it's specifically a woman's fantasy Perfect Teen Suburbia (Francine Pascal, more or less, via her many ghostwriters), a retro one, I mean. So the "waiting for something exciting to happen, which will almost certainly come from a Man" is probably kind of implicit in that.

Anyway, here's Russ in her own words:

The Modern Gothic is episodic; the heroine does nothing except worry; any necessary detective work is done by other persons, often the Super- Male. Whenever the Heroine acts...she bungles things badly. [Hi, Bella!] There is a period of terror, repeated sinister incidents, ominous dialogue spoken by various characters, and then the sudden revelation of who's who and what's what. In terms of ordinary pulp technique, these novels are formless. Even so, they obey extraordinarily rigid rules. There must be a reason for these rules.

I would propose that the Modern Gothics are a direct expression of the traditional feminine situation (at least a middle-class [white] feminine situation) and that they provide precisely the kind of escape reading a middle-class believer in the feminine mystique needs, without involving elements that either go beyond the feminine mystique or would be considered immoral in its terms.

...and here she puts a finger on the Mary Sue phenomenon in all but name:

Most striking about these novels is the combination of intrigue, crime and danger with the Heroine's complete passivity. Unconscious foci of intrigue, passion, and crime, these young women (none of whom are over thirty) wander through all sorts of threatening forces of which they are intuitively, but never intellectually, aware. Most of all, *they are of extraordinary interest to everyone*-even though they are ill educated, ordinary, characterless and usually very hazily
delineated (as one might suspect) as a stand-in for the reader.

Sometimes Heroines are very beautiful (although they don't know it) or heiresses (which they don't know, either) or possess some piece of information about the Secret (which they are incapable of interpreting). Their connection with the action of the novel is always passive; they are focal points for tremendous emotion, and sometimes tremendous struggle, simply because they exist...

In the face of this really extraordinary passivity-for if the protagonist of a novel is not active in some way, what on earth is the
novel about?-it is tempting to see these books as genuine family romances, with the Heroine as the child who is trying desperately to figure out what the grownups are up to...At their best Heroines merely stand (passively) for love, goodness, redemption, and innocence. They are special and precious because they are Heroines. And that is that."

This becomes a lot more evident with VC Andrews, who made the "family romance" part way more explicit than any of the earlier goffics Russ was examining.

As per the Mary Sueism, passivity and all, I think that's what had irritated me so much about True Blood, more so in the first season. Sookie is a *classic* of the type. And she only gets more special and precious and besotting of others as it goes on.

BTVS, whatever its flaws, was satisfying because it explicitly *doesn't* do this: Buffy really is a true protagonist, a Hero with a journey, not just someone who radiates goodness while all the fighting takes place all around her.

That said, I'm digging True Blood more in its second season probably precisely because there's so much more focus on all the subplots and secondary characters, most of whom have a more interesting "story" imo than Sookie.

So Russ concludes:

"The Modern Gothic, as a genre, is a means of enabling a conventionally Heroine to have adventures at all. It may also be a way that conventionally feminine readers can see their own situation...validated, justified, and glamorized up to the hilt, without turning Heroines into active persons or into sexually adventurous persons, both of whom violate the morality of conventional femininity.,

[It'd be interesting to see her take on the later Judith Krantz and such genre. wherein the Heroines do become much more sexually adventurous-within certain strictures-and nominally have careers, but a lot of this still applies. The "Lace" books as I recall them could be termed the Cosmo Gothic. More sex, more designer name dropping, the women become successful fashion designers or that sort of thing, and the rest is still pretty similar]

...

1. Housework, etc. is banned. I'm on holiday.

2. I'm upper-middle class, not lower-middle class.

3. My upward mobility is achieved through marriage.

4. I'm a good girl-modest, not too pretty but quite pretty, not too rich but rich enough, womanly, loving, dependent, and somehow "average" (even though I am uniquely precious)

5. The Super-Male *really exists* (all evidence to the contrary)

6. He really loves me, even though I am not strikingly beautiful, brilliant, talented, famous, or rich. I do not see why he loves me, but he does. He may appear to treat me badly or brusquely; still, he loves me.

7. I do nothing. I do not have to do anything. Merely because I exist, violent emotions and acts spring into being.

8. I am rewarded for being good. Aggressively sexual, beautiful, worldly women are wicked and are punished accordingly. Men don't *really* like them.

9. I have intense emotional relations with places-houses, weather, nature. (Scenery-painting is often the best-written part of these books).

