Watch this...
Then watch it again...
Then taste the tasty awesomesauce.
Thursday, 11 September 2008
I am feminist fail?
I'm alive! My grandma drove me somewhere, and I'm alive (I just wish I was rich enough to own a car, so that she would never drive me anywhere ever ever ever ever ever ever again...).
I think she thinks that appropriate gears and speeds are for fascists, capitalists and/or the under-85s. Which she thinks are all the same thing. Like first and fourth gear, in fact.
Firstly, I have the most awesome tattoo ever in the history of the world ever.
I hope that's clear. I also hope it heals well.
I've been watching people descend on this blogger with the understanding that they are, in fact, Hermione Granger and she is, in fact, a house-elf (the metaphor, applicably, of that man pseudonymously named Hagrid).
When she says "You are not Hermione Granger and I am not a house-elf", they say "well... well... you're a SLUT! Ha! Yes, a SLUT! And a BITCH! HA!"
Thus ends my detailed analysis of "sex-negative" - no, wait, YES sex-negative, also incredibly woman-negative, the-porn-industry-is-a-monolith, feminism.
I refuse to share a label with women who are so bitterly, evilly judgemental of other women (racism, transphobia etc. in the movement are a thousand million other posts... hell, could be a thousand million encyclopaedias).
"Female Chauvinist Pigs"? If you're living under a rock, this is a fairly new, popular "feminist" book in which the author, Ariel Levy, does NOTHING but insult and belittle other women (and some transmen/transmale genderqueers, for good measure).
Classy. That'll end male domination, I'm sure. That's just as useful as fighting for employment rights or reproductive freedom, fighting against rape or female genital mutilation... etc. etc. Those issues will take care of themselves!
Sadly, the issue is as old as feminism itself - no, hang on, Mary Wollstonecraft never wrote "A Vindication of the Rights of Some Women, and A Great Long Bitch About Others" - OK, then, at least a few decades old.
My introduction? I was 15. I was wandering through Waterstone's, having just had my lip pierced at a shop around the corner. I thought "aha, I have never browsed through the feminist section before, even though I am feminist - I am feminist because it's evident that women are equal to men in worth, and they (I thought "we" at that point) are hardly ever treated like that is the case".
The first paragraph I read in the first academic book I skimmed through? All about how women were JUST DISGUSTING for having body piercings, tattoos, etc, because they were TORTURING THEMSELVES for male approval.
Yup, I loved all that male approval that my gothy appearance procured! All those beatings from boys at school, and all the street harrassment!
I'd assumed that other feminists had my back, and I had theirs - but I had the sense just to laugh at that particular author and assume that most feminists were lovely people, dedicated to gaining women every freedom.
Well... fuck that belief. Royally.
I know some people would think that I can't speak about these issues - I'm disqualified as I "quit" womanhood.
Look. If a woman says/writes, "I believe this..." or "This happened to me..." I listen. Intently. I assume that that woman is telling the truth. I mentally file the information away for future use. If the statement is my first example, a belief, I check that it does not contain blatant racism, misogyny or any other ideology that only exists to hurt - if it does not appear to, I accept it.
If a woman says/writes "Women all think", "Women all do", "A real woman would never"... they fail the misogyny test. Just as a man would, if he expressed the same sentiments.
So... do I call myself a feminist any longer? What do I call myself instead? I particularly won't call myself a "trans-positive feminist" because that implies that hatred of trans women is an optional feminist extra, like peanut butter on toast. Is "womanist" vastly culturally inappropriate, as I'm white and English? "Trying not to be a dick to women" doesn't roll off the tongue.
I think she thinks that appropriate gears and speeds are for fascists, capitalists and/or the under-85s. Which she thinks are all the same thing. Like first and fourth gear, in fact.
Firstly, I have the most awesome tattoo ever in the history of the world ever.
I hope that's clear. I also hope it heals well.
I've been watching people descend on this blogger with the understanding that they are, in fact, Hermione Granger and she is, in fact, a house-elf (the metaphor, applicably, of that man pseudonymously named Hagrid).
When she says "You are not Hermione Granger and I am not a house-elf", they say "well... well... you're a SLUT! Ha! Yes, a SLUT! And a BITCH! HA!"
