A part of me that fundamentally still believed in Obama and American politics just broke, irrevocably.
If you didn’t hear, the FCC just made a “victory” in the fight to protect net neutrality (i.e. protecting the internet — and us — from big business interests and censorship).
But really, it was a major defeat, dressed up by Democrats using ambiguous language and trotted out by Obama and his people as evidence that Obama is keeping his promise on the subject of net neutrality.
Wrong.
It’s a slippery fucking slope, folks. As corporations get their well-manicured fingers around the “tubes” of the internet, do not expect to see our beloved World Wide Web ever again. Forget days free of censorship; forget true democracy. Instead, welcome to a re-envisioning of 1984, an Orwellian future so vastly fucked up even Orwell couldn’t have put it to paper.
And, finally, allow the kid inside of you — the one who grew up learning about how great democracy is, and what a fine institution the American political system is — to cry, to tear up their elementary school memories, because it is finally time to realize the truth:
It wasn’t Bush. It’s not Obama. It’s lobbyists and corporations and the wealthy who run this country and it makes me sick.
Hina: have you been following the assange sexual assault allegations? or the drama around it rather
Me: yes! I am so torn
Hina: yeah… did you see the debate that went down between Naomi Wolf and Jaclyn Friedman on democracy now? It was so heated
Me: Oh man, I need to read this
Hina:
Better yet, you can watch it!
Me: do you have a “side” you’re on? or thoughts on it
Hina: hmm I think they both make good points. I mean it’s idealistic to say that we’re not giving women credit all over the world if we can’t trust them to give real consent. Like, that’s what naomi wolf argues: that we’re belittling women by saying that this is sexual assault when the women were consenting over and over again
Me: oh wow
Hina: but consent isn’t so black and white
Me: I didn’t know that aspect to it. also, no one can know what really happened, that’s the worst of it
Hina: Right
Me: I hate to speculate if it really was unconsensual
Hina: Yeah but really, the fact that these women who made the allegations are being threatened and whatnot is awful
Me: Yeah
Hina: And that’s what Jaclyn is saying…like normal people seeing this scandal will be less likely to report sexual assault
Me: And I feel like, ok, maybe the powers that be are using this politically but if these women are seriously bringing allegations of rape I stand by their decision
Hina: and the officials watching this too might not carry out their duties
Me: it’s also just depressing that people who are supposedly doing so much for the world are also potentially criminal assholes
Hina: Yeah….but that’s so human, you know?
Me: yeahhhh
Hina: We can exist in many different ways
Me: Often contradicting ourselves
Hina: Yup
Me: Bleh, i think it’s time for a RLG post
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Readers: What are your thoughts on this controversy? on Wikileaks? on rape and its treatment by the media/society/law enforcement? So many hot button issues rolled into one…
I told myself I was watching the first episode Bridalplasty for “research purposes.” Really, though, I’ve got a morbid curiosity about all things trashy and enormously fucked up. I was expecting to have a few laughs, get a little self-righteously enraged and write a feminist critique of the show.
What I wasn’t expecting? To feel so goddamn sad.
I made it through five minutes of the show before turning it off. The women on this show, instead of inspiring disgust, just inspire pity. They are so image-obsessed, misguided, insecure — but really, it’s like picking up a distorted mirror and watching yourself.
I’m not about to drool over a Hollywood wedding and I’m diametrically opposed to plastic surgery. Even so, these women are lovely…yet they want to undergo massive amounts of plastic surgery to appear more mainstream gorgeous. And I fucking understand where they are coming from.
Watching this show is masochism. Its target demographic is American women — the same women who come in all shapes and sizes, who suffer from anorexia and obesity, from warped images of health and beauty and from a pervasive beauty/fashion/health industry that thrives off of their discontent. Here we have a show about women who are relatively “normal,” who have friends/family and interests and lives — and they are competing with each other for an over-the-top consumerist-wet-dream wedding and the most extreme method of achieving mainstream good-looks. Then we have the women (and maybe some men, and definitely teenagers and the odd child) watching this show, who view this reality shit with a mixture of fascination, disgust, and a huge helping of actually identifying with these women.