10. I have pretty, romantic clothes (but not sexy or flamboyant ones). Clothes really are very important.

11. *My sexual value is my personal value and is respected by all but villains and villainesses.* Men's desire is a testimony to my personal, individual worth. I have no character, interests, or achievements, but those who do come to a bad end (if female).

12. I am a virtuoso at interpreting faces and feelings. [Sookie in True Blood takes this one further by being actually *psychic.*] This ability is not "wasted" on the everyday drudgery of infants' needs or husbands' grumpiness-it is vital in saving my life and the happiness of all about me. (Even if I come to the wrong conclusions, my intense over-reading of everybody else's emotions is still justified).

13. If I don't know what's happening, that's all right: my man does.

14. I can't save myself, but my man will do it for me. [More often torqued these days, if not consistently; Sookie's killing Rene in self-defense has shades of Final Girl, but she still has the men running to her aid, the distraction helps enable her to defend herself, and they do outright rescue her on many other occasions]

15. Life with the Super-Male is *really satisfying.*

Sookeh! SOOKEH!!!...

annnd

*sparkle out*

L¹Shanah Tovah Tikatevu, by the way

As my Irish lapsed Catholic best friend just reminded me. Me, I was all like: Huh? Oh, um, yeah. You, too.

"bad Jew, no matzoh"

Seriously, the closest thing I know from Jewish tradition is the ancient ritual of Chinese Food And A Movie at Christmas. I mean I did use some of the holidays to stay out of school when I was a kid, but I would've used Arbor Day if I could've gotten away with it. We certainly didn't go to synagogue or anything like that-well, for a year or so when it seemed like a good structured way to get me out of the house, we did, as a social thing. No one in my family's been observant on either side as far back as I've known anyone (i.e. grandparents and one great-grandparent).

Which, in itself, is actually sort of a tradition among the Ashkenazim, I suppose.

Truthfully I find the God of the Old Testament hard to connect to; canon-speaking, I prefer that Jesus dude (less crazy about the books/dudes who came after him). It's just, culturally, well, I've tried to go to church, even the most progressive ones, and there's...something...about the culture of it that just doesn't land. Like, at all. MCC, Unitarians-admire the idea, like the sermons, still not feelin' it.

Whereas I can go to synagogue and generally feel more connected with the general vibe/people, especially after the service, but the service itself tends to leave me cold.

and neo-paganism, I have determined, is probably not for me either.

I guess I'm sort of an agnostic mystic at this point. I like the idea of having a regular practice of some sort, not to mention a community, but, well. We'll see.

Hiatus-ish.

I'm trying to attend to Real Life duties as well as finally catch up on some other writing, so am recusing myself from much of the blogosphere, at least, till further notice.

While we're on a literary note:

An lj comm for a reading challenge: 50 books by writers of color in a year (or pick your time frame).

I have a lot of books I need/want to -finish-, I suppose that would count. my attention span's shot to hell in general wrt finishing books lately, I've noticed (I Blame The Internets). Among them:

"Women, Race and Class" by Angela Davis

"Time On Two Crosses" by Bayard Rustin

and on the SF tip, I've been meaning to give Octavia Butler another go, maybe Kindred, maybe something else.

I want Toni Morrison's essay collection "What Moves at the Margin;" I liked "Playing in the Dark" a lot. ( "Writing Without Whining" is something I could probably learn more about: )

and I think I must be the last person who hasn't read "The God of Small Things," so, one of these days.

In other news: the Klassik Arthers are better enjoyed if we don't have to know they had Teh Homosexshul. It's True You Know.

Okay, literary meme time

Via the lovely Natalia.

1) What author do you own the most books by?

Was gonna say Neil Gaiman or Shirley Jackson, or possibly Somerset Maugham; and then I realized, fuck me, I have all seven of the Harry Potter books…

2) What book do you own the most copies of?

I actually got rid of my duplicates in the last purge I think.

3) Did it bother you that both those questions ended with prepositions?

What for?

4) What fictional character are you secretly in love with?

…mind hazy, ask again later.

5) What book have you read the most times in your life (excluding picture books read to children; i.e., Goodnight Moon does not count)?

Probably “Of Human Bondage” by Somerset Maugham.

6) What was your favorite book when you were ten years old?

When I was -ten- I was reading the friggin Sweet Valley High series. srsly. I had better taste when I was five (The Wizard of Oz and so forth). uh besides that probably Harriet the Spy was up there.

7) What is the worst book you’ve read in the past year?

I don’t think I’ve completed anything that godawful in the past year. Life is short and so is my attention span.

8) What is the best book you’ve read in the past year?

Un Lun Dun by China Mieville.

9) If you could force everyone you tagged to read one book, what would it be?

