At my leisure this morning, I caught this article in the paper with the headline "How to Be the Perfect Dinner Guest" in the Toronto Star.

Do we need a refresher, folks?

I think so after I busted my ass yesterday helping Ruby's parents shop-cook-serve for a special dinner party. We were all on high alert, top of our game, everything planned and prepared to perfection.

Except four people failed to show without even picking up the phone.

Do you know why the rsvp tradition exists?

It's a long established custom which enables hosts to entertain generously by having enough food and drink for all their guests. It be-fucking-hooves you to send a reply to an invitation and then follow through with your commitment. I find it horribly callous that anyone could be so oblivious to all of the expense and labour that goes into hosting a formal dinner party. In our wretched recessionary climate, no one has the disposable cash required in order to purchase the ingredients for the savoury comestibles a conscientious host serves. Not to mention all the rented tableware. When you say you'll attend and then don't without any notice or explanation, you are otherwise issuing an unmistaken "fuck you" to your hosts.

I remember how humiliated I felt after so many confirmed guests failed to show up to our first big dinner party here in Toronto, leaving me with an obscene amount of food that I was shoving on people as they left. You can be sure that those folks never received another invitation.

Don't be a fucking douchebag.
If you say you're going, then show up on time with at least a bottle of wine.



Ruby's parents gave me a book and cd as a thanks (not necessary!).
Check out this video "Soobax" from Somali hip-hop artist K'Naan.

You've probably already seen these video clips at Feministe of the woman-haters extraordinaire that are Dick Armey, Papa Shrub and Bill Clinton, but they're worth posting again here in order to point out there's a new wave of backlash growing in the wake of having two feminists in the White House. Just as President Obama carves out a measure of justice in reversing the global gag rule, and in passing the Ledbetter legislation championing equal pay for women, the footsoldiers of patriarchy turn up to argue that women are not human beings.
We're merely receptacle wombs who don't know when to shut up.

You know how I've often elaborated on my foundational distate for snobbery in all its many incarnations, from an ingrained, reactive habit of correcting others; sniffing at anything just because it's popular or tainted by "the masses"; or from the impulse seeking to build yourself up by tearing someone or something else down? There's another brand of snob we can add to the list: the folks who say that the book is always better than the film, that any effort to transmit a novel on celluloid fails automatically because literature is a pure medium.

You don't have to be a Freudian to discern a large measure of insecurity, need for validation or transference behind the snob's effort to create exclusive and exclusionary categories and judgments.

I had no difficulty brainstorming a significant list of films which were just as good, if not better when adapted to the screen.
They include in random order:

As a kid, "Flowers for Algernon" was one of my favourites and the adaptation of Daniel Keyes work as "Charly" was just as empathetic.

Two of Edith Wharton's novels (of which I've read most) were brilliant onscreen. "The Age of Innocence" and "The House of Mirth" do justice to her work. The scene where Newland Archer (Daniel Day Lewis) kisses the inside of the Countess Olenska's (Michelle Pfeiffer) wrist? Ack! And poor Lily Bart (Gillian Anderson) looking to broker her beauty for a wealthy husband kills me.

Natasha Richardson, Robert Duvall and Faye Dunaway brought Margaret Atwood's "A Handmaid's Tale" to flesh onscreen.

Orson Welles nailed the comtemptible yet seductive power of Edward Rochester in the 1944 production of Charlotte Bronte's novel from 1847. And there was Elizabeth Taylor's turn as the doomed child Helen Burns.

Patrick McCabe's "The Butcher Boy" and "Breakfast on Pluto" were both brought to life by Neil Jordan.

James M. Cain ranks as one of the most prolific authors in the noir genre. His work later adapted from "Double Indemnity" in 1944 and then "The Postman Always Rings Twice" in 1946 are iconic productions from the original film noir cycle.

Of all the Stephen King novels, "Carrie" captures the horror underpinning a protagonist's condition more than any other with Sissy Spacek's gifts, which are warped by the spectre of religion, misogyny and capricious cruelties of adolescence.

