Colby's mention of January Playmate Rebecca Ramos (beware of nipple) is rightly critical, but to my mind, not critical enough. Listen to this:
It's a culturally diverse country, so it makes sense to feature different women. You don't have to be a skinny supermodel in your early 20s to be a Playmate.
OK, Rebecca. I'll take you up on that statement and look at your stats:
Height: 5'5"
Weight: 110
Bust: 34DD
Waist: 24
Hips: 34
Apart from a charming height deficiency, what do you see there? I see measurements that, at the age of 24, I will never see again, if indeed I ever had them.
And as for being 35, well. What's Rebecca's ambition? "To pursue a meaningful personal and professional path with passion." A path in what? Alliteration? I can understand that each of us comes to God (or a job) in his or her own way, and that there are many whose careers haven't reached their height or even realized meaningful form yet at the age of 35, but by that age, most people know what they want to be when they grow up.
I don't mind Playboy that much; I really don't. But, and God help me for saying this, the more explicit magazines are generally far more tolerant of the diversity of female beauty - which isn't to say that they're necessarily tolerant, but certainly more so. I can accept a lot of things, but not that Playboy doesn't have "preconceptions" about women and beauty. Don't quit your day job, Hef.
Sunday, December 29, 2002
Saturday, December 28, 2002
FILM AND THEATRE REVIEW
So my gift to myself, upon completing my studies, was to go see The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. Actually, it was a gift from my boyfriend, because he paid my share of the $27.00 it takes to get two people into a theatre these days, and I've forgotten to pay him back.
Mike and I went to see the first Lord of the Rings movie last year, motivated by little more than the ability to be conversant about it at social gatherings. I was completely sucked in by it; he wasn't, so much. But I daresay it was easier for me: I love Ian Holm and Cate Blanchett, and I have the same lovely soft spot for Ian McKellen that I do for Charlie Watts (it's easy to see why!).
I enjoyed The Two Towers less, but I'm not eager to blame that on the film itself. Every time there was a close-up shot of Orlando Bloom looking serious (often), or gallant riders on gallant horses galloping in the green distance (often), Mike would lean over to me and whisper "poncy", but I'm sure there was a good story to be told, and that Peter Jackson told it well. Look back up at the $27.00 figure I mentioned earlier, and then meditate on this: I went to the famous Silver City Theatre in West Edmonton Mall and paid (well, Mike paid) twenty-seven dollars, and by the time this movie was over, I could barely move my neck, it was in so much pain. Let me explain.
This was the first Friday that The Two Towers was onscreen, so naturally the theatres were packed. Mike and I decided to go to one of two shows playing at 11:30 pm and, having bought the tickets in advance, showed up fifteen minutes early. Now, any of you who have been to one of these massive-screen theatres will know how it's laid out: the seats ascend towards the back, and the first quarter of them are ridiculously close to the screen. The patron is not looking remotely straight ahead to see the film, but rather up, particularly if the patron in question (me) is only five feet tall. Of course we had to sit in that quarter, because the theatre was packed, and no one likes those seats.
I would much rather take my $27.00 to South Edmonton Common, a newer theatre that has almost exactly the same layout as Silver City, but its seats recline slightly, so you can position your neck however it's comfortable, and that full quarter of their seats doesn't go wasted by people who are extremely reluctant to sit there. So three cheers for Cineplex Odeon.
I'm determined to see The Two Towers again, and equally determined not to pay Silver City to do it. Ponces.
Mike and I went to see the first Lord of the Rings movie last year, motivated by little more than the ability to be conversant about it at social gatherings. I was completely sucked in by it; he wasn't, so much. But I daresay it was easier for me: I love Ian Holm and Cate Blanchett, and I have the same lovely soft spot for Ian McKellen that I do for Charlie Watts (it's easy to see why!).
I enjoyed The Two Towers less, but I'm not eager to blame that on the film itself. Every time there was a close-up shot of Orlando Bloom looking serious (often), or gallant riders on gallant horses galloping in the green distance (often), Mike would lean over to me and whisper "poncy", but I'm sure there was a good story to be told, and that Peter Jackson told it well. Look back up at the $27.00 figure I mentioned earlier, and then meditate on this: I went to the famous Silver City Theatre in West Edmonton Mall and paid (well, Mike paid) twenty-seven dollars, and by the time this movie was over, I could barely move my neck, it was in so much pain. Let me explain.