Thus ends my detailed analysis of "sex-negative" - no, wait, YES sex-negative, also incredibly woman-negative, the-porn-industry-is-a-monolith, feminism.
I refuse to share a label with women who are so bitterly, evilly judgemental of other women (racism, transphobia etc. in the movement are a thousand million other posts... hell, could be a thousand million encyclopaedias).
"Female Chauvinist Pigs"? If you're living under a rock, this is a fairly new, popular "feminist" book in which the author, Ariel Levy, does NOTHING but insult and belittle other women (and some transmen/transmale genderqueers, for good measure).
Classy. That'll end male domination, I'm sure. That's just as useful as fighting for employment rights or reproductive freedom, fighting against rape or female genital mutilation... etc. etc. Those issues will take care of themselves!
Sadly, the issue is as old as feminism itself - no, hang on, Mary Wollstonecraft never wrote "A Vindication of the Rights of Some Women, and A Great Long Bitch About Others" - OK, then, at least a few decades old.
My introduction? I was 15. I was wandering through Waterstone's, having just had my lip pierced at a shop around the corner. I thought "aha, I have never browsed through the feminist section before, even though I am feminist - I am feminist because it's evident that women are equal to men in worth, and they (I thought "we" at that point) are hardly ever treated like that is the case".
The first paragraph I read in the first academic book I skimmed through? All about how women were JUST DISGUSTING for having body piercings, tattoos, etc, because they were TORTURING THEMSELVES for male approval.
Yup, I loved all that male approval that my gothy appearance procured! All those beatings from boys at school, and all the street harrassment!
I'd assumed that other feminists had my back, and I had theirs - but I had the sense just to laugh at that particular author and assume that most feminists were lovely people, dedicated to gaining women every freedom.
Well... fuck that belief. Royally.
I know some people would think that I can't speak about these issues - I'm disqualified as I "quit" womanhood.
Look. If a woman says/writes, "I believe this..." or "This happened to me..." I listen. Intently. I assume that that woman is telling the truth. I mentally file the information away for future use. If the statement is my first example, a belief, I check that it does not contain blatant racism, misogyny or any other ideology that only exists to hurt - if it does not appear to, I accept it.
If a woman says/writes "Women all think", "Women all do", "A real woman would never"... they fail the misogyny test. Just as a man would, if he expressed the same sentiments.
So... do I call myself a feminist any longer? What do I call myself instead? I particularly won't call myself a "trans-positive feminist" because that implies that hatred of trans women is an optional feminist extra, like peanut butter on toast. Is "womanist" vastly culturally inappropriate, as I'm white and English? "Trying not to be a dick to women" doesn't roll off the tongue.
Monday, 8 September 2008
Ethnic bees and actors
Sometimes, I feel vague ethical twinges about submitting actors for parts. I get a bit media-deterministic in my wilder moments, and I figure it can't be good that every TV/corporate training/film role requires a stereotype.
Also - gems like these, that you find in almost every casting breakdown -
"actor should have neutral accent" - they mean RP, tinged with Estuary English, but not enough to terrify. They don't say that, because they mean That's How I Talk, So It Must Be Neutral, The Default Human Is The London Yuppie, Yah Boo Sucks To You Scum.
"actor can be white or ethnic" - this means I Have Absorbed That Blatant Tokenism Will Get Me A Cool Grand From The Arts Council, But Sadly, I Am A Racist, Illiterate Fuckwit.
(Incidentally, when my friend D beekept, which is now a word, somebody said to him "These are ethnic bees. They are from Africa". I'm assuming that that person didn't mean it in a beautiful, Alice-Walker-esque, Africa-is-the-mother-of-us-all way).
Far, far worse ones are common - we just haven't had any in recently, so I can't source current examples.
Yes, I am having a boring day.
My friend Ed told me last night that he is looking for a sheep. If you happen to have a spare one, please do tell me.
I got cornered, and told off (by someone I don't know) on Saturday, because she learned that I was changing my name. She kept repeating "But (old name) is such a pretty name!" with a look in her eyes that said I Will Eat Your Soul.
Hagrid bore my oh-so-decidedly unpretty self away, laughing at my expression of utter puzzlement. "Well, that's you told" he said.
This is vaguely applicable.