Were the incestuous politics of Hollywood responsible for the deletion of the sub-plot about the Walt Disney-based character who molested and murdered those in his stable of child stars from the adaptation of James Ellroy's "L.A. Confidential"? One wonders. It was an otherwise superior version.

I probably read Amy Tan's "The Joy Luck Club" four times before it was beautifully translated to film.

Manuel Puig's "Kiss of the Spiderwoman," Alice Walker's "The Color Purple," Anne Tyler's "The Accidental Tourist" and James Fogle's "Drugstore Cowboy" were all perfected by the cinema.

The screen version of Larry McMurtry's "Terms of Endearment" surpasses the emotional heft of the novel. Similarly, Irvine Welsh's "Trainspotting" is far more powerful onscreen.

Signs You've Been Married for Ages #1:

You leave a t-shirt on during sex in order to keep the Vicks Vapo-Rub on your chest intact.

Mr. M and I have had countless discussions over the years about what it means to be Jewish.

He might be willing to go as far as saying that he holds a cultural identification with the tradition, yet since he never went to Hebrew School nor ever had a Bar Mitzvah, that he's not Jewish, unless you're applying some Anti-Semitic rubric that say Hitler identified declaring if your mother was Jewish, it makes you so regardless of an absence of practice or belief.

I can dig it, because religion is after all something people choose; it's no indelible mark.

Still, he was more than disgusted to get an email invitation to a party today instructing guests to "dress up like your favourite Jew" for the evening.

What. The. Fuck.

Even worse, the party's for a close family member.

Only his grandparents made it out of Germany.

Everyone else died in camps.

And now it's fucking ironic for aging hipsters to don a big schnozz and do a bad Woody Allen impersonation of wacky Jewish neuroticism?

This is nothing less than a Jewish Minstrel show giving everyone license to trot out narrow minded and hateful stereotypes, guilt-free.

There's a huge fucking difference between self-deprecating humour and embracing outright abjection.

If that's what you need to do to win over friends in fucking Texas, they aren't worth it.

I am pissed that I already sent a lovely gift.

Phlegm.
Choking on it, coughing, sneezing, moaning on the couch for more than 24 hours now.
Sharing a bed is impossible for me when I'm sick.
I need room to throw snot laden tissues around while I'm unable to find a position of comfort.
Here are some repugnant low-lights that danced across the television.

First, I'm watching a CBS affiliate station in Seattle and see a commercial for a restaurant called "The Crab Pot." The camera pans over to a waiter approaching a table with a large mettalic bowl. The dude dumps the food on the centre of the table and legs it. What are we, savages? No need for serving dishes and tablewear? You get some newspaper and a fucking mallet. I'm so sniffy that I won't even go to a germy buffet to eat, but dear jeebus, folks? What are we Fred Fucking Flintstone ripping food open from a pile with our hands?
Do. Not. Want.

Then breaking out in a feverish sweat last night I clicked on something from 1975 called "A Boy and His Dog." The dog in question was as far away as the benevolent Lassie or Benjie prototype as you could get. The English Sheepdog enjoyed telepathic communication with his master Don Johnson in a post apocalyptic America. When I turned it on, Don was flipping his golden mane around menacingly with a gun and barking at a young woman to disrobe. Before he could actually go ahead and rape her, a rogue gang entered the warehouse. The dog counsels Don to get rid of them by giving them the girl. I guess dogs really are man's best friend if they're down with offering women up for a gang rape.
I had to look it up on imdb and found this summary:
"A post-apocalyptic tale based on a novella by Harlan Ellison. A boy communicates telepathically with his dog as they scavenge for food and sex, and they stumble into an underground society where the old society is preserved. The daughter of one of the leaders of the community seduces and lures him below, where the citizens have become unable to reproduce because of being underground so long. They use him for impregnation purposes, and then plan to be rid of him."