This is the most depressing show on television not because it features assholes who think starring in a reality show is “the best thing evarrrr” but because it zeros in on the dark places in our own psyche. The part of us that watches a woman say she wants a nose job and think to ourselves, yeah, if I were her I would too.
Bridalplasty makes me uncomfortable. Yes, it is full of the same bullshit reality-tv-crap that every other reality show is famous for (i.e. the dumbing down of America, sexism, and the sheer violence with which its contestants compete for the prizes), but it adds a new element to American television — thinly-veiled preying on the weak. I’m not talking about the women on the show, but the ones watching it.
I have dated the lead guitar player in a thrash metal band. The cute skateboarder from science class. The DJ who spins and scratches in dark, throbbing clubs. With each of these boyfriends, with each of these dates, music is our common ground — we lay out our cards on the table — “What is your favorite album? Top three? Four?” “Acid Bath changed my life.” “I’ll never forget when I first saw Dio live.” These small intimations — and they are intimations, the most soul-baring sort — are the way we connect. For every band we both like, we fall more in love. For every new band we pass each other’s way, we are more besotten, more charmed.
And yet. Has anyone else felt that it’s always about the boy giving his songs to the girl? Every boyfriend I have ever had has imparted his music onto me. And, being the ravenous consumer I am, I have cherished these bands, collected them, made them (in some way) my own. CKY, Acid Bath, Misfits, The Dwarves, Fair To Midland, Faith No More; these bands were passed onto me from men in my life. They are now integral; I can’t imagine not having them around. Even more cherished are the memories they bring to mind — I cannot listen, for example, to “Horse Pills” by the Dandy Warhols and not think of wine drunk from a grimy water bottle, sitting in a dark car outside some party with someone I was infatuated with years ago.
And yet. I never seem to impart my songs on a man. For there are bands, believe it or not, that I come across on my own. Organically, even. On the radio, sure, or blogs, or by buying a random CD from Best Buy and changing the way I see the world for $9.99 plus tax. Take, for example, the band I hold closest to my heart: Polkadot Cadaver. This is a band that I find particularly brilliant; they have a frenetic Mr. Bungle-esque quality to them that is irresistible. That, coupled with the fact that I discovered them all on my own, makes them my all-time favorite band. (Strong words, those).
However, when I play this band for men in my life, I get muted reactions. No one seems particularly interested in them, and while I don’t really give a shit what people think of my musical tastes, this leads me to think that I must really have bad taste, or, more likely, these guys just don’t care about what I like. They already have their beloved bands, their Neurosis and Megadeth and obscure strictly-underground punk bands.
I’d like to think that maybe I’m completely wrong. That if you lined up my past loves and lovers and questioned them on their musical tastes and memories they associate with songs and songs they associate with memories, they would list bands that I introduced them to, bands that remind them of me, songs and lyrics that bring to mind rainy days spent in bed with me or wild shows that we went to together. Perhaps this isn’t sexism, but merely my inability to know what other people absorb, what other people remember.
Case in point — an ex-boyfriend texted me the other day asking what “that morbid pirate rock band was that you were always listening to?” and then, after I neglected to answer, he replied, “Polkadot Cadaver?”
He was right, and I am glad to be wrong, just this once.
—–
Originally posted here at my failed attempt at a different blog (which I may continue with, with proper encouragement).
I’m pretty activist-minded. I think that’s something I can point to in my life and say – yes, I’m involved. I’ve written a political blog, I’ve minored in Women’s Studies and now I’m doing x, y, and z.
But how much is enough? What is the right amount of activism? Is there a right way to do things?