This was the first Friday that The Two Towers was onscreen, so naturally the theatres were packed. Mike and I decided to go to one of two shows playing at 11:30 pm and, having bought the tickets in advance, showed up fifteen minutes early. Now, any of you who have been to one of these massive-screen theatres will know how it's laid out: the seats ascend towards the back, and the first quarter of them are ridiculously close to the screen. The patron is not looking remotely straight ahead to see the film, but rather up, particularly if the patron in question (me) is only five feet tall. Of course we had to sit in that quarter, because the theatre was packed, and no one likes those seats.
I would much rather take my $27.00 to South Edmonton Common, a newer theatre that has almost exactly the same layout as Silver City, but its seats recline slightly, so you can position your neck however it's comfortable, and that full quarter of their seats doesn't go wasted by people who are extremely reluctant to sit there. So three cheers for Cineplex Odeon.
I'm determined to see The Two Towers again, and equally determined not to pay Silver City to do it. Ponces.
Friday, December 27, 2002
CORRECTION
Regarding the severance of my tongue... I must say that because I was just a babe, I have no memory of injuring my tongue, just family testimony and a series of infinitesimal bumps going across the middle of it, which could just as easily be taste buds. I wasn't even thinking when I told you how it happened, but luckily my mom corrected me, and we're able to set the record straight. I wasn't sitting on a stool, I was sitting on a chair at the kitchen table, and the accident occurred when I tried to crawl up.
I know why I thought it was a stool, though. Of course I have no idea what our home looked like then, except by the clues of photographs, so at some point I assembled it in my head until I had a concrete image of the scene in my mind, and naturally it was entirely fraudulent - but I didn't realize that while I was writing. For some reason I had placed us in the apartment of an old family friend, a place we frequently visited when I was in elementary school. It was there that I used to sit on the stools by the kitchen counter, with my mom, when I was quite big enough to get onto them myself.
When my mom mentioned this, my first instinct was to edit the post rather than posting a correction, but I'm glad that I've had the chance to sort out these assumptions in my head. It's always a strange thing when you remember events in your childhood in a skewed or false way, but of course this isn't something I remember: this is a story I've been told, that at some point past memory I transposed onto a familiar setting, changing the course of things in my mind. This is good news: even if I can't remember it, I can at least be reminded of what really happened.
I know why I thought it was a stool, though. Of course I have no idea what our home looked like then, except by the clues of photographs, so at some point I assembled it in my head until I had a concrete image of the scene in my mind, and naturally it was entirely fraudulent - but I didn't realize that while I was writing. For some reason I had placed us in the apartment of an old family friend, a place we frequently visited when I was in elementary school. It was there that I used to sit on the stools by the kitchen counter, with my mom, when I was quite big enough to get onto them myself.
When my mom mentioned this, my first instinct was to edit the post rather than posting a correction, but I'm glad that I've had the chance to sort out these assumptions in my head. It's always a strange thing when you remember events in your childhood in a skewed or false way, but of course this isn't something I remember: this is a story I've been told, that at some point past memory I transposed onto a familiar setting, changing the course of things in my mind. This is good news: even if I can't remember it, I can at least be reminded of what really happened.
Monday, December 23, 2002
YES, I KNOW...
It's been a few days, and I'm sorry. I'd been spending so much time at the computer that I came to hate the sight of it for a while there.
Besides which I've been reading! Yesterday I finished reading Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West by world-traveling author Gregory Maguire, and... well. What a completely wonderful book. I don't suppose that before this book was written, anyone thought about how hard it would be to grow up with green skin, or about the crippling taxes the Oz Regent raised in the construction of the Yellow Brick Road.
He calls the Witch Elphaba, a name taken from the initials of L. Frank Baum, and follows her life from birth to death. Familiar characters pop up throughout: Maguire's Glinda, for example, is a sort of latter-day sorority snob, unwillingly roomed with Elphaba during their college years. Elphaba herself, predictably, is never truly evil or wicked, but neither does she have immediately likeable qualities - ultimately she is frank, loyal and steadfast (not to mention a genius), but next to Glinda's glamorous debutante, Elphaba is a reclusive academic, driven on one hand by her passion for the natural sciences (she breeds the flying monkeys herself), and on the other by a pathological (but well-grounded) fear of water.
