Okay, so it was going to have to happen eventually.
Nine years ago, I started this blog because I had things to say and no one nearby to say them to. At first, just having a platform to blab out my thoughts was a thrill; over time, reader started trickling in, and there was interacting, and I've even gotten to meet some of you in person, and that has been an even bigger thrill. It has been a really great nine years. And that's a high note I'm going to end on.
This blog and my reader have meant a lot to me over the years, and I wish I had some kind of gold watch to hand over in honor of a well-earned retirement. I don't have one of those, though, because this is a blog, and a watch would be wasted on a blog, because it doesn't have a wrist. I also wish I had a gold watch to give to you, my steadfast reader, who has stayed with me all this time even as posting waned, because then I would have a gold watch and I could sell it and use the money to buy shoes.
I don't want this to be over, honestly. I like the heck out of y'all, and I want to keep you. You can still read my feminist-leaning stuff on Feministe, and I hope you will. Hook up with me on Facebook, and we'll be friends, and I'll talk about shoes and grammar and Georgia football. Follow me on Twitter, and I'll follow you back. And I still fully intend to finish the epic Baby-Sitters Club fanfic that I started; I don't know when, and I don't know where, but it will happen.
The final Ten:
1. U2, "With Or Without You"
2. Sisqo, "What These Bitches Want"
3. Siouxise and the Banshees, "This Wheel's On Fire"
4. Alanis Morissette, "King Of Pain"
5. Christina Aguilera, "Walk Away"
6. Garbage, "I Think I'm Paranoid"
7. Arlington Priest, "Mexico"
8. Paul Young, "Come Back and Stay"
9. Blossom Dearie, "Comment Allez Vous"
10. Pet Shop Boys, "Dreaming of the Queen"
Your Ten, and your suggestions for the final chapters of the Baby-Sitters Club Super Mystery #last, go in comments. Love y'all.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
I fucking hate terrorism.
I fucking hate terrorism. I know, bold statement, right? But here's the thing about terrorism: It's not about the people who are killed. The people who are killed -- human beings, with lives and friends and families and futures -- are merely tools to accomplish a larger goal, which is to control entire populations of people through fear. People die and suffer not for anything they did or even anything they're accused of doing but because their death is an expeditious means to an end. That makes me indescribably angry.
I have a thing about fear. Maybe I have an unusually high pain tolerance, maybe I just lack an appropriate amount of respect for my physical being, but I can handle a tremendous amount of physical pain in a way that I can't handle fear and anxiety. The Boy, an individual has amount of experience with pain, says that while a person can be inured to pain, there's really no way to become inured to fear -- you either get over it and don't have it anymore, or you work through it, but there's no real point at which you get used to fear and don't notice it anymore. Pain can itself be scary, but eventually it's over, one way or another; fear can last as long as you do.
Right now, there are three people dead in Boston -- one an eight-year-old boy whose dad had just run the marathon. Three families are dealing with that loss. Nearly 200 people are injured, including countless traumatic amputations and a two-year-old with a serious head injury. And millions of people are terrified, because they've been reminded that we live in a world where things like this happen and there's no preparation for it -- there's no trying to guess which dates are significant enough that some evil person might try to use them to make a statement. There's no trying to guess which gathering might be a target, which flight. There's no way of knowing when or whether they'll start targeting individuals as soon as they have us scared enough to stop gathering in public. There's no trying to guess, and that's the point. It's not to make us dead; it's to make us scared. It's to keep us scared, to remind us every time we start to feel comfortable opening our front door that the world is a terrifying place and the only answer is to stay trembling and obedient. It's to make us look over our shoulders, to distrust our neighbors, to round up all the brown people first just to be on the safe side. Millions of people in the U.S. remain or have become scared now, along with millions of people around the world who feel the same feelings from the same sources caused by different groups and individuals, all for the same reason: No good reason, because there's no fucking good reason.
I don't care who did this or why. I don't care. The question everyone asks after things like this is Why? Why, God, why, and the only answer is Because. Not Because marathon runners are sinful. Not Because someone has a vendetta against your eight-year-old. Just Because someone wants everyone to be scared, and your loved ones were conveniently located.
Because someone wants everyone to be scared. Someone is hurt and angry and taking it out on the world not through pain but through fear. And maybe the hurt and anger are perfectly justified, and maybe in a different situation I would have even cared enough to sit down and talk about it and do something about it. But now, and probably forever after now, I couldn't give less of a shit. No shits are given.
Ultimately, of course, the who and the why do have larger implications. Eventually, we will find out who was responsible, and we'll probably have some idea of why, and action may or may not come of it, and if action comes it may or may not be the right action to take. But to the people who are hurt and grieving and scared right now, that's probably not going to help much, because there's no why that can justify what was done. The why will be bullshit. The why is always bullshit.
That's not the world I want to live in.
This is the world I want to live in:
Marathon spectators. Friends and loved ones. And complete strangers, too. People whose sole goal in life, for that one day, was to stand next to the road and be encouraging to people they've never even met and will probably never see again.
Marathon runners who were exhausted at the end of 26.2 miles but kept running, straight to the nearest hospital to donate blood for the hundreds of people who'd lost theirs.
People who heard explosions and made the absurd decision to run toward the smoke and fire, because others needed help.
People who opened their homes to complete strangers who'd come in from out of town for the race and wouldn't be able to get back home that night.
My condolences go out to the victims of the bombings, to their families, to Bostonians and former Bostonians who are trying to sort out what happened in their city, and to everyone who has been traumatized or re-traumatized by this senseless violation. If I had anything more substantial to offer than "that really sucks," I would offer it. But failing that... that really sucks. I’m so, so sorry.
I have a thing about fear. Maybe I have an unusually high pain tolerance, maybe I just lack an appropriate amount of respect for my physical being, but I can handle a tremendous amount of physical pain in a way that I can't handle fear and anxiety. The Boy, an individual has amount of experience with pain, says that while a person can be inured to pain, there's really no way to become inured to fear -- you either get over it and don't have it anymore, or you work through it, but there's no real point at which you get used to fear and don't notice it anymore. Pain can itself be scary, but eventually it's over, one way or another; fear can last as long as you do.