How exactly does one "scavenge for sex."
You mean rape, asshole.
I detect some seventies era paranoia over feminism: the bitches will use men as sperm donors and then throw them away! Sound the alarm!
It was ghastly after only a few minutes.

Later, after an hour of "Pygmalion" (1938) I had to turn it off so that I could attempt to digest some food. Leslie Howard's Professor Higgins is a woman hater of the highest order. The dude sneeringly calls her a guttersnipe, an object and worse, noting that women "might as well just be blocks of wood" for all he invests in them personally. Add to that, the father who gladly sells his daughter for a small bank note. George Bernard Shaw's "Pygmalion" spawned an obsession onstage and screen for men creating the perfect woman, but really the precedent goes back to Ovid's Echo and Narcissus. It's where we can trace the patriarchal myth that men love only themselves and that women can merely echo or parrot what a dude says or wants. Echo and Eliza are positioned as only capable of repeating what men say, they're disembodied voices lacking the script or ideas of their own. Woman-as-echo filters down in popular culture within the plot convention that stages men as the true arbiters of taste and what it means to be feminine.
Rex Harrison again in 1964's "My Fair Lady" is a man who hates women, but he knows absolutely what it means and takes to be a successful and popular woman. Too bad there's no real critical engagement or interrogation with the arbitrary construction of femininity to begin with.
We see dudes as the "expert" on femininity onscreen all the time, even when they're not in drag.
Most recently, I'm thinking of Stanley Tucci's Nigel in "The Devil Wears Prada" acting as guide for Anne Hathaway's style maven wannabe Andy. We see it again in "Pretty Woman," "A Star is Born," and even "All About Eve." We can learn how to walk, talk, dress, not eat and how to fuck from a man.
Ugh.
But what do I know, I'm sick.

Ask Men.com continues to feed rape culture with bad advice for men.
The latest misogynistic missive instructs dudes to look for 10 signs that let them know they'll get lucky.
I really hate that expression.
"Get lucky" sounds like something selfish ten-pump chumps use.
It's up there with "score," as if dating were some competitive game where their penis is the most valuable player.

The list sets up any woman with a pulse as likely to become a potential cum dumpster.
For example, if you make eye contact with a woman, blammo.
She'll have her ankles by her ears in no time, fellas!
Obviously, if a woman looks at you she must want to fuck you!

The whole idea positions women as foreign objects which need to be decoded or interpreted for the secret sexy messages we're sending. Among the predatory tips for dudes comes the advice that if a woman shares private or emotional details it's "an act of being open to receiving physical consolation from you."
Oh yack.
"Physical consolation."
If she tries to communicate, use it as an excuse to touch her!
I was anticipating a guide on drugging her drink to follow.

Is there anything sadder than a couple who wears matching outfits?
I won't even let Mr. M walk out of the house wearing the same colour.
As I pulled out a shirt to iron for him last week (I know, I know), I yelped halfway through because it was too close to the shade of my dress, so I picked another.
In other annoying news around here, I've been saying "what's the haps" incessantly to the dogs.
I told him I'm bringing it back.

Malcolm's teacher is rocking her role as Mother Nature in the commercials for Tampax.
She's a wacky aunt figure.
Far better to characterize menses as a gift rather than a curse.

If I could select one food to eat every day without having to worry about my waistline, it'd be pizza.

I'm always on the lookout for the perfect pizza.

With all my insane food issues, for me to sit down and eat a whole individual-sized pie is a special treat. Neapolitan pizza may be a microcosmic example of my ethos in the kitchen: use the best ingredients and keep it simple.
We've been to Il Gatto Nero in Little Italy, Marcello's in Corsa Italia and last night to Pizza Libretto at Ossington and Dundas.

Of the three places, I'd say Il Gatto Nero had the type that nearly brought a tear to my eye.

Mr. M said we should never try a new place on a saturday night and he has a good point.

Libretto was packed and since we were sitting by the door I was frozen from the asshats waiting in line with the door open. My pizza seemed undercooked and rather bland.