What I found most interesting about this book is that in making Elphaba the hero, Maguire didn't find it necessary to vilify Dorothy, either by giving her evil intentions or by simply turning her into a brat. In fact, Dorothy's... I don't know - cameo seems to be the best word - is almost disappointing because it indicates nothing about her character beyond that which was formed by Baum's original story.
Maguire says that the germ of the book was a curiosity about the nature of evil, rather than a specific desire to exonerate the Wicked Witch of the West, but the reader doesn't really learn much about evil other than the age-old axiom - admittedly often ignored - that things aren't always what they seem.
I read Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister, Maguire's other attempt to turn a classic story on its head, a few months ago. It's equally good, if not better, and I would recommend it to anyone. But I found Wicked to be somewhat more engaging, probably because the Wicked Witch of the West is, on her face (as it were), a more exciting and likely heroine. Maguire opens Wicked with this quotation from War and Peace:
In historical events great men - so called - are but the labels that serve to give a name to an event, and like labels, they have the last possible connection with the event itself. Every action of theirs, that seems to them an act of their own free will, is in an historical sense not free at all, but in bondage to the whole course of previous history, and predestined from all eternity.
And that's all I have to say for the moment. My keeping regular hours has been somewhat bad for this weblog, because I tended before to write my entries in a fog of sleeplessness, and I haven't experienced the coupling of wanting to sleep with not being able to for several days now. But don't worry: I'll always be back.
Besides which I've been reading! Yesterday I finished reading Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West by world-traveling author Gregory Maguire, and... well. What a completely wonderful book. I don't suppose that before this book was written, anyone thought about how hard it would be to grow up with green skin, or about the crippling taxes the Oz Regent raised in the construction of the Yellow Brick Road.
He calls the Witch Elphaba, a name taken from the initials of L. Frank Baum, and follows her life from birth to death. Familiar characters pop up throughout: Maguire's Glinda, for example, is a sort of latter-day sorority snob, unwillingly roomed with Elphaba during their college years. Elphaba herself, predictably, is never truly evil or wicked, but neither does she have immediately likeable qualities - ultimately she is frank, loyal and steadfast (not to mention a genius), but next to Glinda's glamorous debutante, Elphaba is a reclusive academic, driven on one hand by her passion for the natural sciences (she breeds the flying monkeys herself), and on the other by a pathological (but well-grounded) fear of water.
What I found most interesting about this book is that in making Elphaba the hero, Maguire didn't find it necessary to vilify Dorothy, either by giving her evil intentions or by simply turning her into a brat. In fact, Dorothy's... I don't know - cameo seems to be the best word - is almost disappointing because it indicates nothing about her character beyond that which was formed by Baum's original story.
Maguire says that the germ of the book was a curiosity about the nature of evil, rather than a specific desire to exonerate the Wicked Witch of the West, but the reader doesn't really learn much about evil other than the age-old axiom - admittedly often ignored - that things aren't always what they seem.
I read Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister, Maguire's other attempt to turn a classic story on its head, a few months ago. It's equally good, if not better, and I would recommend it to anyone. But I found Wicked to be somewhat more engaging, probably because the Wicked Witch of the West is, on her face (as it were), a more exciting and likely heroine. Maguire opens Wicked with this quotation from War and Peace:
In historical events great men - so called - are but the labels that serve to give a name to an event, and like labels, they have the last possible connection with the event itself. Every action of theirs, that seems to them an act of their own free will, is in an historical sense not free at all, but in bondage to the whole course of previous history, and predestined from all eternity.
And that's all I have to say for the moment. My keeping regular hours has been somewhat bad for this weblog, because I tended before to write my entries in a fog of sleeplessness, and I haven't experienced the coupling of wanting to sleep with not being able to for several days now. But don't worry: I'll always be back.
Monday, December 16, 2002
TO SIR WITH LOVE
I was going to write "I'm angry at the feminists again," but then I realized that I don't want to vilify feminism in its entirety as a movement or a culture, far from it. Right now it's just the ones who dabble in gender theory on an academic level who are annoying me.
Do you believe - and really, I want answers on this - that performing fellatio is an act of total submission? That someone (for the sake of this writing, a woman) is giving up herself to perform this act? Because reading "Postmodern Misogyny in Blue Velvet," I learned from Jane M. Shattuc (sorry - I can't find any useful links) that to fellate someone is to surrender all control and personal identity.