Collected essays by George Orwell, the one including “Politics and the English Language.”

10) Who deserves to win the next Nobel Prize for Literature?

fuck if I know, I’m so not paying attention…

11) What book would you most like to see made into a movie?

“Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell,” if they could actually do justice to it (I’m dubious)

12) What book would you least like to see made into a movie?

See above re: dubious.

13) Describe your weirdest dream involving a writer, book, or literary character.

Have dreamed at least once of writing a great story that of course I forgot once having woken. Not that weird, but deeply aggravating.

14) What is the most lowbrow book you’ve read as an adult?

I’m going to have to go with the National Enquirer book about Michael Jackson (”Freak!”)

15) What is the most difficult book you’ve ever read?

I’d say “Ulysses” or “Gravity’s Rainbow,” but truth is I never read either completely through or even close. Can tell you all the dirty bits in both of them, though.

16) What is the most obscure Shakespeare play you’ve seen?

It was so obscure I’ve forgotten it.

17) Do you prefer the French or the Russians?

The Russians. They’re funny even in their angst. Or especially. The French are just insufferable.

18) Roth or Updike?

…I guess Roth for “Portnoy’s Complaint,” but I’m not really interested in either.

19) David Sedaris or Dave Eggers?

Not interested in either.

20) Shakespeare, Milton, or Chaucer?

Shakespeare.

21) Austen or Eliot?

Austen.

22) What is the biggest or most embarrassing gap in your reading?

A whole shitload of “classics” apparently. A lot of WoC writing I’ve been meaning to get to. Pretty much everything ever really.

23) What is your favorite novel?

Probably “American Gods” at the moment. Used to be “Of Human Bondage.”

24) Play?

Would’ve said “Angels in America” once, seen too many mediocre productions to still think so. “Skriker” by Churchill, maybe, although “favorite” isn’t exactly right.

25) Poem?

“The Queen of Wands” by Judy Grahn.

26) Essay?

“Lear, Tolstoy and the Fool” by Orwell. A couple by Joanna Russ from “To Write Like a Woman” come close.

27) Short story?

…can’t think of a “favorite” off the top. Some I’ve liked a bunch: “Bliss” by Katherine Mansfield, “Grail” by Neil Gaiman (actually quite a few by Gaiman), “Come Dance With Me In Ireland” by Shirley Jackson

28) Work of nonfiction?

Jon Ronson, “Them!” for the lulz

29) Who is your favorite writer?

Orwell or Joanna Russ for nonfiction, Gaiman currently for fiction.

30) Who is the most overrated writer alive today?

Judging by what little I’ve seen of his work, I guess I’d go with David Sedaris. I don’t get it.

31) What is your desert island book?

I’d be too busy freaking out to settle down with a book, sorry.

32) And… what are you reading right now?

Couple of books on leadership by Arnold Mindell, “Love Belongs To Those Who Do The Feeling” (Judy Grahn’s newish collection), Perdido Street Station finally, the latest “Angel” comic (shut up)

*********

I tag whomever the spirit moves, here, there, or anywhere. Here is fine. MOAR COMMENTS PLZ /subtle hint

random general thinky thoughts about conflict and school and spirituality and life and shit

So, I'm reading these books on conflict resolution, one entitled "The Leader as Martial Artist" (look, Maw, I'm a Badass Ninja! (TM) (et seq), you're a ninja, he's a ninja, she's a ninja, wouldn't cha like to be a ninja too...)

...which is very much in line with the sort of schooling I'm getting right now, trying to wed the personal ("innerwork") with the political ("worldwork") and the spiritual/metaphysical (he speaks of "timespirits" as a concept, which sounds pretentious until you realize o yeah it's just the translation of "zeitgeist," I guess that works),

...and doing the work at school, and it's all very nice, and i think i'm like getting all evolved and shit, you know.

and so then I'm talking on the phone to the best friend, and he's betching about his asshole boss, and I was all, "You should just, like, kill her."

and then I was all, y'know, at the same time I'm theoretically and - hopefully- practically learning to be this more wise and compassionate etc. etc. etc.? increasingly and more quickly I find myself coming to the conclusion in various given dwamas:

"Fuck, no, I don't want to deal with that bullshit. Where's my brick?"

OI LOVE MOI BRICK!!!1!!

"Maybe we're seeing another side to belledame. A more caring, considerate--" *thunk*

"AHHH, FECK IT!!"

In which I channel my inner radfem, or something:

I am liking this website right now. Anti-bra.

Why? Simple. I hate the fucking things.