The service however was far better than I'm used to getting here in Toronto.

We'll go back another night.

Rosario Dawson's one of my favourite women in Hollywood, which is one of the primary reasons that I picked up "Descent," a film about rape that I would normally avoid.

***BIG SPOILERS***

Dawson plays Maya, a dewy-faced 19 year old university student.

I was yelling at the screen when her rapist approaches her at a party. For fuck's sake, always walk away from a guy named Jared who's wearing a baseball cap backwards.

The dude's hat could have had "sexual predator" written on it he was so obvious.

Jared (Chad Faust) chats Maya up at a party, tapes roses to her door, and leaves a message wishing her a happy anniversary since they met five days ago. Yack.

He's a borderline stalker.

They have dinner.

They go back to his frat house (another red flag for rape!).

She tells him to stop, that's enough, get off, and the rest.

He shoves something in her mouth to stifle her screams.

Truthfully, it's tough to watch.

I couldn't catch all the hateful things he said to her as he raped her.

I caught maggot, baboon, cunt among other wretched insults.

The narrative jumps ahead to the Spring where Maya picks up a job after classes end in a women's clothing store.

Her hair is shorn, her face free of makeup.

She's clearly fucking shattered sitting on this small sofa, gripping the edge with a woman blabbing about her ex.

In the next scene, the camera stays frozen on a mannequin Maya's using to steam clothing.

To me it was a direct comparison to how lifeless and broken and vacant Maya is after the rape.

She's barely alive.

The middle section of the film gets a bit muddled, but in a way I suppose it's a means to show how emotionally fractured she is in trying to pull herself together.

She becomes friends with a dj named Adrian (Marcus Patrick) who understands that she's shutting herself up and being self-destructive.

When the fall semester begins and she's a teaching assistant for a large lecture, she sees the shit stain walk into the auditorium. Later she catches him cheating on the midterm and he taunts her about what happened.

She arranges to see him again.

I don't have a problem with the idea of a feminist twist in the revenge plot to have Adrian rape Jared. In fact, my bitter heart applauded the idea.

But it's really not the same, is it?

Maya cannot inflict the same level of trauma by having him raped.

Jared's not going to walk around fearing rape for the rest of his life and he'll still more than likely rape another woman as a way to get even.

Instead of using paint to label him a rapist when she strapped him to the bed, she should have carved it on his forehead.

Not to be outdone by the patriarchal fantasia culled from the supine status of women in the Mormon-themed programme "Big Love," now the Jews are on board for shitting on women in the Hallmark channel's two hour production "Loving Leah," which airs at the weekend. The plot summary goes like this: Lauren Ambrose plays Leah, a young widow whose husband had been a Hasidic rabbi. According to Jewish law, when a husband dies, his brother should then marry the widow if she has no children in order to keep the patrilineal line going.

(Oh, Clare, how could you!)

We'll get to see a mild sense of budding autonomy within Leah, who will intially blanch at the idea of being passed around like chattel among men without her consent, oh but then she'll come to her senses and realize that submission is sexy, nay it's romantic. Only when women remit all decisions and responsiblity to men, only then they can find true happiness in servility and obedience.

Let's keep mining the dark recesses of human history to come up with superficially winsome narratives, or hop on the way-back-when machine so that we can find additional ways to tell women that they need to embrace abjection and submit to male domination as the natural order of things.

Women's individual identity and personhood stands as a chimerical blip on an otherwise uninterrupted trajectory of subhuman status across time and culture.

This reeks of backlash and retrograde thuggery.