On a practical level: sure, ostensibly the woman is expending time and energy to provide pleasure for a man (the theory omits any pleasure the woman herself might derive from the act), but think for five seconds and you'll realize how vulnerable he is made by this event: a man would either have to trust a woman completely or be quite stupid to put himself in such a position. Not to mention that fellatio is far less potentially perilous for women than intercourse: this is perhaps the most effective occasion for a woman to use her teeth in the event of any danger.
I find it mystifying that the same group of people who are shouting that women deserve orgasms too (a stance I naturally agree with) would seemingly take that to the extreme of denying men sexual pleasure entirely. Who is served by only one person were having a good time? I know, I know, I know that for centuries it was considered sane and appropriate that women not enjoy sex or have orgasms, but does the pendulum have to swing all the way? I mean, why denounce fellatio while simultaneously demanding the reciprocal act?
This seems to be the kind of proverbial hairball coughed up from the feminism of the 1970s (even though Shattuc's piece was written in 1992), which isn't to suggest that those ideas weren't valuable, but that matters have evolved: the work isn't finished, certainly, but women shouldn't have to segregate themselves entirely from men in order to have identities, or want to make them suffer, any longer. In Kiss My Tiara: How to Rule the World As A Smartmouth Goddess, Susan Jane Gilman writes:
I'm not knocking the women's movement of the past years. I'm a huge advocate and beneficiary of choice, workplace-protection laws, and domestic violence legislation. But I also realize that feminism seventies-style is just about the only trend from the disco era that young women today have not rushed to resurrect. Rhetoric about "reconfiguring the phallocentric modalities of the patriarchy," just turns us into zombies.
Like Gilman, I don't know how to approach this subject without being perceived as ungrateful for the work that feminism has done. I am consistently aware of my vote, my work, and the fact that I have personally elected to not learn how to cook (...many things, anyway). In my circle of friends, my boyfriend is known as an "honorary girl," which is the highest of high praise from both sides of the fence: women perceive that he understands them, and men are jealous of him because he understands them.
So I ask you: now that he's an honorary girl, can I make an informed decision to engage in whatever sexual acts I please with him without somehow losing my empowerment?
Do you believe - and really, I want answers on this - that performing fellatio is an act of total submission? That someone (for the sake of this writing, a woman) is giving up herself to perform this act? Because reading "Postmodern Misogyny in Blue Velvet," I learned from Jane M. Shattuc (sorry - I can't find any useful links) that to fellate someone is to surrender all control and personal identity.
On a practical level: sure, ostensibly the woman is expending time and energy to provide pleasure for a man (the theory omits any pleasure the woman herself might derive from the act), but think for five seconds and you'll realize how vulnerable he is made by this event: a man would either have to trust a woman completely or be quite stupid to put himself in such a position. Not to mention that fellatio is far less potentially perilous for women than intercourse: this is perhaps the most effective occasion for a woman to use her teeth in the event of any danger.
I find it mystifying that the same group of people who are shouting that women deserve orgasms too (a stance I naturally agree with) would seemingly take that to the extreme of denying men sexual pleasure entirely. Who is served by only one person were having a good time? I know, I know, I know that for centuries it was considered sane and appropriate that women not enjoy sex or have orgasms, but does the pendulum have to swing all the way? I mean, why denounce fellatio while simultaneously demanding the reciprocal act?
This seems to be the kind of proverbial hairball coughed up from the feminism of the 1970s (even though Shattuc's piece was written in 1992), which isn't to suggest that those ideas weren't valuable, but that matters have evolved: the work isn't finished, certainly, but women shouldn't have to segregate themselves entirely from men in order to have identities, or want to make them suffer, any longer. In Kiss My Tiara: How to Rule the World As A Smartmouth Goddess, Susan Jane Gilman writes:
I'm not knocking the women's movement of the past years. I'm a huge advocate and beneficiary of choice, workplace-protection laws, and domestic violence legislation. But I also realize that feminism seventies-style is just about the only trend from the disco era that young women today have not rushed to resurrect. Rhetoric about "reconfiguring the phallocentric modalities of the patriarchy," just turns us into zombies.