Right now, there are three people dead in Boston -- one an eight-year-old boy whose dad had just run the marathon. Three families are dealing with that loss. Nearly 200 people are injured, including countless traumatic amputations and a two-year-old with a serious head injury. And millions of people are terrified, because they've been reminded that we live in a world where things like this happen and there's no preparation for it -- there's no trying to guess which dates are significant enough that some evil person might try to use them to make a statement. There's no trying to guess which gathering might be a target, which flight. There's no way of knowing when or whether they'll start targeting individuals as soon as they have us scared enough to stop gathering in public. There's no trying to guess, and that's the point. It's not to make us dead; it's to make us scared. It's to keep us scared, to remind us every time we start to feel comfortable opening our front door that the world is a terrifying place and the only answer is to stay trembling and obedient. It's to make us look over our shoulders, to distrust our neighbors, to round up all the brown people first just to be on the safe side. Millions of people in the U.S. remain or have become scared now, along with millions of people around the world who feel the same feelings from the same sources caused by different groups and individuals, all for the same reason: No good reason, because there's no fucking good reason.
I don't care who did this or why. I don't care. The question everyone asks after things like this is Why? Why, God, why, and the only answer is Because. Not Because marathon runners are sinful. Not Because someone has a vendetta against your eight-year-old. Just Because someone wants everyone to be scared, and your loved ones were conveniently located.
Because someone wants everyone to be scared. Someone is hurt and angry and taking it out on the world not through pain but through fear. And maybe the hurt and anger are perfectly justified, and maybe in a different situation I would have even cared enough to sit down and talk about it and do something about it. But now, and probably forever after now, I couldn't give less of a shit. No shits are given.
Ultimately, of course, the who and the why do have larger implications. Eventually, we will find out who was responsible, and we'll probably have some idea of why, and action may or may not come of it, and if action comes it may or may not be the right action to take. But to the people who are hurt and grieving and scared right now, that's probably not going to help much, because there's no why that can justify what was done. The why will be bullshit. The why is always bullshit.
That's not the world I want to live in.
This is the world I want to live in:
Marathon spectators. Friends and loved ones. And complete strangers, too. People whose sole goal in life, for that one day, was to stand next to the road and be encouraging to people they've never even met and will probably never see again.
Marathon runners who were exhausted at the end of 26.2 miles but kept running, straight to the nearest hospital to donate blood for the hundreds of people who'd lost theirs.
People who heard explosions and made the absurd decision to run toward the smoke and fire, because others needed help.
People who opened their homes to complete strangers who'd come in from out of town for the race and wouldn't be able to get back home that night.
My condolences go out to the victims of the bombings, to their families, to Bostonians and former Bostonians who are trying to sort out what happened in their city, and to everyone who has been traumatized or re-traumatized by this senseless violation. If I had anything more substantial to offer than "that really sucks," I would offer it. But failing that... that really sucks. I’m so, so sorry.
Monday, March 04, 2013
On Mashup Monday: Head Like a What? edition
Okay, so there's not much I can say about this that The Verge's Nilay Patel hasn't said sufficiently.
Carly Rae Jepsen/Nine Inch Nails - Call Me a Hole
There are many things about my youth that have been ground into fine dust by a relentless online culture determined to use every emotion I've ever felt as a wedge into CPM advertising or a dubstep meme remix.I think this may end up being my go-to when I have Marilyn Manson's cover of "Personal Jesus" stuck in my head and it won't get out.
This is not one of them.
Carly Rae Jepsen/Nine Inch Nails - Call Me a Hole
Monday, February 25, 2013
On Mashup Monday: Classic spy thriller edition
Okay, so if I have two weaknesses, they're cellos and Matt Damon. (This is, of course, a ridiculous statement; I've openly declared numerous weaknesses, among them shoes, Reese's peanut butter eggs, and Adele's "Someone Like You." But cellos and Matt Damon are definitely in there.) And movie music, too -- I live for a good movie score, and John Powell's dense, driving main theme to The Bourne Identity adds a whole new level of understated tension to the action scenes. (Am I geeking out too much? Just enough? Just enough too much? Call me, John Powell).
Anyway. My point is that if you mash up the main theme to The Bourne Identity and Vivaldi's concerto for two cellos in G minor, I'm likely to... well, geek out much like I just did. Not so much that I actually bought the mp3, I'm afraid, but there's no reason you shouldn't.
The Piano Guys - Code Name Vivaldi
Anyway. My point is that if you mash up the main theme to The Bourne Identity and Vivaldi's concerto for two cellos in G minor, I'm likely to... well, geek out much like I just did. Not so much that I actually bought the mp3, I'm afraid, but there's no reason you shouldn't.
The Piano Guys - Code Name Vivaldi
Monday, December 03, 2012
On damned good football
Okay, so the outcome of Saturday's game was disappointing. The game itself, however, was far from disappointing -- the game was freaking awesome. The game was two perfectly matched teams playing their asses off, and if there had been 30 more seconds in the game, the outcome could have been completely different.
That can be the hardest way to lose a game. The Bulldogs didn't lose because the refs were idiots. They didn't lose because Bama played dirty. They didn't lose because Bama played better than they did -- as much as some people are saying that Georgia was weak or inconsistent, or that Mark Richt and Aaron Murray can't finish a big game, the fact is that the Dawgs held their own, actually led for more than half the game, and ultimately played to within four points of the #2 team in the country. And they didn't lose -- and don't anyone dare say it in my presence -- because Chris Conley caught a ball that he'd have been better off batting down. The man saw a ball flying his way and went with his first instinct, which was to catch it so no one else would. And had that one foot not slipped out from under him, that one error might well have turned into a touchdown.
Georgia lost the game because games have to end eventually, and when they end one team has to have more points than the other. It leaves a fan without anything to rail about, anything to whine about, or anyone to rail at, and that can be kind of disappointing. We like to have reasons for unpleasant things, and this one doesn't have a reason. But reason or no, one fact is indisputable: The Bulldogs played their asses off.
To repeat: The Bulldogs played their asses off. They worked the entire time. They wanted it the entire time. They performed the entire time, and they damned near won. Mark Richt coached the hell out of that game, with just enough shades of Dark Richt to keep things interesting and enough of the Coach Richt we know and love to keep the team on track. As individuals and as a team, they played really good football. And no matter how disappointing it is that that team won't be getting a BCS bowl berth -- and don't get me wrong, it's way disappointing -- there's comfort in the knowledge that in the conference championship, they played the hell out of some football, and they have no reason to have regrets.
At the risk of bringing down the tone of this post, I do have to comment on the accounts of Coach Richt "storming out of the press conference." When I read about it, I had this image in my head of him being shouty, aggressive, throwing his drink down in disgust. My head was full of a Hothead Richt I'd never actually seen in the wild. And then I watched video.