Also - gems like these, that you find in almost every casting breakdown -
"actor should have neutral accent" - they mean RP, tinged with Estuary English, but not enough to terrify. They don't say that, because they mean That's How I Talk, So It Must Be Neutral, The Default Human Is The London Yuppie, Yah Boo Sucks To You Scum.
"actor can be white or ethnic" - this means I Have Absorbed That Blatant Tokenism Will Get Me A Cool Grand From The Arts Council, But Sadly, I Am A Racist, Illiterate Fuckwit.
(Incidentally, when my friend D beekept, which is now a word, somebody said to him "These are ethnic bees. They are from Africa". I'm assuming that that person didn't mean it in a beautiful, Alice-Walker-esque, Africa-is-the-mother-of-us-all way).
Far, far worse ones are common - we just haven't had any in recently, so I can't source current examples.
Yes, I am having a boring day.
My friend Ed told me last night that he is looking for a sheep. If you happen to have a spare one, please do tell me.
I got cornered, and told off (by someone I don't know) on Saturday, because she learned that I was changing my name. She kept repeating "But (old name) is such a pretty name!" with a look in her eyes that said I Will Eat Your Soul.
Hagrid bore my oh-so-decidedly unpretty self away, laughing at my expression of utter puzzlement. "Well, that's you told" he said.
This is vaguely applicable.
Sunday, 7 September 2008
The Sad Tale of Bob
In this tale of woe, there are two main characters. Let us call one Bob, and the other Arseholeface - OK, let's not, let's call him Fred (those who know me will be aware that I often give the name Bob to characters with whom I am sympathetic, but I've made an attempt to remove some naming bias, at least).
Bob is fairly sociable, and extremely wealthy. So, it was natural that, come his 50th birthday, he decided to hold a bloody massive party.
OK, now everyone in the world knows who Bob is, as I know very few extremely wealthy 50-year-old people... never mind. Let's plough on.
The party was held in a giant marquee in his back garden. There were 120 guests, plus some caterers, a DJ, and some Portaloo operatives. It was a most excellent party - I ate, drank, and was merry - danced, and improved my not-so-mad Mario Kart skillz (there were a lot of kids, so Bob was prepared).
Now, Bob and his wife, whom we will also call Bob (this is why I can't GM) are friendly, lovable, accepting people - and a cynic with my upbringing understands that these are rare qualities among the very rich. Where Bob and Bob went wrong, then (as did their children, Bob, Bob and Bob) was to hold their party in their Dead Posh Neighbourhood.
What would the average person, in the average neighbourhood, do if their neighbour was having a fairly loud party? Remember, this is a posh neighbourhood, so the houses are very, very far apart - closing your window would be the technical solution to the problem of what noise was left.
Also, the residents immediately on both sides of Bob's were all at the party.
Finally, all the neighbours had been sent a letter informing them of said party.
However, Fred did not like that his Very Important Evening was being disturbed by what, by the time it got to his house, was a small amount of noise - noise he'd been warned about a week in advance, noise that he knew would last an entire hour more.
Instead of using the double-glazing that I'm certain he could afford, or, y'know, joining in the party (there were a couple of happy gatecrashers), or engaging in any behaviour that might be attributed to a normal person, ever...
He turned up and started shouting in Bob's face.
Bob asked him to be less aggressive. He became... more aggressive.
Bob pushed him out of the garden.
He fell, humourously, upon his bottom.
Bob walked back in, and reminded the DJ that he must finish up by the time Bob had promised in the letter. Which the DJ did.
However, the next thing he knew, Bob had been arrested for assault, and carted off to the police station - where the police did have the decency to look a bit sheepish as they fingerprinted him and gave him a caution (!)
It emerged later that Fred had been yelling at them, too.
Can I take a straw poll, here? Would you, yes, you, phone the police if someone pushed you off his property?
Would you phone the police even if someone, irritated at your trespassing, had punched you one?
Would you then shout at the police until they administered the harshest possible punishment to whoever pushed you?
Would you assume that the police have nothing better to do, and they're just sitting belching the alphabet until your call?
Here is where I get a bit inarticulate with rage... D'you think that, if Fred had been poorer, or had his skin had contained a bit more melanin... would the cops have acquiesced to his shouted demands? Or would they have locked him up for Wasting Police Time in the Most Fucking Major Way Ever?