My pulse throbs for the cinematic presence of a certain type of men onscreen who protect and avenge women. I don't mean in the "Braveheart" vein where women only exist as a plot point to unleash some dude's reason for springing into action. Gibson's William Wallace appears somnambulant until his wife's murdered; he comes alive only in the wake of her death. In other words, it's all about the menz in those films, the most recent of which appears to be Liam Neeson in the unfortunate "Taken," wherein he launches into kick-ass mode when his daughter is kidnapped. In a sense, it looks like they're avenging stolen property as much as a victimized woman. Same for the vigilante dudes like Charlie Bronson. His "Death Wish" franchise seemed more invested in restoring his flagging masculinity than in any higher order function. The vigilante jumps into action from desperate feelings of powerlessness or emasculation. They pick up the gun in order to reinvigorate their peen and machismo. As much as I like the "Dirty Harry" films, Clint's leading man is more concerned with the theoretical rule of law than in any individual woman. Russell Crowe's Bud White in "L.A. Confidential" doesn't make the ranks, either. His character demonstrates all too clearly that men who live by their fists may deign to direct them on a woman just as easily as the wife beaters.

No, I'm talking about men onscreen who are motivated by love and an inherent distaste for the savagery committed by other men. They accomplish what the women can't on their own mostly due to the fucked up gender mythology which tells women their natural state should be fear, timidity and victimhood. These men are not saturated with rage; their revenge or actions are planned and methodical. I'm not arguing that the pleasure I get from these characters stems from my feminist politics necessarily, because my brand of feminism calls bullshit on the idea of men as protectors of women. Cinematic pleasure doesn't always match up with our principles.

Nevertheless, here are 5 dudes on film who stand up for women:

5. Denis Leary's Lono in "Suicide Kings" during the toaster scene when he confronts Jennifer's (Nina Siemaszko) abusive step-father. Lono's speech reveals the destructive male privilege behind men who think they can get shitfaced and beat on women.

4. Stephen Moyer's Bill Compton in "True Blood" *SPOILER*
When he kills Sookie's (Anna Paquin) uncle for having molested her as a child, Bill makes it clear that vampires are not the real parasites walking around.

3. Mickey Rourke's Marv in "Sin City" has real relationships or affection for women such as Goldie (Jaime King), Lucille (Carla Gugino) and Nancy (Jessica Alba). His character relinquishes any thought to his own well-being in order to get that misogynist fuck Kevin. Feeding that little shit to his dog was perfect revenge.

2. Christian Slater's Clarence Wurley in "True Romance" kills Gary Oldman's Drexl despite the fact that it ain't even white boy day. His slight, slacker, fanboy character rises to the occasion to set his wife Alabama (Patricia Arquette) free from the clutches of a predatory pimp.

1. Clive Owen's Theo in "Children of Men" is the most brilliant and inspired of all the male protectors on film precisely because not only does his character's ego receed while caring for Kee (Clare-Hope Ashitey) and her female messiah baby, he doesn't even resort to blazing weaponry and stylized violence. He relies on his wits and bravery in order to deliver woman and child to safety. Theo stymies both the tyrranical government and the violent controlling male revolutunaries who only look upon a pregnant woman as a symbol rather than a human being. I would rank him as my favourite male character on film.

Why put off making inaccurate predictions?

Every year enthusiasm informs my picks for the Academy Awards, and then hence, right as rain, I'm wrong.
Why break with tradition?

Best Picture:
"Slumdog Millionaire" seems to have been the underdog favourite with critics and audiences. It's a story of hope which taps into the zeitgeist of Obama's new administration.

Best Director:
Danny Boyle for the above.

Best Acting by Pussy-Bearers:
Anne Hathaway for "Rachel Getting Married."
She rocked. Fuck Kate Winslet.
I'm going with Penelope Cruz in "Vicky Cristina Barcelona" for the cheesecake factor. She was probably part of a threeway in the film, and the Academy loves a highbrow porn scenario. Makes 'em feel European.

Best Acting by Penis-Bearers:
Sean Penn's getting on my tits lately by acting like he deserves a fucking award just for playing a gay dude. I'm going with Mickey Rourke. Americans love a comeback.
No doubt the Oscar will go to suicide boy, but I'm hailing Robert Downey Jr. for his delicious turn in "Tropic Thunder." Also another comeback story.