Yeah, that's exactly how it looks when Mark Richt storms out of a press conference. Just like his "irate on the sidelines" looks a lot like any other coach's "having a facial expression," his "going off in a press conference" looks a lot like "speaking emphatically" from anyone else. He's a classy dude, answering a kind of stupid question -- if anyone has ever wondered about Richt's and Murray's ability to come through in a big game, this one should have addressed that handily.
Georgia didn't come up short or underperform. It doesn't even feel like they lost. They played damned good football against a damned good team, and at the end of the game they had fewer points. Good job. Damned good Dawgs.
That can be the hardest way to lose a game. The Bulldogs didn't lose because the refs were idiots. They didn't lose because Bama played dirty. They didn't lose because Bama played better than they did -- as much as some people are saying that Georgia was weak or inconsistent, or that Mark Richt and Aaron Murray can't finish a big game, the fact is that the Dawgs held their own, actually led for more than half the game, and ultimately played to within four points of the #2 team in the country. And they didn't lose -- and don't anyone dare say it in my presence -- because Chris Conley caught a ball that he'd have been better off batting down. The man saw a ball flying his way and went with his first instinct, which was to catch it so no one else would. And had that one foot not slipped out from under him, that one error might well have turned into a touchdown.
Georgia lost the game because games have to end eventually, and when they end one team has to have more points than the other. It leaves a fan without anything to rail about, anything to whine about, or anyone to rail at, and that can be kind of disappointing. We like to have reasons for unpleasant things, and this one doesn't have a reason. But reason or no, one fact is indisputable: The Bulldogs played their asses off.
To repeat: The Bulldogs played their asses off. They worked the entire time. They wanted it the entire time. They performed the entire time, and they damned near won. Mark Richt coached the hell out of that game, with just enough shades of Dark Richt to keep things interesting and enough of the Coach Richt we know and love to keep the team on track. As individuals and as a team, they played really good football. And no matter how disappointing it is that that team won't be getting a BCS bowl berth -- and don't get me wrong, it's way disappointing -- there's comfort in the knowledge that in the conference championship, they played the hell out of some football, and they have no reason to have regrets.
At the risk of bringing down the tone of this post, I do have to comment on the accounts of Coach Richt "storming out of the press conference." When I read about it, I had this image in my head of him being shouty, aggressive, throwing his drink down in disgust. My head was full of a Hothead Richt I'd never actually seen in the wild. And then I watched video.
Yeah, that's exactly how it looks when Mark Richt storms out of a press conference. Just like his "irate on the sidelines" looks a lot like any other coach's "having a facial expression," his "going off in a press conference" looks a lot like "speaking emphatically" from anyone else. He's a classy dude, answering a kind of stupid question -- if anyone has ever wondered about Richt's and Murray's ability to come through in a big game, this one should have addressed that handily.
Georgia didn't come up short or underperform. It doesn't even feel like they lost. They played damned good football against a damned good team, and at the end of the game they had fewer points. Good job. Damned good Dawgs.
Friday, November 30, 2012
On the Good, the Bad, and the Friday Random Ten: Red and Black edition
Okay, so this is a big weekend for me for two reasons: One, the Georgia Bulldogs are in the SEC Championship Game, and if they win they face Notre Dame for the national championship, and I don't care folks are saying, we have a chance at a win. As long as I wear my red-and-black-striped toe socks. Which I totally will.
The other big part of the weekend is that Saturday is December 1, which means I get to start decorating the house for Christmas. Which I will be doing every moment I'm not watching football, meaning that by sundown our house is going to look like it just got brutally attacked by one of those Christmas Villages that pop up in the retail spaces vacated by Spirit Halloween Store shortly after Halloween.
So that's two things that are good this weekend. But wait! There's more!
What's good (for the indeterminate period ending 11/30):
- Dame Judi Dench. I loved her in the new Bond movies, I love her in "As Time Goes By," and I love her even more knowing she embroiders charming little needlepoint pillows that say "You Are a Fucking Shit." She's on my list of women I want to have lunch with, along with Tilda Swinton, Viola Davis, Meryl Streep, Emma Thompson, and Jennifer Lawrence (just for variety).
- My imaginary lunch with Judi Dench, Tilda Swinton, Viola Davis, Meryl Streep, Emma Thompson, and Jennifer Lawrence
The other big part of the weekend is that Saturday is December 1, which means I get to start decorating the house for Christmas. Which I will be doing every moment I'm not watching football, meaning that by sundown our house is going to look like it just got brutally attacked by one of those Christmas Villages that pop up in the retail spaces vacated by Spirit Halloween Store shortly after Halloween.
So that's two things that are good this weekend. But wait! There's more!
What's good (for the indeterminate period ending 11/30):
- Dame Judi Dench. I loved her in the new Bond movies, I love her in "As Time Goes By," and I love her even more knowing she embroiders charming little needlepoint pillows that say "You Are a Fucking Shit." She's on my list of women I want to have lunch with, along with Tilda Swinton, Viola Davis, Meryl Streep, Emma Thompson, and Jennifer Lawrence (just for variety).
- My imaginary lunch with Judi Dench, Tilda Swinton, Viola Davis, Meryl Streep, Emma Thompson, and Jennifer Lawrence
Monday, November 26, 2012
On Mashup Monday: Rollin' edition
Okay, so Britney Spears is my classic and ongoing thing. (No secret there.) Adele is my new musical girlcrush. (Haven't mentioned that one yet, but I'm sure it requires no explanation.) And now someone's gone and gotten chocolate in my peanut butter. Very exciting thing.
Britney Spears/Adele - Rolling Till The World Ends
Britney Spears/Adele - Rolling Till The World Ends
On fashion writers hitting back
Note: I don't do this often, but I'm about to go full-on, hardcore, vapid fashion chick here. If that's not your bag, you might want to skip this post; Mashup Monday is coming up next.
Okay, so I used to work for an industry-focused fashion publication (and have provided a few basic details about it). I've compared my former job to The Devil Wears Prada, although of course it wasn't nearly as dramatic (and I got to write); my boss wasn't actively abusive and rarely wore Prada. It was just a matter of long hours, big egos, other people's work, work that not just wasn't my own but wasn't even related to my job (planning a friend's birthday party? Really?), clothes I couldn't afford (but was still expected to wear), rampaging bulimia, and parades of skinny teenagers reminding me that I, at 25, was fat and over the hill.