I am sorry that the 70's era bra-burning thing is a myth (although I'm sure someone tried it somewhere), because in theory it sounds very satisfying, although in reality I imagine it'd be something of an anti-climax, plus setting that microfiber whatsit shit on fire probably'd be bad for the environment, and smell terrible.

It's not really a the result of lengthy, deep, forehead-crinkling "examination," this conclusion of mine; although, yes yes sure obviously the fact that I wear 'em even though I can't stand 'em is about Teh Pat, or The Man, or The System, or what you will. But I'd happily keep wearing them if I actually got any use or pleasure out of them. It's very personal, and very physical. I realize this is not gonna be one size fits all (hah), lots of women really do feel better with 'em on, I buy it. I'm just not one of 'em. I. Just. Hate. Wearing. Bras.

Well, let me clarify. I'm femmey, in a low key way. I could like bras as fetish wear, or fashion sometimes, same as I like corsets. But I so hate them as effectively -mandatory-. I'm sure I'd have felt the same way about corsets if I were expected to wear one all day ever fucking day. I can't even wear tight jeans for very long.

And even the most comfortable bras, even the ones that -do- fit, sort of, it's like--it's elastic digging into my shoulders. It's multiple metal hooks near my bare skin. It's a pinchy band right on or around my solar plexus where none was required or desired. Don't even get me started on the underwire ones, or the ones with itchy twee lace. I may be femmey, but comfort comes first 95% of the time. And for me--not speaking for anyone else--bras are NOT comfortable. Ever. At best, they're tolerable. And yeah, I did the "find your real size" thing, and still, except for very -rare- occasions where yeah I really do want "support" because it hurts if they jiggle--nope. Still uncomfortable. Still would rather go without. Still remove it first thing I get home, practically before putting my purse down, sometimes before taking off my shoes.

And, thing is, bras: as a very Zaftig person, yep, I -do- get policed regularly should I visibly go without in public. On the street, I mean. Certainly at any kind of corporate or "real" job I ever did, I didn't even think of trying. But I mean, I consider it par for the course to have to put on certain kinds of "drag" for certain situations. Bras? It's basically been: anywhere outside my apartment. Because, it's very -obvious- if I go without, let's say. Oddly enough, (or not) the disapproving comments (and even a catcall, once) seem to come from women at least as often as men.

So, I like this site, because it reminds me I've been thinking of just saying fuck it and doing without more often anyway. The gallery of the range of "normal" breasts is worth looking at especially, check it out. (Of course Not Safe For Fucking Work, it's bare breasties! and, well, proving the point...)

I don't love everything they say. The emphasis on "but breasts are for babies!"...yes, it's true, obviously, and the weirdness this culture has about public breast feeding zomg is certainly fucked up. And they're not obnoxious about the whole, breasts aren't -inherently- sexual although they certainly can be, pretty much on board; just, I've seen too many cultural feminists take that shit and torque it into their own weird eroticization is always bad mkay, did we mention we canz has BABIEZ??? oh, too bad for you if you're one of the women who can't, but, you know, the -principle- of the thing, MOON WOMB SPOON JUNE.

As for the anti-augmentation--yes wrt the industry and health concerns and all; but again, I've seen too many feminsts use it as an excuse for misogynist bashing to not have my knee jerk a little. especially when they make aesthetic criticisms of the way surgically enhanced breasts look--lookit, artifice is fine too, you're willing to expand your generosity of beauty appreciation to all kinds of "normal," leave other women's bodies the hell alone; even if you think they're only doing it to please someone else or harming themselves, (also consider the possibility that you may be incorrect) exchanging one form of shaming and tsking and hectoring for another isn't a way out.

The cancer connection--well, maybe. I don't know anyone who wears the things 24/7. I imagine there might be something to that severe a constriction that consistently not being great for the lymph nodes, but I really don't know. But yeah, wrt the whole "o you need to wear a bra or they'll sag earlier"--which I've gotten, yep, thanks Mom--fuck it.

a) really, only makes a difference as long as it's actually on
b) anyway, so the hell what if they do sag? It's called "gravity," generally a good thing or we'd all be floating on the fucking ceiling innit?

They -did- make the same argument about not getting rid of the corset, back in the day, of course: but but but the waistline will just expand out of control unless you wear one, at least during the day! And: well, um, yeah. They do that. And?

I will say that the camisole solution--in general, don't prefer it, more comfortable when it's not too hot, sure, but when it is it's just one more layer to put up with, and there's still the Annoying Little Strap issue to contend with.

You can fill in the rest, I'm not saying anything eight kazillion other feminists haven't said. Just rabbiting into the void here, really. And, hey, if it inspires anyone else who also hates the fucking things but hasn't quite gone as far as pitching them, solidarity, yo.