UPDATE: Last year I held a contest with Anthony Lane's "Nobody's Perfect" (a collection of his film reviews and essays from the "New Yorker") for the person who scored the most correct picks. Fat Mammy Cat won it.
This year the prize will be a copy of Flannery O'Connor's novel "Wise Blood."
Someone needs to adapt it to the screen already.

Jean Shrimpton was on every single magazine cover in 1965.
I covet her hairdo!

After reading an interview in "Bust" with Amber Tamblyn, I tried to find a preview clip of the new series she's in with Harold Perrineau and Adam Goldberg, because I'm always happy to read someone identify as a feminist, so I wanted to check out her work.
I couldn't find anything for "The Unusuals," but I did find this clip to the delightfully campy programme "The Ghost Writer" that Tony Perkins did back in 1990.
Holy Shit!
You must watch it.

It's hard to keep up with all the scary new twists and turns in the horror show that we know as compulsory femininity. Since I don't have children, I often forget how early the indoctrination begins. This article talks about the new "empowerment" marketing angle directed at the tween demographic, which I take to mean girls who have yet to reach menarche or her teens. Any feminist will give you the gimlet eyed view that marketing and advertising have long since sniffed out how they could sell shit to women by dressing products up as channeling empowerment or liberation. The only thing new here is that now they're selling handbags, perfume and dolls which are magically imbued with "positive values" to little girls. It's a step away from the hyper-sexualization of girls in recent years, but it still reminds them that they should learn to be devoted consumers of trendy shit at an early age, as well as the idea that self-esteem is a commodity that you can only possess if you have the currency to purchase the right accessory.

This video clip features an interview with Daisy Cook, the woman responsible for the Rebelle Girlz Friendship Bags, as pictured above. She shills the bags as a wholesome alternative for girls.

Among the choice quotes:

"What do girls want to do at the end of the day?"

"They want to gab and talk about fashion."

Yep! Girls have cotton candy for brains!
Cook laments the fact that there was no specific purse aimed at the tween market, and characterizes the lack of choice for girls as leaving them lusting after $125 Coach bags. Cook says it's wrong for girls to want the luxury bags so she stepped in to give them the more appropriate $40 accessory.
The real question is: why the fuck do girls need a purse?
Children need a schoolbag to carry books, writing implements, some change and their lunch.
That's it.
Can't we at least wait until adolescence before we start shouting at girls to femme the fuck up?
Cook's horrific bags may as well have "I have a vagina" plastered on them in a mettalic appliqué.

Also, what lesson does this "friendship" bag impart to girls?
It tells them that you can't really have a best friend unless you can afford to pay $40 to visually solidify your amity to the public with the hideous fucking purse.
Bonding's gonna cost you, sweetie!


Then there's C-Thru Fragrances
Girls can discover that their true personality is but one of three types represented by some cloying stanky scent, for sure.

All of the folks marketing to children should be whipped and shunned.

Go have a look at the nominations for this year's Irish Blog Awards.

Thanks a bunch for nominating me in *oh my* three categories!

It's killing me that I can't go this year unless some sort of miracle happens.

Congratulations to all the nominees!

"Odds Against Tomorrow" (1959) mixes the "message movie" with the caper/heist genre but so unconvincingly for each half that in the end it falls flat. There are hints at brilliance at times, say when Harry Belafonte's character Johnny confronts his ex regarding the "offay" crowd she works with in the PTA while blinded to the reality of larger race relations in America, which amount to "it's their world and we're just livin' in it." She counters that she's trying to make the world habitable for their girl, in what amounts to two mainstream responses to life under Jim Crow. Johnny sings in a jazz club (his song "What's Your Daddy Done" is a zinger) but carries a large gambling debt to some bookie mob-boss type. Ed Begley's Dave calls the stylish young man to his mouldy apartment to ask him in for one job with a big payday robbing a bank of its weekly payroll upstate. Johnny tells him bank jobs "are for junkies and joyboys" and wants none of it. At the same time, Dave recruits an angry aging vet Earle (Robert Ryan) for the job.