(I never saw Fred. If you think that my assumption that he's white is uncalled for, I say - no, he would never call the police otherwise. Not in the city where I grew up, at least. I also say, ha, you're a fool).
So... Bob now has a criminal record.
And I've got yet another model of masculinity to avoid - that which is "manly" enough to go around shouting the odds, but runs to Mummy in the form of the nanny state when things don't go entirely his way.
Bob is fairly sociable, and extremely wealthy. So, it was natural that, come his 50th birthday, he decided to hold a bloody massive party.
OK, now everyone in the world knows who Bob is, as I know very few extremely wealthy 50-year-old people... never mind. Let's plough on.
The party was held in a giant marquee in his back garden. There were 120 guests, plus some caterers, a DJ, and some Portaloo operatives. It was a most excellent party - I ate, drank, and was merry - danced, and improved my not-so-mad Mario Kart skillz (there were a lot of kids, so Bob was prepared).
Now, Bob and his wife, whom we will also call Bob (this is why I can't GM) are friendly, lovable, accepting people - and a cynic with my upbringing understands that these are rare qualities among the very rich. Where Bob and Bob went wrong, then (as did their children, Bob, Bob and Bob) was to hold their party in their Dead Posh Neighbourhood.
What would the average person, in the average neighbourhood, do if their neighbour was having a fairly loud party? Remember, this is a posh neighbourhood, so the houses are very, very far apart - closing your window would be the technical solution to the problem of what noise was left.
Also, the residents immediately on both sides of Bob's were all at the party.
Finally, all the neighbours had been sent a letter informing them of said party.
However, Fred did not like that his Very Important Evening was being disturbed by what, by the time it got to his house, was a small amount of noise - noise he'd been warned about a week in advance, noise that he knew would last an entire hour more.
Instead of using the double-glazing that I'm certain he could afford, or, y'know, joining in the party (there were a couple of happy gatecrashers), or engaging in any behaviour that might be attributed to a normal person, ever...
He turned up and started shouting in Bob's face.
Bob asked him to be less aggressive. He became... more aggressive.
Bob pushed him out of the garden.
He fell, humourously, upon his bottom.
Bob walked back in, and reminded the DJ that he must finish up by the time Bob had promised in the letter. Which the DJ did.
However, the next thing he knew, Bob had been arrested for assault, and carted off to the police station - where the police did have the decency to look a bit sheepish as they fingerprinted him and gave him a caution (!)
It emerged later that Fred had been yelling at them, too.
Can I take a straw poll, here? Would you, yes, you, phone the police if someone pushed you off his property?
Would you phone the police even if someone, irritated at your trespassing, had punched you one?
Would you then shout at the police until they administered the harshest possible punishment to whoever pushed you?
Would you assume that the police have nothing better to do, and they're just sitting belching the alphabet until your call?
Here is where I get a bit inarticulate with rage... D'you think that, if Fred had been poorer, or had his skin had contained a bit more melanin... would the cops have acquiesced to his shouted demands? Or would they have locked him up for Wasting Police Time in the Most Fucking Major Way Ever?
(I never saw Fred. If you think that my assumption that he's white is uncalled for, I say - no, he would never call the police otherwise. Not in the city where I grew up, at least. I also say, ha, you're a fool).
So... Bob now has a criminal record.
And I've got yet another model of masculinity to avoid - that which is "manly" enough to go around shouting the odds, but runs to Mummy in the form of the nanny state when things don't go entirely his way.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
Kitteh, part II
So, I searched the websites of some animal shelters for a kitteh, but there weren't any the right age. So, I searched all the classified ads, looking for the nicest-sounding owner (I'm not encouraging unpleasant ones to get more cats!).
I immediately found an excitable advert extolling the virtues of my babies! They need new mummies and daddies! They're used to being kissed and cuddled! They are beautiful fluffy balls of fun!!! and thought OK, that's perfect. Even though I would rather drown in a barrel of eels than write that advert myself, I want to buy a kitteh from someone who has.
We walked through the door, said hello, sat down, and were immediately covered in kittens. The lady had 10, from two litters, and was obviously only selling them because her husband thought that 10 more cats was excessive.
Four of them had new homes, five of them didn't (she's hoping her husband won't question that calculation).
I sat there, covered in friendly kittehs, panicking because how the hell can one possibly choose? Will we have to choose our children like this?