One assignment that tickles me in retrospect (hey, assignment, get your hand off my retrospect!) involved 400 copies of our June regional issue, a Sharpie, an X-acto knife, and a very pissed-off advertiser. One article in the issue had included one sentence about the advertiser's competitor, and that was enough to get the issue banned from said advertiser's establishment--unless we removed the sentence. From all 400 of the already-printed issues. Using a Sharpie to cross the line out, or a knife to cut it out. This being a fairly serious situation--the establishment in question was a huge deal--we actually debated on whether to send a crew down with markers and knives to do the job. The final decision, though, was to leave the issue as it was and stare the advertiser down. He blinked first, and the the issues were placed in his establishment fully intact.
This is the Diet Coke version of what Jenna Sauers is writing about when she asks, "Why are fashion designers so ridiculously touchy about press?" She writes about the recent shitstorm as Yves Saint Laurent reorganizes and rebrands and handles it just about as poorly as one can, PR-wise. The brand name is going one way, the logo another, the accessories line the old way, the women's collection is taking the name of new creative director Hedi Slimane, and the headquarters are moving one ocean plus one continent away from Paris--and nobody really knows exactly why, and YSL(? Yves Saint Laurent? Saint Laurent Paris?) isn't telling.
Okay, so I used to work for an industry-focused fashion publication (and have provided a few basic details about it). I've compared my former job to The Devil Wears Prada, although of course it wasn't nearly as dramatic (and I got to write); my boss wasn't actively abusive and rarely wore Prada. It was just a matter of long hours, big egos, other people's work, work that not just wasn't my own but wasn't even related to my job (planning a friend's birthday party? Really?), clothes I couldn't afford (but was still expected to wear), rampaging bulimia, and parades of skinny teenagers reminding me that I, at 25, was fat and over the hill.
One assignment that tickles me in retrospect (hey, assignment, get your hand off my retrospect!) involved 400 copies of our June regional issue, a Sharpie, an X-acto knife, and a very pissed-off advertiser. One article in the issue had included one sentence about the advertiser's competitor, and that was enough to get the issue banned from said advertiser's establishment--unless we removed the sentence. From all 400 of the already-printed issues. Using a Sharpie to cross the line out, or a knife to cut it out. This being a fairly serious situation--the establishment in question was a huge deal--we actually debated on whether to send a crew down with markers and knives to do the job. The final decision, though, was to leave the issue as it was and stare the advertiser down. He blinked first, and the the issues were placed in his establishment fully intact.
This is the Diet Coke version of what Jenna Sauers is writing about when she asks, "Why are fashion designers so ridiculously touchy about press?" She writes about the recent shitstorm as Yves Saint Laurent reorganizes and rebrands and handles it just about as poorly as one can, PR-wise. The brand name is going one way, the logo another, the accessories line the old way, the women's collection is taking the name of new creative director Hedi Slimane, and the headquarters are moving one ocean plus one continent away from Paris--and nobody really knows exactly why, and YSL(? Yves Saint Laurent? Saint Laurent Paris?) isn't telling.
Monday, September 24, 2012
On Mashup Monday: Invisible Pony edition
Okay, so I have a confession: I really like "Call Me Maybe." Except maybe I don't. I don't ever seek it out, but when I hear it, it's always pop-y and entertaining, and I find myself bopping along a little, but then when it's over it's still in my head for DAYS. Not hours, DAYS. So I like it in the moment, but the way it repeats on me for days afterward is horrible. It's much like cajun food in that respect.
(Also, why is it crazy that she should give her number to a guy she just met? How else is he supposed to get in touch with her? "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but you have really beautiful eyes and I'd like to make babies with you"? Yes, a bit forward. "I just met you, and in the interest of further communication I'd like to equip you with contact information"? That just makes sense.)
"Gangnam Style," on the other hand, is objectively awesome, because not only is it infectiously entertaining but it also comes complete with a dance that can be performed pretty much anywhere.
Psy/Carly Rae Jepsen - Call Me Gangnam
(Also, why is it crazy that she should give her number to a guy she just met? How else is he supposed to get in touch with her? "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but you have really beautiful eyes and I'd like to make babies with you"? Yes, a bit forward. "I just met you, and in the interest of further communication I'd like to equip you with contact information"? That just makes sense.)
"Gangnam Style," on the other hand, is objectively awesome, because not only is it infectiously entertaining but it also comes complete with a dance that can be performed pretty much anywhere.
Psy/Carly Rae Jepsen - Call Me Gangnam
Monday, July 30, 2012
On MORE MUSIC MONDAY, which isn't actually a real thing
Okay, so this was going to be today's Mashup Monday, except I've spent enough time bitching about what really qualifies as a mashup that I couldn't bring myself to violate my own rules. So instead, you get two songs for the price of one! It's MORE MUSIC MONDAY. YOU'RE WELCOME.
Since I discovered "Smells Like Booty," I think I've gotten to a point where I'll listen to just about any cover, mashup, or remix of "Smells Like Teen Spirit"--which is kind of funny, since I was never that crazt about the original version by Nirvana. But here, 2CELLOS combine two things I truly love: a bizarre cover of "Smells Like Teen Spirit," and cellos. And now you can love it as well.
Nirvana/2CELLOS - Smells Like Teen Spirit
Since I discovered "Smells Like Booty," I think I've gotten to a point where I'll listen to just about any cover, mashup, or remix of "Smells Like Teen Spirit"--which is kind of funny, since I was never that crazt about the original version by Nirvana. But here, 2CELLOS combine two things I truly love: a bizarre cover of "Smells Like Teen Spirit," and cellos. And now you can love it as well.
Nirvana/2CELLOS - Smells Like Teen Spirit
On Mashup Monday: Don't Hold Back edition
Okay, so I've long loved John Williams scores. He's actually why I wanted to play the piano professionally in the first place (although we saw how that turned out)--and while I've long loved his music, I'm not ashamed to say it was the score to Titanic that made me imagine myself behind that piano. Although we saw how that worked out.
So now, John Williams and the Chemical Brothers, although I've never had any real desire to make electronic music professionally. Maybe if John Williams really did get together with them…
John Williams/The Chemical Brothers - Galvanize the Empire
So now, John Williams and the Chemical Brothers, although I've never had any real desire to make electronic music professionally. Maybe if John Williams really did get together with them…
John Williams/The Chemical Brothers - Galvanize the Empire
Thursday, July 26, 2012
On Olympic weightlifter Zoe Smith, who isn't interested in your bullshit.
Okay, so Zoe Smith, 18, is a weightlifter. This weekend, she competes for Britain in the Olympics. She can clean and jerk nearly 260 lbs. Her Olympic qualifying total was 211 kg, or about 465 lbs. That alone should be enough to make the wise person disinclined to mess with her.