If you're like, hey, but I love my bra, as far as I'm concerned, for whatever it's worth, you are totally golden. Work away. All's you have to do is -not- give -me- static if I go without, and I will most certainly not give you static for adoring your Wonderbra, or indeed silicone or other high artifice/bodily modifications.

If you are thinking, hey, this isn't her usual subject matter, what's up with that? It is because I cannot be arsed to write about anything that involves more research or thought or care than "hey, I just clicked this link, say that reminds me: did I ever mention I hate bras?" and, well, I'm just sitting here, really.

And, that is all.

ETA: Comrade Physioprof spotted something in that site that I missed:

The first comprehensive study on this subject was done by medical researcher Sydney Singer, after his wife Soma Grismaijer discovered a lump on her breast. She got rid of hers in two months by quitting wearing bra, doing regular breast massage and exercise, drinking only purified water, and taking some herbs and supplemental vitamins and minerals.

Yeah, no. Really: No. I mean, I'm sure all those things are fine to do, too, -before- you find something? but sorry, but if you have a lump, go to the fucking doctor. Yeah, patriarchal Westernized medicine and all; somehow I'm not gonna take whatsis' husband's word for the self-healing spiel, thanks. I'd like to see how exactly they conducted the "comprehensive study," too, now, frankly.

'K, I rescind endorsement of the site. The gallery is still cool, though, and I still think it's worth repeating:

No one should have to wear uncomfortable tit-slings if they don't want to.

Really, why do people need to tart it up with this other crap? *sigh*

Well, that certainly livened up the evening

So I just get this phone call, right.

"[My RL first name!]"

I go, naturally enough, it being my first name and all,

"Yes?"

The tone is familiar, but I don't recognize the voice...

"It's David! How are you, darling?"

"David!..." I repeat, trying frantically to remember if I still know any Davids.

As he continues to talk, I figure, oh, shit, of course, it's one of those stupid salespeople trying a new trick, I hate that shit, I'm
about to hang--wait, WHAT?

"...I've got the photos. Something mumble crushing the bugs with the Manolo Blahniks."

"I beg your pardon?" I say, as politely as I can.

A slight pause.

"Is this [my first name?]"

Me, slightly wary now, even though I've already said "yes."

"Um..."

"[My first name] [a last name that's not remotely mine]?"

Ah. "No, I'm sorry."

"Oh, you're kidding. Is this San Francisco?"

"Yes."

"Is this...[gives a phone number that isn't mine, although close]"

"No, I'm afraid it's not."

"Oh, my God. I'm sorry..."

Me, laughing, even as I'm thinking this is probably a mistake,

"Well, you got it partly right..."

"Oh, your name is [my first name?] Oh, you're kidding..."

"Mm. Anyway, it -was- the wrong number, so--"

"I'm a photographer. From England."

"Yes, well, it -was- the wrong number, try again, and good luck with that," and I hung up.

***

So, whether this was some weirdass crank call or a weirdass semi- coincidence: how many times do you get some random caller talking to you about crush porn? With Manolo Blahniks, yet. I mean, as these things go, it's a lot more interesting than heavy breathing...

Life, the universe, and everything

catching up with me, or vice versa.

please stand by.

So, has anyone ever flown with a cat?

I'm taking Wee Beastie on a jet plane for the move. apparently he can go under the seat, in his carrier, which is good 'cause I wasn't going to put him in luggage, but still a bit nervous about the whole thing. Any tips? Someone said -not- to give a sedative because the pressure combined with the sedative can actually kill them? :{

Wednesday get-your-groove-on

See if you can spot the theme.

ETA: fuckit, it's this: Got into a Master's program in counseling in the Bay Area; and so, am goin' back to Cali (to Cali, to Cali, I do think so) in just a few short months. So will probably be posting more sporadically for...a while, starting...soonish.

Wo! Dude! I bin nominated for a Weblog Award!

I'd no idea. Just saw it in the trackbacks. Here!

Up in the finalists with Pam, Keith Boykin, Republic of T, Joe My God, Susie Bright.. pretty feckin' schweet.

so, y'all know what to do...

"but it's an honor just to be" yeah yeah yeah. go vote, betches.

whee!

Bad blogger, no biscuit

Just to let y'all know: I'm still around, have a bunch of half-finished posts that may or may not ever get finished. and am aware I made some promises to some people to post about certain things, and never followed through. I'm sorry about that. I'm not demoralized by blogwars or nuffin' (some people were asking) but RL wise I'm a bit tired at the moment, and I have some other projects going as well. Eventually I hope to get some more regular content back up again.