This was, I swear, the conversation that came next:
Kitteh: (to Hagrid) You are mine now! Kthx!
Hagrid looked puzzled, as you would if a cat had just telepathically yelled at you.
Hagrid: "I... like that one."
Kitteh: "You better! I love you. Lovelovelove you - put me down and, I swear, I'll claw your hand off to the best of my ability - love you!"
Hagrid: (still puzzled) "I... love you? Yes, yes I do." He has never looked at a girl like that before!
Me: "Pass her over, then."
Kitteh: "I don't fuckin' think so, mate - I want my daddy back! I love him lots and lots and lots!"
I gave her back, and she smugly fell asleep in his hand.
She comes home on the 27th. Hopefully, she'll get as keen on me when she realises I'm the more reliable source of food.
I immediately found an excitable advert extolling the virtues of my babies! They need new mummies and daddies! They're used to being kissed and cuddled! They are beautiful fluffy balls of fun!!! and thought OK, that's perfect. Even though I would rather drown in a barrel of eels than write that advert myself, I want to buy a kitteh from someone who has.
We walked through the door, said hello, sat down, and were immediately covered in kittens. The lady had 10, from two litters, and was obviously only selling them because her husband thought that 10 more cats was excessive.
Four of them had new homes, five of them didn't (she's hoping her husband won't question that calculation).
I sat there, covered in friendly kittehs, panicking because how the hell can one possibly choose? Will we have to choose our children like this?
This was, I swear, the conversation that came next:
Kitteh: (to Hagrid) You are mine now! Kthx!
Hagrid looked puzzled, as you would if a cat had just telepathically yelled at you.
Hagrid: "I... like that one."
Kitteh: "You better! I love you. Lovelovelove you - put me down and, I swear, I'll claw your hand off to the best of my ability - love you!"
Hagrid: (still puzzled) "I... love you? Yes, yes I do." He has never looked at a girl like that before!
Me: "Pass her over, then."
Kitteh: "I don't fuckin' think so, mate - I want my daddy back! I love him lots and lots and lots!"
I gave her back, and she smugly fell asleep in his hand.
She comes home on the 27th. Hopefully, she'll get as keen on me when she realises I'm the more reliable source of food.
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Barack Obama
Look, US politics are important over here, no matter how much we're fed up at how much our media reports on them. Frankly, no-one listens to a small, overpopulated island whose last achievement was the New Wave of British Heavy Metal in the 80s - and OK, a normal person would replace that with victory in the Second World War 45 years before then, but I'm optimistic.
Basically, we have delusions of grandeur. The US has political and corporate sway - and loadsa nukes.
That's why I'm paying attention.
I've heard British people my age, who know a bit about our own political matters, compare the Dems to Labour, and the Republicans to the Tories. No... Political savvy failure. Read both candidates' proposed policies, and all their speeches - with your eyes. Yes, read them.
John McCain is rather closer to Nick Griffin than he is to David Cameron. In his turn, Barack Obama is what we, here, would call a "conservative" - and had his family moved to Britain instead, I reckon he'd be in David Cameron's place right now (actually, he wouldn't - we don't seem to like politicians who are great orators any more. We like ones who resemble confused bunnies).
So... they're not like our candidates. You can't view them as much of a muchness, and it's actually quite important who gets in - yes, for the whole world. You don't like them being that important? Go and do some empire-building for Britain, then, so we can have the political clout instead. Look how well that turned out the first time! We could have another War of Independence... with our armed forces made up of five men and a cat, with one combat boot between all of them. Oh.
So - use whatever influence you have to get US citizens voting for the right candidate.
When I talk to people, I'm not even bothering with "Think of all the poor starving children with no healthcare..." etc. - if they ain't thought of them before, they ain't gonna start now.
North Americans are proud patriots, yes? *wins small prize from Royal Society of Obvious-Stating* So, we need the "Your country won't be the punchline to every joke in Europe" angle.
"You won't have to pretend to be Canadian when on holiday in Europe, so that people don't punch you in the face" (I remember that being common a few years ago, at least).
"No-one will think you spend your days alternately beating your wife and having sex with your sister, taking breaks to take potshots at passing black people".
At posh dinner parties, no-one will say, "I must introduce you to Bob... though he is American".
I think that angle is our slim, but only, chance at success.