But there are always unwise people around to make the world a shittier place, and a number of them took to Twitter after the BBC aired Girl Power - Going For Gold, a documentary about Smith and her teammates Hannah Powell and Helen Jewel. "They're probably lesbians anyway," and "I'd think you were a bloke and so would 9 out of 10 lads," and of course the classic "Now piss off back to the kitchen."
Smith held her own on Twitter, and then she elaborated further in a post on her blog.
Weightlifting events start this Saturday; competitors in Smith's class, Women's 58kg, lift the equivalent of a grown man over their heads starting Monday.
[Cross-posted at Feministe.]
But there are always unwise people around to make the world a shittier place, and a number of them took to Twitter after the BBC aired Girl Power - Going For Gold, a documentary about Smith and her teammates Hannah Powell and Helen Jewel. "They're probably lesbians anyway," and "I'd think you were a bloke and so would 9 out of 10 lads," and of course the classic "Now piss off back to the kitchen."
Smith held her own on Twitter, and then she elaborated further in a post on her blog.
The obvious choice of slander when talking about female weightlifting is "how unfeminine, girls shouldn't be strong or have muscles, this is wrong". And maybe they're right… in the Victorian era. To think people still think like this is laughable, we're in 2012! This may sound like a sweeping generalization, but most of the people that do think like this seem to be chauvinistic, pigheaded blokes who feel emasculated by the face that we, three small, fairly feminine girls, are strong than them. Simple as that. I confronted one guy that said "we're probably all lesbians and look like blokes", purely to explain the fact that his opinion is invalid cause he's a moron. And wrong. He came up with the original comeback that I should get back in the kitchen. I laughed.
As Hannah pointed out earlier, we don't lift weights in order to look hot, especially for the likes of men like that. What makes them think that we even WANT them to find us attractive? If you do, thanks very much, we're flattered. But if you don't, why do you really need to voice this opinion in the first place, and what makes you think we actually give a toss that you, personally, do not find us attractive? What do you want us to do? Shall we stop weightlifting, amend our diet in order to completely get rid of our 'manly' muscles, and become housewives in the sheer hope that one day you will look more favourably upon us and we might actually have a shot with you?! Cause you are clearly the kindest, most attractive type of man to grace the earth with your presence.
Weightlifting events start this Saturday; competitors in Smith's class, Women's 58kg, lift the equivalent of a grown man over their heads starting Monday.
[Cross-posted at Feministe.]
Sunday, June 17, 2012
On my dad
Okay, so sometimes, I've found myself inspired to sit down and write an actual letter or card to one of my parents and put it in the actual mail, because it can be nice to have something tangible and handwritten that outlines in great detail exactly how much you're loved. Inevitably, I'll get a call a few days later: "What a sweet card! It made me want to cry. You're such a good daughter. … I'm not dying, am I? Dying and no one's told me?"
So: No, dad, you're not dying. Happy Father's Day.
1. When I was little--sevenish? Eightish?--my mom went back to work as a nurse part-time. Frequently, her wonky hours would leave my dad responsible for getting my brother and me off to school in the morning. This meant that my dad had to learn to curl my hair. There were a few mornings when I'd head off to school with little pink lines across my forehead and the tops of my ears, but it didn't take him long to get the hang of it and curl my hair like a pro.
2. At one point, our family had a weekly night when we'd all sit down in the family room and Dad would read aloud to us. No, I'm quite serious. We did that. We had these big, thick paperback books--Mark Twain and Sherlock Holmes are two that jump out at me--and we'd sit and listen. I spent my entire childhood surrounded by books, and I blame my current reading addiction entirely on my parents.
3. In an an older post about my mom, I mentioned a road trip we all took to northern Virginia in which Dad, Doug, and I drove home together. While we were passing around DJ-ing duties, Doug put in the soundtrack to Avenue Q. It was somewhere around "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist" that Doug and I started wondering if it was a good idea to do this with Dad in the car, and by the middle of "My Girlfriend, Who Lives in Canada," we were holding our breath. I think it was the line "And I can't wait to eat her pussy again!" that set Dad off--laughing so hard he nearly drove off the road.
4. My dad is brilliant at math. I don't just mean that he has a trick for calculating the tip at a restaurant--he remembers every equation and rule and formula he's ever known, he can do mental calculations like a boss, and he almost majored in math in college until he realized that Calculus IV is a horrible, horrible thing to engage in voluntarily. But that's not the kind of thing you leave behind. He and I were in the car, heading home from somewhere I don't recall, and a lottery billboard had recently been updated with the newest bajillion-dollar jackpot. He and I started figuring out odds of winning for various games, estimated payouts, annuities, and bizarre Rain Man-type math, and when we got home we kept coming up with new puzzles for ourselves and solving them. By the time we'd abandoned statistics and started pulling out Mensa puzzle books, we'd been at it for probably two hours. I spent two hours doing math with my Dad. On purpose. And I still catch myself doing math for fun sometimes. It's a sickness.
5. My parents had very different styles of teaching my brother and me to drive a stick shift. Mom explained the process, gave cues as best she could, and jumped and winced a lot whenever we'd grind a gear. Dad would explain the mechanics of the manual transmission and relate it to the act of using the clutch, the gas, and the shifter--which is great, except he'd do it at the same time, while we were driving. So I'd be driving along, approaching a right turn, listening to his calmly delivered instructions whilst piling through brake-clutch-turn-shift-turn-brake-clutch-gas-shit-clutch-gas-clutch-sputter-sputter-sputter… And then Dad would say, "Above all, just fly the plane." And now, 15 years later, I remember 1) how a manual transmission works, 2) what it looks like, 3) how to drive a car that has one, and 4) to just fly the plane.
Love you, Dad.
So: No, dad, you're not dying. Happy Father's Day.
1. When I was little--sevenish? Eightish?--my mom went back to work as a nurse part-time. Frequently, her wonky hours would leave my dad responsible for getting my brother and me off to school in the morning. This meant that my dad had to learn to curl my hair. There were a few mornings when I'd head off to school with little pink lines across my forehead and the tops of my ears, but it didn't take him long to get the hang of it and curl my hair like a pro.
2. At one point, our family had a weekly night when we'd all sit down in the family room and Dad would read aloud to us. No, I'm quite serious. We did that. We had these big, thick paperback books--Mark Twain and Sherlock Holmes are two that jump out at me--and we'd sit and listen. I spent my entire childhood surrounded by books, and I blame my current reading addiction entirely on my parents.