Like Gilman, I don't know how to approach this subject without being perceived as ungrateful for the work that feminism has done. I am consistently aware of my vote, my work, and the fact that I have personally elected to not learn how to cook (...many things, anyway). In my circle of friends, my boyfriend is known as an "honorary girl," which is the highest of high praise from both sides of the fence: women perceive that he understands them, and men are jealous of him because he understands them.
So I ask you: now that he's an honorary girl, can I make an informed decision to engage in whatever sexual acts I please with him without somehow losing my empowerment?
Friday, December 13, 2002
IN OUR IMAGE
Timothy Findley's description of God:
"Apparently the carriage had been closed for many hours and Yaweh, perhaps, had been sleeping - even dreaming. Certainly, He seemed to be confused.The footmen waited patiently to help him down.
"Yaweh drew a small tin box from somewhere in His robe and opened it. His fingers were not as long as Emma thought they might have been, though part of the reason for this was plainly arthritis. The knuckles were huge and the fingers curled in unnatural shapes. Something was lifted from the box - placed against His lips and drawn into His mouth. God sucks lozenges! thought Emma, astonished. Just like Doctor Noyes!
"The box was replaced in its pocket and Yaweh put out first one and then the other of His broken, twisted hands towards the footmen. His robe could now be seen by the light of day and it was black with dark blue facings and, deep inside, where its linings could be seen in the sleeves, it was red. His beard flowed all the way to His waist and though it was white, there were yellow streaks and bits of food and knotted tats. His eyes were narrowed against the light and their rims were pink and watery - sore looking, and tender. His lips could not be seen, though where they were was marked by sweeping moustaches growing along the upper lip. His nose was like a bone and strongly hooked and it set Yaweh's eyes very wide apart beneath a broad, high brow that, together with His nose and the general shape of his head, made Him almost unbearably beautiful."
From Not Wanted on the Voyage.
More soon.
"Apparently the carriage had been closed for many hours and Yaweh, perhaps, had been sleeping - even dreaming. Certainly, He seemed to be confused.The footmen waited patiently to help him down.
"Yaweh drew a small tin box from somewhere in His robe and opened it. His fingers were not as long as Emma thought they might have been, though part of the reason for this was plainly arthritis. The knuckles were huge and the fingers curled in unnatural shapes. Something was lifted from the box - placed against His lips and drawn into His mouth. God sucks lozenges! thought Emma, astonished. Just like Doctor Noyes!
"The box was replaced in its pocket and Yaweh put out first one and then the other of His broken, twisted hands towards the footmen. His robe could now be seen by the light of day and it was black with dark blue facings and, deep inside, where its linings could be seen in the sleeves, it was red. His beard flowed all the way to His waist and though it was white, there were yellow streaks and bits of food and knotted tats. His eyes were narrowed against the light and their rims were pink and watery - sore looking, and tender. His lips could not be seen, though where they were was marked by sweeping moustaches growing along the upper lip. His nose was like a bone and strongly hooked and it set Yaweh's eyes very wide apart beneath a broad, high brow that, together with His nose and the general shape of his head, made Him almost unbearably beautiful."
From Not Wanted on the Voyage.
More soon.
Wednesday, December 11, 2002
POSH POSH COLBY COSH
Thank you Colby for mentioning me, or rather a part of me in your weblog.
I got a lot of teasing in elementary school when my peers found out that I'd sliced off my tongue. For the record: yes, one can have stitches in one's tongue. Here's the story:
When I was two years old, I was standing on a bar stool next to the counter in my family kitchen. I lost my footing and fell, and my chin smashed against the counter. My tongue, of course, was caught between my teeth and sliced off. There was a lot of blood. Thank God for doctors!
It's now back on, in perfect health, and indeed, I've gotten comments on its length: I can touch my nose and the bottom of my chin with it. But sorry, guys: I already have a boyfriend.
I got a lot of teasing in elementary school when my peers found out that I'd sliced off my tongue. For the record: yes, one can have stitches in one's tongue. Here's the story:
When I was two years old, I was standing on a bar stool next to the counter in my family kitchen. I lost my footing and fell, and my chin smashed against the counter. My tongue, of course, was caught between my teeth and sliced off. There was a lot of blood. Thank God for doctors!
It's now back on, in perfect health, and indeed, I've gotten comments on its length: I can touch my nose and the bottom of my chin with it. But sorry, guys: I already have a boyfriend.
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