You’re probably wondering where this is all coming from. Let’s go back a few months…
I moved into a collective house in September. It’s phenomenal. I have nine housemates, all of whom are respectful and delightful to live with. Each is of varying political awareness and all are environmentally-conscious. As a household, we dumpster roughly half our food, buy the rest of our food collectively from a grocery co-op and our communal meals are strictly vegan.
Our house is also a safe space (for everyone, including queer and trans folks), which means certain kinds of behavior and language are not tolerated. Try telling a misogynistic joke and you’ll definitely get an earful.
For the most part, I’m a fan. I feel like everything I talk about on this blog is now my day-to-day life – I’m living, eating, breathing eco-feminist values among a bunch of other people who are equally committed to that cause.
There are lots of these types of houses in my new neighborhood. These collective houses may rally around different causes, but for the most part their members are all living as sustainably as possible in a non-hierarchal manner.
And yet – there is something that troubles me.
I have noticed that among these houses, and the groups affiliated with members of these houses (ranging from community bike collectives to anarchist organizations) there is a significant disconnect. [Note: For the purposes of this post, let’s refer to all people living in these collective houses/members of these groups as activists.] Some activists seem to value their work over others’. Some think others are not “activist” enough. It’s the same old story – even in a marginalized/subculture of society there is a hierarchy. While it’s unspoken and possibly subconscious, it does exist.
And it’s fucking frustrating.
I’m the new girl in these social settings, so I can only speak to this as an outsider/quiet observer. Yet, it is becoming painfully clear to me that there are different ideas of what is acceptable, what should or shouldn’t be said or done – and these ideas vary from group to group, person to person.
So how can we get anything done collectively? I think one solution is to hold more facilitated meetings as a group. Another solution would be for activists to actively keep in mind that they too can make the mistake of acting oppressively or being close-minded. In fact, when one believes so strongly in a cause and is constantly working towards goals within that cause, one can easily be blind to others’ concerns. However, by being open to listening to other people, and taking a step back and really understanding where others are coming from, we can start to bridge these gaps.
People have asked me lately, “Are you an activist?” When I say “Yes,” they inevitably ask, “What do you do?”
I’ve felt pretty silly saying, “Oh, I have a feminist blog I’ve been neglecting lately.” Surely I do more than that, right?
Most of my political acts lately have been personal. My new living situation is a great example of this. But…how quantifiable is personal activism? Does it count if it only really affects me and the people I live with?
Maybe this is a sign that I need to get more active in bigger projects, with wider-reaching goals and effects. But possibly, too, I should admit to myself that right now I’m taking on a lot (a new job, new house, new friends, paying all my own bills….the list goes on) and finding time to be a “better activist” is damn hard right now.
I will make this commitment, however, to myself and to any readers (past or future) of Rotten Little Girls: for the 34545th time, I promise to actually update this blog. Regularly. Then when people ask me if I’m an activist, I can give them this URL and let them decide for themselves.
Remember my highly controversial post about the Myth of PMS? After a resurgence of debate, I decided to take a little time out of my work day to link several academic references supporting my opinion. Since, you know, haters gonna hate.
REFERENCES:
The Social Construction of Premenstrual Syndrome
Rodin, M. Sot. Sci. Med. Vol. 35. No. I, pp. 49-56, 1992
(link)***
“Conceptual and methodological problems inherent in contemporary biomedical re-search on PMS are cited as examples of how medical knowledge is informed by Western beliefs and expectations about the relationship between the menstrual cycle and ‘irrational’ and ‘uncontrollable’ behavior in women.”
“A discourse analytic approach to women’s experience of Premenstrual Syndrome”
Swann, C. J. Journal of Mental Health
1995, Vol. 4, No. 4 : Pages 359-368 (Link)
“Challenging the Positioning of Premenstrual Change as PMS: The Impact of a Psychological Intervention on Women’s Self-Policing”
Ussher, J. M.
Qualitative Research in Psychology, Volume 5, Issue 1 January 2008 , pages 33 – 44
(link)
Unfortunately some of these are not free articles, but with some sleuthing, or perhaps through your library or college, you should be able to view them fully.