3. In an an older post about my mom, I mentioned a road trip we all took to northern Virginia in which Dad, Doug, and I drove home together. While we were passing around DJ-ing duties, Doug put in the soundtrack to Avenue Q. It was somewhere around "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist" that Doug and I started wondering if it was a good idea to do this with Dad in the car, and by the middle of "My Girlfriend, Who Lives in Canada," we were holding our breath. I think it was the line "And I can't wait to eat her pussy again!" that set Dad off--laughing so hard he nearly drove off the road.
4. My dad is brilliant at math. I don't just mean that he has a trick for calculating the tip at a restaurant--he remembers every equation and rule and formula he's ever known, he can do mental calculations like a boss, and he almost majored in math in college until he realized that Calculus IV is a horrible, horrible thing to engage in voluntarily. But that's not the kind of thing you leave behind. He and I were in the car, heading home from somewhere I don't recall, and a lottery billboard had recently been updated with the newest bajillion-dollar jackpot. He and I started figuring out odds of winning for various games, estimated payouts, annuities, and bizarre Rain Man-type math, and when we got home we kept coming up with new puzzles for ourselves and solving them. By the time we'd abandoned statistics and started pulling out Mensa puzzle books, we'd been at it for probably two hours. I spent two hours doing math with my Dad. On purpose. And I still catch myself doing math for fun sometimes. It's a sickness.
5. My parents had very different styles of teaching my brother and me to drive a stick shift. Mom explained the process, gave cues as best she could, and jumped and winced a lot whenever we'd grind a gear. Dad would explain the mechanics of the manual transmission and relate it to the act of using the clutch, the gas, and the shifter--which is great, except he'd do it at the same time, while we were driving. So I'd be driving along, approaching a right turn, listening to his calmly delivered instructions whilst piling through brake-clutch-turn-shift-turn-brake-clutch-gas-shit-clutch-gas-clutch-sputter-sputter-sputter… And then Dad would say, "Above all, just fly the plane." And now, 15 years later, I remember 1) how a manual transmission works, 2) what it looks like, 3) how to drive a car that has one, and 4) to just fly the plane.
Love you, Dad.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
On body types, mental health, and defending the skinny girl
Alternately: The One Where Maybe I Come Across as Some Kind of Apologist for Something, or Whatever, I Don't Know
Okay, so my reader knows I hate blog posts that start with definitions, but I think this one calls for it.
The NIH on Anorexia:
Okay, so my reader knows I hate blog posts that start with definitions, but I think this one calls for it.
The NIH on Anorexia:
A decreased appetite is when you have a reduced desire to eat. The medical term for a loss of appetite is anorexia.The Mayo Clinic on Anorexia nervosa:
Anorexia nervosa is an eating disorder that causes people to obsess about their weight and the food they eat. People with anorexia nervosa attempt to maintain a weight that's far below normal for their age and height. To prevent weight gain or to continue losing weight, people with anorexia nervosa may starve themselves or exercise excessively.I share these definitions in part because I'm so very pedantic that when I see terms used incorrectly, I get an eye twitch and an itchy rash on my lower back. I also share them to clarify something: Anorexia isn't "the state of being skinny." It isn't "the state of wanting to be skinny." It's the state of having a broken brain. And that's harsh, I know, and I know a lot of people with and/or recovering from eating disorders might bristle to read that. But as someone who spent (and continues to spend) plenty of time fixing my brain after a decade of bulimia, I feel comfortable assigning broken brain as a contributor to eating disorders.
On entitlement complexes and Birmingham's new smoking ban
Okay, so you walk into a bar and ask the bartender for a Grey Goose martini. And the bartender says, "We don't have Grey Goose. Would you like Ketel One or one of our other fine vodka offerings?" and you tell him no, you want Goose. He repeats--patiently, because he's a nice guy--that they don't have it. That if you insist on a Grey Goose martini, you'll have to go somewhere else, and if you insist on drinking here, you'll have to settle for Ketel (or one of their other fine vodka offerings). So what do you do? Of course you pass a law requiring every bar in town to stock Grey Goose so you can walk in wherever you want and have whatever you want.
NO, YOU DON'T. You decide that Ketel One will make an acceptable martini and order one of those. Or you decide to go down the street to see if another bar has Goose, and you get a martini there. Or you go home, where you have a freezer full of Goose, and you make your own cocktail. Sure, it's disappointing--you wanted that drink at that bar. But you're an adult, so you suck it up and recognize that, in the words of the Prophet, you can't always get what you want.
As of June 4, smoking is forbidden in basically any public area in Birmingham, including less than seven feet from the entrance of any bar or restaurant. In theory, as a dedicated nonsmoker, I should like this. It means I don't cough, I don't get exposed to secondhand smoke, and I can come in after a night out and not have to wash my hair before I go to bed.
But no one has every guaranteed me the right to go wherever I want and not have to wash my hair afterward. And no one has ever marched me into a smoky bar at gunpoint. On nights when I don't feel like getting smoky, I'm perfectly free to NOT GO to any of the establishments where people are smoking. And--up until last week, anyway--no owner of a private business was required to provide me with a smoke-free environment, just because I wanted one.
NO, YOU DON'T. You decide that Ketel One will make an acceptable martini and order one of those. Or you decide to go down the street to see if another bar has Goose, and you get a martini there. Or you go home, where you have a freezer full of Goose, and you make your own cocktail. Sure, it's disappointing--you wanted that drink at that bar. But you're an adult, so you suck it up and recognize that, in the words of the Prophet, you can't always get what you want.
As of June 4, smoking is forbidden in basically any public area in Birmingham, including less than seven feet from the entrance of any bar or restaurant. In theory, as a dedicated nonsmoker, I should like this. It means I don't cough, I don't get exposed to secondhand smoke, and I can come in after a night out and not have to wash my hair before I go to bed.
But no one has every guaranteed me the right to go wherever I want and not have to wash my hair afterward. And no one has ever marched me into a smoky bar at gunpoint. On nights when I don't feel like getting smoky, I'm perfectly free to NOT GO to any of the establishments where people are smoking. And--up until last week, anyway--no owner of a private business was required to provide me with a smoke-free environment, just because I wanted one.
Friday, June 15, 2012
On the deadly bite of the Black Widow
Okay, so over at Feministe, I posted about my love of the Black Widow in The Avengers and my frustration with reviewers who completely dismissed her as eye candy despite ridiculous amounts of evidence to the contrary. (Warning: That post, and this one, are chock full of SPOILERY SPOILERS THAT SPOIL.)