"Poundcake"

Antiprincess reminds me of this, roundabout like, with her mention of the ungodly news that Van Halen is back on the road. With Pat Boone opening. No, I made that bit up. Probably.

Anyway! So I've been a-tripping and stumbling down Memory Lane, and it occurred to me to revisit a video that--unlikely, because it sucks, musically and aesthetically, nonetheless--made rather an impact on my tender whenever it was, junior high, high school, psyche.

Feel free to watch this Sammy Hagar-fronted yowling sludgefest with the sound off. Actually if you dub in something better, like Alvin and the Chipmunks, it improves the overall experience substantially. But that's not my point (I'm getting there).

(If you are a serious glutton for punishment, the "lyrics" are here).



Subtle, no?

So, yes, a, ahem, deconstruction of the narrative. Young woman in modest dress and sensible shoes (ALERT) goes to try out for being one of Van Halen's chorus girls. She finds the dressing room, with a conveniently placed hole in the frosted glass window. She puts an eye to the hole; inside is a bevy of beautiful young women in leather, lace, nylon, maribou, ostrich feathers and pink fur (o joy to my girlie heart), cone bras, high heels, makeup for days, fuckloads of hairspray. The young woman is shocked. Yet, she cannot resist another peek. And another. She is too shy or too prudish (we presume that's what the problem is supposed to be) to enter the forbidden chamber herself, but cannot tear herself away.

For the next couple of minutes, we are shown various flashes of this Edenic scene--corset lacing, perfume spritzing, powder puff-puffing, sultry posing in front of the mirror or just in the middle of the floor (like you do), a petite cat-fight--as glimpsed by Miz Sensible Voyeurism; intercut with shots of VH performing on stage, with Sammy lamenting to the heavens of the "poundcake" which has apparently stricken him with terrible cramps, and no Immodium in sight. (There is a profound metaphor buried in that juxtaposition somewhere. See if you can find it).

Eventually, there appears a blonde (who seems to have just entered the dressing room from elsewhere, possibly the stage, except it'd be some other stage besides the one on which Intestinal Cramps!Sammy is playing, because there are no females there. or possibly Narnia. personally I vote for Narnia) who shakes her golden mane free of her football helmet and then begins to peel off her jacket. Emboldened...or, something...Our Heroine takes off -her- jacket. Perhaps she might actually get up the nerve to -go inside!- in another five hours or so. Or perhaps she's going to just change into her audition duds out there in the hall (shy, you know).

Unfortunately at this juncture the blonde, who has a laser-accurate third eye hidden beneath that gorgeous mane of shiksa cornsilk, whips around with an angry glare, clutching the jacket to her bared bosoms. Sensible Shoes immediately ducks behind the door jamb: she sees! Caught! CAUGHT!! But, Our Guilty Heroine is paralyzed with fright, or something, so does not flee; instead, after catching her breath, peers through the hole AGAIN.

A new woman appears on the scene, chewing gum and packing, or rather unpacking, tools. Judging from her short, bluntcut hair, baseball cap, plaid shirt, suspiciously understated makeup (just a slash of red on the lips), clear oral fixation, forward, aggressive manner, and aptitude with power tools, she is obviously being coded, in time-honored media tradition, as a lumberjack. Maybe Tumnus the Faun needed some landscaping done or something. She turns on the drill, to the apprehensive muttering of the femme'd-out wimminz, and heads, a grinnin' and a chompin', straight for the door, and the plucky l'il voyeur behind it. The hazel eye in the hole widens. Our Heroine hides from the rampaging, encroaching drill by turning around and pressing her back flat against the door. Like you do. Lumberjack Lady, grimacing with effort, penetrates the door with her drill; the tool pierces through the barrier, brushes Our Heroine's sensible skirt and comes perilously close to her tender flesh. After two or three of these brushes with danger, Our Heroine flees in terror. Clearly the reminder of her miserable experience in shop class upset her. She just didn't have what it takes; she is not, in fact, coming back a star, or at all. (Please note the unusual narrative technique of taking the protagonist out of the picture before the end).

But from this melancholy note we come back to the idyllic Paradise, now gloriously restored, of the dressing room, where the scantily clad lovelies will continue to make themselves beautiful, rouge and tightlace each other, whisper and giggle, brush each others' hair, playfully spat with powder puffs and pillows, and daintily lap at each others' airbrushed pink pearls with the tip of their little pink tongues oh what a giveaway; until such time as they are needed to strut and fret upon the stage and give Sammy some goddam chamomile and saltpeter tea.