“Indeed the evidence shows Proposition 8 does nothing more than enshrine in the California constitution the notion that opposite sex couples are superior to same sex couples.”
So, if you listen to the radio, or frequent Youtube or have hipster friends, you’ve heard of this “kewl” new indie-pop band Florence & the Machines. The lead singer, Florence, is the hipster alternative to Amanda Palmer of the Dresden Dolls — full of attitude, frothy floral skirts and tongue-in-cheek lyrics.
Tongue-in-cheek fails to explain, however, their most popular single, “A Kiss With a Fist”. It’s a bright, punchy little number (no pun intended) and like any good pop song, sticks in your head for days on end.
Only problem is, the song promotes domestic violence.
Now, before you roll your eyes and ask me why I constantly get my panties in a bunch over “silly pop songs”, check these lyrics:
“you hit me once
i hit you back
you gave a kick
i gave a slap
you smashed a plate
over my head
then i set fire to our bed
My black eye casts no shadow
your red eye sees no pain
your slaps don’t stick
your kicks don’t hit
so we remain the same
blood sticks and
sweat drips
break the lock if it don’t fit
a kick in the teeth is good for some
a kiss with a fist is better than none
a-woah a kiss with a fist is better than none”
Lovely. Not only does this romanticize violence between partners, it endorses the idea that a little (or a lot) of violence is a-okay as long as you love each other!
Fuck that twisted logic. This highlights the real, insidious issue with domestic violence — so often it persists because one or both of the individuals involved loves the other. Look, I’m no stranger to the idea that those who are closest to you can hurt you the most. But certainly being alone is better than a kiss with a fist.
The problem here is simple:
1) Florence & the Machines is a hipster-chic band rocketing to their first 15 minutes of fame
2) As such, they reach and influence a large, young, potentially impressionable audience
3) The song makes domestic violence seem cool/hip/”not a big deal”/better than nothing
4) And if you haven’t noticed, pop songs and YA fiction (cough, Twilight) and Reality TV stars actually resonate with youth today and influence the way my generation thinks about love, life and happiness
“Hello world, I’m your wild girl…I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!!”
Does it get any more feminist than an all-female rock band? The Runaways were the first of their kind — a teenaged, all-female, badass band playing in a man’s world. They were consummate “rotten little girls” — they dished out as much shit as they received and for a brief, riotous moment ruled the rock scene like no other band before them.
With the recent film (also named “The Runaways”) starring Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart, the band has enjoyed a resurgence of popularity. Google hits for Joan Jett and Cherie Currie have increased significantly and the Runaways have reached a youthful, modern audience.
This is good thing.
In an industry overflowing with successful male bands, it is important to talk about & celebrate the all-female band that paved the way for bands such as The Go-Go’s and L7, and fuck it, any little girl who picks up an electric guitar.
The film itself, unfortunately, leaves much to be desired. The cinematography is lovely & at times reaches the level of fine art. The acting, at least on Kristen Stewart and Michael Shannon’s part, ranges from believable to brilliant. However, the plot & character development leaves something to be desired.
The Runaways is (mild spoiler alert) your typical, cliche band biopic. Fledgling band faces many obstacles. Lead guitarist stumbles upon famous band manager, inexplicably gaining their attention and respect in the process. Questionably talented singer is recruited to the band based on sex appeal. Band gets signed. Lead singer becomes a diva & acquires a nasty drug habit. Band members get mad at each other. Lead singer leaves band. Band breaks up. The end.
It should be noted that this movie is based off of lead singer Cherie Currie’s ghost-written memoir “Neon Angel.” Therefore, Cherie Currie is the focus of the film. So, while Joan Jett might be the most famous character of the Runaways, audiences might be disappointed to find out that she is, at best, a secondary character. While I believe that Stewart plays a mean Joan Jett, she is reduced to two emotions: youthful, anti-authority rage and tender understanding (generally directed towards Cherie, played by Dakota Fanning).