And on that point, I'm of course completely right. In the subsequent discussion, several commenters mentioned that they'd love to see Natasha Romanoff interacting with other badass women, like Agent Maria Hill, in the next movie. I'd like to see that--and in addition, I think the Blu-ray extras for the movie would be a great place for a scene with them interacting casually, maybe blowing off some steam at the firing range after a mission. Something like this, for instance.
JOSS WHEDON, I KNOW YOU'RE READING THIS. I'VE DONE YOUR WORK FOR YOU. YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE NOT TO DO THIS.
According to movie reviewers, she's also a "token sexy female," who "spends a lot of time looking puzzled or confused" and "clench[ing] her brow," "repels invading aliens through the sheer force of her corsetry," and provides "images of Scarlett Johansson in a black bodysuit."
The funny thing is that that very reaction is one of the things that makes the Black Widow so effective at what she does. She's a sleeper--constantly underestimated and manipulative. She acrobatically defeats a team of Russian arms dealers--with both hands and a chair tied behind her back--because they had no idea what she was capable of. While normally I'd find Loki's derision of her as a "mewling quim" to be utterly horrendous, I kind of liked it here because it underscored the fact that our alien demigod villain was falling for her act and giving her everything she needed.
...
One great thing about the Black Widow is that the penalty for dismissing her and making assumptions about her generally involves blood loss. Now, far be it from me to say that violence is the answer (although I’m also not saying it isn’t...), but it would be nice if the real world had more tangible penalties for sexism. Like criticism by one's peers, censure in the public arena, or a reflexive expectation of public apology for misogyny. Or the public calling-out of idiot movie reviewers who obviously struggle with viewing comprehension. Or being hung upside down by one's ankles. Whatever.
And on that point, I'm of course completely right. In the subsequent discussion, several commenters mentioned that they'd love to see Natasha Romanoff interacting with other badass women, like Agent Maria Hill, in the next movie. I'd like to see that--and in addition, I think the Blu-ray extras for the movie would be a great place for a scene with them interacting casually, maybe blowing off some steam at the firing range after a mission. Something like this, for instance.
JOSS WHEDON, I KNOW YOU'RE READING THIS. I'VE DONE YOUR WORK FOR YOU. YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE NOT TO DO THIS.
Wednesday, June 06, 2012
On speciality
Or: I never thought you were special. I thought you should know.
Okay, so I wasn't there at the Wellesley High School graduation last weekend, but I would have loved to watch all the proud parents swallow their tongues as English teacher David McCullough told their brilliant progeny that they aren't special.
Okay, so I wasn't there at the Wellesley High School graduation last weekend, but I would have loved to watch all the proud parents swallow their tongues as English teacher David McCullough told their brilliant progeny that they aren't special.
No, commencement is life’s great ceremonial beginning, with its own attendant and highly appropriate symbolism. Fitting, for example, for this auspicious rite of passage, is where we find ourselves this afternoon, the venue. Normally, I avoid clichés like the plague, wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole, but here we are on a literal level playing field. That matters. That says something. And your ceremonial costume… shapeless, uniform, one-size-fits-all. Whether male or female, tall or short, scholar or slacker, spray-tanned prom queen or intergalactic X-Box assassin, each of you is dressed, you’ll notice, exactly the same. And your diploma… but for your name, exactly the same.
All of this is as it should be, because none of you is special.
You are not special. You are not exceptional.
Contrary to what your u9 soccer trophy suggests, your glowing seventh grade report card, despite every assurance of a certain corpulent purple dinosaur, that nice Mister Rogers and your batty Aunt Sylvia, no matter how often your maternal caped crusader has swooped in to save you… you’re nothing special.
On the new cola wars
Okay, so in an effort to combat super-sized New Yorkers, New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg is combating super-sized sodas.
Under the new rule, grocery stores and convenience stores will still be able to carry large-quantity sodas, but places that serve food (rather than just selling it) are restricted to 16 ounces at a time. It doesn't restrict a person's ability to chug down those same 32 ounces in one sitting--it just makes costs the person more money and more hassle. And it also doesn't restrict the size of diet drinks (which can reduce satiation), fruit juices (which can have as much sugar as sodas), or alcohol (which can pickle your liver and make you kill someone with your car or call your ex at 3:00 a.m. and beg him to take you back), because apparently those aren't public health risks.
Gas guzzlers, McMansions, Walmart, Costco: If one thing is certain about American consumer culture is that bigger is better, especially if it is cheaper.
So more than a few New Yorkers took it especially hard Thursday when they learned that Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg wanted to take away their plus-size sodas in restaurants, movie theaters, stadiums, arenas and mobile food carts, as a way, he said, of fighting obesity.
Under the new rule, grocery stores and convenience stores will still be able to carry large-quantity sodas, but places that serve food (rather than just selling it) are restricted to 16 ounces at a time. It doesn't restrict a person's ability to chug down those same 32 ounces in one sitting--it just makes costs the person more money and more hassle. And it also doesn't restrict the size of diet drinks (which can reduce satiation), fruit juices (which can have as much sugar as sodas), or alcohol (which can pickle your liver and make you kill someone with your car or call your ex at 3:00 a.m. and beg him to take you back), because apparently those aren't public health risks.
Friday, May 25, 2012
On the Good, the Bad, and the Friday Random Ten: Final frontier edition
Okay, so I was really sad to see the space shuttle program go. I know NASA has its reasons for backing off of manned space flight, but for me--a child of the 80s--that's just what the space program is about. Huge, powerful telescopes and rovers on Mars are super cool, and I get a thrill every time astronomers report the discovery of a new celestial structure, but space exploration has to involve people in jumpsuits doing slow backflips in outer space and eating pudding out of midair while talking to second-graders live via video feed. I wanted to be Sally Ride.
That's why the science-fiction-y concept of commercial space flight is such a thrill to me--even if the government doesn't feel compelled to put humans back into space, private companies (hopefully) will be able to pick up the slack in terms of discovery and general childlike wonder. And this morning, I got to watch via live feed as the SpaceX capsule Dragon docked with the International Space Station. The Boy and I both remember the thrill of watching rocket launches when we were little, and we were sitting rapt the entire time as the docking happened in real time, right in front of us. It made me hopeful for the the future, and not a lot of things really do that a lot.