The End.

--oh, right, I forgot, there's also an annoying little moppet in a tutu that appears before and after the video proper, saying something annoyingly moppety.

Eth NEd.

*************************************


Now, some people would say that this is a -classic- example of Patriarchy's oppressive standards for women, from start to finish. The little girl with her nauseatingly cutesy Shirley Temple posing and tutu, lisping about "sugar and spice," (already in training); cut immediately to a male fantasy of women's space, what the little girl is being seasoned into: a sexually saturated harem of women struggling to fit themselves into instruments of couture torture in order to become toys, mere objects for mens' delectation, (poundcake is CONSUMED, of course), and generally acting like, well, bimbos. Or your term of choice (bows). The one woman who looks remotely like a Real Woman (tm) is mocked mercilessly for her failure to conform to Patriarchal standards of feminine beauty, both by the token Male Identified Patriarchy Fucker (tm) and the cruel, yet vacant, male-fantasy-conforming girls. The men themselves, of course, are safely out of reach (the fuckers) in the place of power; whatever else happens, -they're- safe. Clearly Our Heroine was right to run as fast as her low-heeled but probably still uncomfortable shoes could carry her. Hopefully, some day, she will find a safe space to be herself.

Now, nothing like this floated, even incoherently, across my consciousness, when first I saw this oeuvre. I -was- incredibly disturbed by the video, yes. But the source of my disturbment wasn't the elaborate beauty rituals, which I'd always adored anyway; nor was it the men yowling on the stage, who were less interesting than dead sea-fruit to me.

No, what struck atavistic, complex terror into my heart was the whole woman spies on beautiful/sexual women undressing, gets caught, publically humiliated, and driven off.

-This- was my primal terror all through junior high and high school; -this- is what sent me fleeing down the corridor, mentally at least. And I don't even mean just in gym class. I mean, like, in algebra or Spanish or pretty much anywhere in public really, when some girl would glare (or so I imagined) at me, perhaps one of the pretty ones, perhaps one of her friends, perhaps just some random girl; and send me into blushing fits for the forseeable -weeks- or -months- every time I saw her or even heard her name. Holy shit! They know! They KNOW.

Oh, sure, I -thought- I was safely invisible, and truthfully, I was. But videos like that, like any number of reminders a thousand times a day, kept me constantly vigilant. Because you never know when some lumberjack with understated makeup might just see right through you and EXPOSE you. Maybe even drag you into the circle of angry women and drill you mercilessly. Demand that you explain yourself. And be punished. Clearly, a FATE WORSE THAN DEATH.

Dip me in honey and poundcake, please don't throw me in that briar patch.

x-posted at Big Queer Blog

Dr. Wee Beastie I Presume

Dreamed last night that my cat was my therapist. Spoke in the same dry if reassuring tones as my actual therapist, had the same office (albeit with a bed instead of a couch, for me) and everything. At the end of the session, I started to say "see you at home" but then realized it might seem unprofessional to the other clients who were waiting, as would scritchies or a squeeze. And asking how he learned to talk, as it suddenly occurred to me to do just before I woke up, seemed just plain rude and patronizing. It'd just have to wait.

"Eight random things" meme

I know at least a few different people have tagged me with this one a zillion years ago, so, okay. while my brain is still on *ffssssssssss*

1) When I was a kid, I wanted to be, variously, Big Bird, a ballerina, a figure skater, a fairy princess, a paleontologist (for about five minutes, after a field trip) and--I shit you not--a "master baker."

2) The above came from a fairy tale I was particularly fond of, some 19th century or earlier Irish folktale. I told this to some adults and didn't figure out for -years- why this was funny, even though I knew what the Other Thing was. just didn't make the connection till..."Oh."

3) As a matter of fact, I spent so much time reading fairy tales and folktales and all that kind of shit that I talked like an Andrew Lang book, all archaic slang and Victorian purple. My second grade teacher asked my parents, "Do you...talk like this at home?"

4) I grew up with two little dogs, a West Highland White Terrier and a little white mutt. She was a lot more butch than he was.

5) I love swimming: pools, lakes, the ocean, water in general. Nothing feels more freeing, somehow.

6) My grandmother once told me she was "afraid of my big toe." I still don't know what it means.

7) (Although these days I'm not so fond of it myself; some horrible nail fungus you really don't need to know the details of. that wasn't true at the time, though).

8) I LOVE making lists, but for some reason I'm having real trouble with this one. and I don't think I'm terribly organized in general, just weird fits of compulsive compiling every so often.

I tag whomever the spirit moves.