Dakota Fanning, who is admittedly in the midst of awkward adolescence, fails to give Currie the spark & charisma she truly possessed. Viewers are left wondering why Currie was accepted to the band in the first place. It is not entirely Fanning’s fault — the script is weak, and we are thrown random tidbits of pop psychology as reasoning for Fanning’s drug problems: alcoholic dad, jealous twin sister, neglectful mother. However, the movie fails to explore who Currie truly was, how she really felt about her family and her band-mates, and how exactly she got mixed up in all of this.
The feminist message is relatively strong through-out the movie — but there are several factors that weaken the overall “girl’s rock!” sentiment.
First, the band is managed by domineering, sadistic, and eccentric Kim Fowley (who is male). While his methodology was questionable, it produced results. That being said, there is something contradictory about an all-female band relying on a white male to make something of themselves. And, according to this movie, if not for Fowley, the Runaways would not have enjoyed even the slightest bit of success.
Second, there is the fact that Cherie Currie was hand-picked as lead singer based on her Bardot-meets-Bowie good looks. Feathered blonde hair, lingerie on stage, jail-bait sex appeal (she was 15 when she joined the band) — let’s face it, Currie epitomized the concept of “sex sells.” Unfortunately, this begs the question: can a girl band succeed without a “sexy girl”? Granted, if you look at pictures of the band, you’ll see that Joan Jett, despite her tough girl attitude and appearance, oozed sex appeal like no other. So, while this is an element of the film that I did not find very pro-feminist, I have to admit that Cherie’s blonde tresses could not have been the band’s only appeal.
Finally, there is the focus on the alleged lesbian affair between Jett and Currie. Although Currie has admitted that she only vaguely mentions hooking up with Jett in a brief paragraph in her book, Hollywood took that sentiment and ran with it. In a movie that doesn’t have much substance besides wardrobe and good motherfucking music, the lesbian scenes take up significant chunks of time. There is sexual tension throughout the film between Jett and Currie, and then there’s the actual kissing scene…and the morning after scene…and the ensuing drama that implies a deeper, romantic relationship between the two.
This would all be fine if it were a) true, b) based on fact or substantial information from Currie’s book c) not so obviously added for the titillation of straight, male audiences. Hollywood is at it again — forcing false lesbianism between two pretty, white females down audiences throats for the purpose of making a movie starring strong women palatable to a mainstream audience. Because, you know, the awesome story of Joan Jett and the Runaways and Cherie Currie wasn’t enough on its own.
And, perhaps most telling, is the fact that the three other band mates are routinely ignored as playing any major role in the band’s development or success (Lita Ford being the most obvious omission). The drummer, Sandy West, enjoys some mention as Jett’s lovable, pot-smoking sidekick but Lita Ford and Jackie Fox’s characters have literally three lines of speech — I’m being generous with that estimate.
If this were really about the band, and the music, and the awe-inspiring success of the first all-female teenaged rock band, wouldn’t all the members of the band be the stars? Wouldn’t the story focus on the band’s obstacles and successes rather than the lesbian “affair” between Jett and Currie? It is this glaring omission that leads me to think that this is just another pre-packaged Hollywood confection.
The story is one that needed to be told. The characters are rich. The history is true. The music is terrific. And yet, I’m disappointed. We need more films about the Runaways, about all-girl bands, about feminism and being an individual in a world that pressures us to conform — and, as much as I wanted to love it, “The Runaways” is not that film. It’s a step in the right direction, but it does not do the Runaways — or rotten little girls — justice.
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Here are some great clips from the movie & from live performances by the real Runaways. Enjoy!
“Publicize the music — not your crotch!!”
“I like your style. A little Bowie, a little Bardot, and a look on your face that says I could kick the shit out of a truck driver.”
Please weigh in — did you like the movie? Hate it? Let us know!