What's good (for the week ending 5/25):
- The Replacements. I'd spent enough time quoting this movie that I finally managed to convince The Boy to sit down and watch it, even though he doesn't care about football or Keanu Reeves. But of course he loved it, and now when I say, "Get the ball! Get the ball! I'm comin' for ya, blue eyes!" he laughs because he knows what I'm talking about, not because I seem slightly unstable and it's best to humor me.
- Google Chrome
- Otis Redding
- Kayaking. I'd never done it before, but The Boy bought a kayak, because it was half-off, and who can resist a half-price kayak? and I thought it would be fun to try. Dude. That's the most intense upper-body workout known to man, and it's transportation, and it puts you right next to the water on a hot day.
- Nutrisse Nourishing Color Foam in Light Intense Auburn
That's why the science-fiction-y concept of commercial space flight is such a thrill to me--even if the government doesn't feel compelled to put humans back into space, private companies (hopefully) will be able to pick up the slack in terms of discovery and general childlike wonder. And this morning, I got to watch via live feed as the SpaceX capsule Dragon docked with the International Space Station. The Boy and I both remember the thrill of watching rocket launches when we were little, and we were sitting rapt the entire time as the docking happened in real time, right in front of us. It made me hopeful for the the future, and not a lot of things really do that a lot.
What's good (for the week ending 5/25):
- The Replacements. I'd spent enough time quoting this movie that I finally managed to convince The Boy to sit down and watch it, even though he doesn't care about football or Keanu Reeves. But of course he loved it, and now when I say, "Get the ball! Get the ball! I'm comin' for ya, blue eyes!" he laughs because he knows what I'm talking about, not because I seem slightly unstable and it's best to humor me.
- Google Chrome
- Otis Redding
- Kayaking. I'd never done it before, but The Boy bought a kayak, because it was half-off, and who can resist a half-price kayak? and I thought it would be fun to try. Dude. That's the most intense upper-body workout known to man, and it's transportation, and it puts you right next to the water on a hot day.
- Nutrisse Nourishing Color Foam in Light Intense Auburn
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
On fifty shades of lame
MOM AND DAD: I'm a virgin, The Boy and I haven't gotten past second base, and I'll probably never have sex because it's totally gross and icky. Maybe you go read another post now. Look, this one has kittens!
EVERYONE ELSE: Mom, Dad, I told you to go read the kitten post.
EVERYONE ELSE FOR REAL: This review almost certainly isn’t safe for work. The novel might be. Ho hum...
Okay, so despite (or perhaps because of) the frenzy surrounding Twilight, I resisted picking it up and struggling through it until I was informed that it might help me better understand true love. Now, no one has tried to imply that I don't understand true kink (thank God), but since the newest suburban-mommy literary craze--alleged kinkfest Fifty Shades of Grey--is receiving those same kinds of accolades, I thought it might be time to update my education. And what better way to do that than with a book that is not just inspired by Twilight fanfiction but directly adapted from it in a search-and-replace kind of way? Fifty Shades of Grey, by British author E.L. James, started out as “Master of the Universe,” by fanfictioner Snowqueens Icedragon. Ctrl+F, and Bella Swan turns into innocent virgin Anastasia Steele; Ctrl+F, and Edward Cullen turns into powerful and enigmatic business magnate Christian Grey. The couple that taught me so much about love between a 107-year-old bloodsucker and the high-school student he stalks and longs to murder can now teach me the joys of a good spanking.
(I actually thought I knew the joys of a good spanking, but then, I thought I knew about true love, so maybe I've just been kidding myself all this time.)
For the record, I have no problem with fanfiction. (I mean, hi, y'all.) There are actually some fairly well-written ones out there. This is… not one of those. The prose is repetitive, florid, and boring. Removed from its source material, the novel is staffed with underdeveloped, one-note characters without history or motivation (not that the ciphers and caricatures of Twilight were that much better). The twentysomethings talk like teenagers. Christian talks like my grandfather. Hispanic Jacob-analog Jose talks like Dora the Explorer ("Dios mio!"). The exposition seems written for the sole purpose of reminding us that Christian is dark! and Ana is innocent! while shuttling us along to the next sexy part. It's a fic about Bella and Edward getting kinky, and so that's what the novel is about and the only thing the novel about. The story arc goes from "Hey, wanna let me whip you?" to “Okay.” to "No, too much whipping! (runs for the door)" over the course of 26 chapters.
And who struggled through it anyway, for you? Who’s sparing you the time and heartache? Who loves you? That’s right.
EVERYONE ELSE: Mom, Dad, I told you to go read the kitten post.
EVERYONE ELSE FOR REAL: This review almost certainly isn’t safe for work. The novel might be. Ho hum...
Okay, so despite (or perhaps because of) the frenzy surrounding Twilight, I resisted picking it up and struggling through it until I was informed that it might help me better understand true love. Now, no one has tried to imply that I don't understand true kink (thank God), but since the newest suburban-mommy literary craze--alleged kinkfest Fifty Shades of Grey--is receiving those same kinds of accolades, I thought it might be time to update my education. And what better way to do that than with a book that is not just inspired by Twilight fanfiction but directly adapted from it in a search-and-replace kind of way? Fifty Shades of Grey, by British author E.L. James, started out as “Master of the Universe,” by fanfictioner Snowqueens Icedragon. Ctrl+F, and Bella Swan turns into innocent virgin Anastasia Steele; Ctrl+F, and Edward Cullen turns into powerful and enigmatic business magnate Christian Grey. The couple that taught me so much about love between a 107-year-old bloodsucker and the high-school student he stalks and longs to murder can now teach me the joys of a good spanking.
(I actually thought I knew the joys of a good spanking, but then, I thought I knew about true love, so maybe I've just been kidding myself all this time.)
For the record, I have no problem with fanfiction. (I mean, hi, y'all.) There are actually some fairly well-written ones out there. This is… not one of those. The prose is repetitive, florid, and boring. Removed from its source material, the novel is staffed with underdeveloped, one-note characters without history or motivation (not that the ciphers and caricatures of Twilight were that much better). The twentysomethings talk like teenagers. Christian talks like my grandfather. Hispanic Jacob-analog Jose talks like Dora the Explorer ("Dios mio!"). The exposition seems written for the sole purpose of reminding us that Christian is dark! and Ana is innocent! while shuttling us along to the next sexy part. It's a fic about Bella and Edward getting kinky, and so that's what the novel is about and the only thing the novel about. The story arc goes from "Hey, wanna let me whip you?" to “Okay.” to "No, too much whipping! (runs for the door)" over the course of 26 chapters.
And who struggled through it anyway, for you? Who’s sparing you the time and heartache? Who loves you? That’s right.
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