"...all of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again..."

As I may have mentioned hither and yon, before coming into the wacky world of online feminism, I was a member of an organization that I will here refer to as Dyke Drama Collective, a Downtown theatre that is/was started in the early 80's and is for the women, by the women, very on-a-string, very DIY let's-put-on-a-show. It's had its high points--alumnae include Holly Hughes and Sarah Schulman; and I should say I had a show of my own (directed, wrote, co-produced) at one point. Had some good times with some of the regulars, onstage and off. I don't mean to say this without any affection whatsoever. Just, I was indirectly reminded, elsewhere, just now, from an allusion to the endless Online Dwamas with the Usual Suspects, of this:

Right about when I knew it was time to leave the DDC (which was, I reiterate, not -nearly- as obnoxious as erm some people in terms of the Usual Dread Subjects, on the whole; the younger set far less so than the older ones, whom i didn't know as well, true, still)

...anyway, shortly after 9/11, one of the (older, whom I didn't know very well) women used Vulva puppets, Mr. Rogers-like, (complete with squeaky voice and syrupy intonation) to enact her sentiment that dark as the times were, maybe the crumbling of the phallic structures symbolized a better time to come for Pussies. (or however she put it. there was nauseating cutesiness, was the bottom line, besides the, well, that).

a few years later, i ran into her at the friendly local wimmins' book co-op (which later got bought out by an individualist if still leftie entrepreneur, on account of the wimbon who was "collectively" running it by basically letting crunchy wide-eyed twenty year olds staff the place on a "volunteer" basis basically ran it into the ground, business-wise).

She was all, oh, hi! I can't remember your name. (obligatory exchange) Hi! Good to see you! Say, I'm house managing tonight, why don't you come and staff for me?

Now, the way Dyke Drama Collective works is, everyone pitches in and works volunteer on a system of what's called "sweat equity." You help your sisters with their shows, and the space as a whole, goes the idea, and when it comes time to do your show, you'll get help with yours. In practice it didn't always work out quite so neatly, but anyway. "Staffing" means you help clean up before and after the show (usually not much to do), sit and take tickets at the door or wait downstairs to meet and greet, maybe run some light errands. In return you get basic "sweat equity" and of course to see the show for free. Not a bad system, and a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Except, I hadn't been to the place for several years. But, okay. I tell the woman, politely, sorry, no can do, but good luck!

She goes, in so many words,

"Why not?"

I bit back the first four or thirteen responses ("um, hello, I -might- actually have something else to do, did it occur to you, person-I-haven't-seen-in-several-years, and you don't even remember my damn name?") and said, rather less pleasantly,

"I'm busy."

She did drop it then, at least. The temperature perked back up a few notches, we made with the conversational noises, she bought her copy of -off our backs- or -Tidewombon Periodical- or -Craft Your Way To The Revolution- and maybe a vegan cookie/paperweight or so. Goes off. And that was that.

The brief reunion did leave me with a warm glowy feeling of sisterhood, though. Unless it was acid reflux from the herbal tea.

another question.

How do y'all deal with procrastination tendencies?

so, notes on pole dancing thus far:

oh yeah, did i mention i started lessons?

1) The studio & set-up is not at all unlike any number of other dance studios I have gone to, (I've taken many varieties over the years, from ballet to hip-hop to swing), except for it being pretty much women-only (they run some classes for couples and gay men, but not on the nights I've been thus far)--a good 50% or more thus far (both staff and students, as well as an exiting bachelorette party who'd rented the studio) WOC. Boas and other props in a corner (which we're not using for this class--strictly meat and potatoes)--been there, did that: theatre dance. Oh yes, and the poles.

2) It's. Not. Easy.

What I am hoping for out of this, I am realizing, in part, is some sort of triumph over all those memories of sucking hopelessly at gym, particularly pullups or anything similar involving the upper body.

Actually at this point, it seems like it's as much -fear- as actual lack of strength that's keeping me from being able to do the spins or support my weight for more than a second or two. Instructor sez I'm thinking about it too much.

Oh, just in case you were thinking it's not as valid or challenging as any other form of dance/physical art form:


--oh, what the fuck is wrong with youtube all of a sudden?! what is this "beta" shit?

never frigging mind. anyway.

On the way home, I found myself eyeballing the subway poles in a new way...

I also found myself overhearing some woman on her cell:

"The guys I'm used to, when they want to kiss me, they kiss me. When they wanna hug me, they hug me. I'm not used to them asking. He might be a little too, you know, granola?"

gah. i hate that dream.

that one where my teeth keep coming out? or are about to come out?

i hate that dream.