Here's Obama, anyway, doing his speechifying at the DNC.
He does seem to have those family values goin' on, incidentally - the family seem to quite like one another, and he's never, as far as I know, divorced a wife because she became disabled (I'm not thinking about anyone called John McCain here at all, tis just an observation).
Anyway, this is enough politics, or my mum will kick me off her blogroll (everyone calling her "little comrade" when she was small kind of put her off - I'm frankly surprised she's not a card-carrying fascist now).
Sarah quite fancies Barack Obama. I'd quite like to look and sound like Barack Obama. A Yorkshire Barack Obama. With a flat cap.
That's another problem with his appeal, apparently. He's in too good physical shape. For fat people. To vote. For him.
Please, America. Don't make this true!
Basically, we have delusions of grandeur. The US has political and corporate sway - and loadsa nukes.
That's why I'm paying attention.
I've heard British people my age, who know a bit about our own political matters, compare the Dems to Labour, and the Republicans to the Tories. No... Political savvy failure. Read both candidates' proposed policies, and all their speeches - with your eyes. Yes, read them.
John McCain is rather closer to Nick Griffin than he is to David Cameron. In his turn, Barack Obama is what we, here, would call a "conservative" - and had his family moved to Britain instead, I reckon he'd be in David Cameron's place right now (actually, he wouldn't - we don't seem to like politicians who are great orators any more. We like ones who resemble confused bunnies).
So... they're not like our candidates. You can't view them as much of a muchness, and it's actually quite important who gets in - yes, for the whole world. You don't like them being that important? Go and do some empire-building for Britain, then, so we can have the political clout instead. Look how well that turned out the first time! We could have another War of Independence... with our armed forces made up of five men and a cat, with one combat boot between all of them. Oh.
So - use whatever influence you have to get US citizens voting for the right candidate.
When I talk to people, I'm not even bothering with "Think of all the poor starving children with no healthcare..." etc. - if they ain't thought of them before, they ain't gonna start now.
North Americans are proud patriots, yes? *wins small prize from Royal Society of Obvious-Stating* So, we need the "Your country won't be the punchline to every joke in Europe" angle.
"You won't have to pretend to be Canadian when on holiday in Europe, so that people don't punch you in the face" (I remember that being common a few years ago, at least).
"No-one will think you spend your days alternately beating your wife and having sex with your sister, taking breaks to take potshots at passing black people".
At posh dinner parties, no-one will say, "I must introduce you to Bob... though he is American".
I think that angle is our slim, but only, chance at success.
Here's Obama, anyway, doing his speechifying at the DNC.
He does seem to have those family values goin' on, incidentally - the family seem to quite like one another, and he's never, as far as I know, divorced a wife because she became disabled (I'm not thinking about anyone called John McCain here at all, tis just an observation).
Anyway, this is enough politics, or my mum will kick me off her blogroll (everyone calling her "little comrade" when she was small kind of put her off - I'm frankly surprised she's not a card-carrying fascist now).
Sarah quite fancies Barack Obama. I'd quite like to look and sound like Barack Obama. A Yorkshire Barack Obama. With a flat cap.
That's another problem with his appeal, apparently. He's in too good physical shape. For fat people. To vote. For him.
Please, America. Don't make this true!
Monday, 1 September 2008
Casting directors...
Are like very small children with ADD in the Shiny Land of Shiny.
I'll carefully craft a submission for, I don't know, a 25-year-old South Asian slim, stunning one-legged female plumber who can sing and play the barrel-organ, and they finally pick a tone-deaf, pasty John Prescott clone with five legs.
And am I the only one who dies a little inside when asked for a "named" actor? 'Cause actors are actually given names at birth, like everybody else - they're not like a modified Inuit tribe where, instead of getting a name at two or so, you only get it once you've gone through the rite of passage that is appearing in a bloody awful soap?
I'll carefully craft a submission for, I don't know, a 25-year-old South Asian slim, stunning one-legged female plumber who can sing and play the barrel-organ, and they finally pick a tone-deaf, pasty John Prescott clone with five legs.
And am I the only one who dies a little inside when asked for a "named" actor? 'Cause actors are actually given names at birth, like everybody else - they're not like a modified Inuit tribe where, instead of getting a name at two or so, you only get it once you've gone through the rite of passage that is appearing in a bloody awful soap?
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