Earle's character is an utterly repugnant shit stain.

He's irascible, cruel, racist and burdened with the worldview that his worth as a man is measured by his desire and ability to achieve financial success. The world owes his white ass a fine living.

There's a scene where his girlfriend Lorry (Shelley Winters) leaves a note asking him to pick up one of her dresses at the drycleaner's; he savages the note and pours a big bitter drink.

He can barely tolerate walking home with it before stopping in a pub for a boilermaker.

There's no mistaking that his rage in the scene stems from feelings of emasculation at having to do something as servile as picking up a piece of laundry. Yep, touch that plastic garment bag and your peen will fall right off.

Periodically, Earle chews and spits out words like "pickaninny" and "nigger" without compunction.

Gloria Grahame shows up for no discernable reason other than to give us a new angle on Earle's predatory nature.

It kills him to see Johnny in his camel hair topcoat and tailored clothes.

Backed into a corner over his debt, Johnny agrees to the heist.

*Spoiler*

"Odds Against Tomorrow" has a confoundingly bleak ending.

When the robbery goes sour, Earle and Johnny have a shootout that takes them to the top of an oil tank at a refinery.

It and they blow up.

Their bodies pulled from the wreckage, the ambulance guy asks "which is which?"

The cop can't tell him.

Cut to a sign on the lot reading "Stop. Dead End" was no less subtle than when Spike Lee used it in "School Daze" and "Do the Right Thing."

What will the viewer make of such an ending when the moral centre and the villain receive the same punishment?

Is it saying that racial animosity destroys us all, rendering any differences of no practical significance? Is all hate bad, even when you despise someone who effectively erases your humanity?

I didn't expect an Old Testament smite at the end.

Nancy Franklin's review of "The United States of Tara" for the New Yorker locates a mixed potential for what the new show about a woman with dissociative identity disorder is supposed to mean exactly:

"There’s a rationale for each alter, but I don’t really know what the show as a whole is up to—whether each of Tara’s alters is meant to be seen as a missing part of her, or whether the show is a tableau vivant illustrating that it is the lot of all human beings to have their needs unmet, and that even united states are imperfect unions. Or perhaps “Tara” just is what it is: a story about a woman with D.I.D., period. The three alters are broad stereotypes, but Collette makes the moments of transition surprisingly touching, and sometimes subtly comic. Her ability to transform herself extends even to her physique: when she’s Tara, her head seems delicate, wedge-shaped; when she’s Buck, it’s a blocky oblong. Collette is impressively convincing, even though I’m not entirely sure what I’m being convinced of."

After watching the first episode, I'd say Franklin overlooks the obvious bottom line from the way in which Diablo Cody's project delights in painting women with the crazy brush. That's what we're supposed to get from this series: the wimminz be psycho! Tara's children are chagrined by their unstable mom, just as the husband gets to be the long-suffering saintly type whose patience is constantly tested by the wackaloon wife. The premise hyper-embellishes the popular belief already firmly in place within society taking as a given that women routinely go bonkers once a month, or during an extended period for menopause, while making the rest of the family miserable. We're told that Tara transfers into one of her three other personalities when she's stressed out.
Yes! Because women can't handle stress without pathology!
Although the triggers for her transformation seem plausible (she becomes "T," a slutty 15 year old after finding a script for the morning after pill, which is odd, because if her daughter Kate did get and take the pills, why would she still have it? Then she becomes her only male "alter," Buck after seeing Kate get roughed up by her goth boyfriend), the suspension of disbelief becomes impossible by the end of the episode. Tara says that she designs beautiful spaces for women with too much money, so obviously she would be expected to be at their beck and call morning and night, yet she apparently has lots of free time during which her alters can take over, get in costume and turn the house upside down.
How likely is it that the mayor's wife would pick such an unpredictable and temperamental designer for her nursery?
"The United States of Tara" shits all over working mothers and it's far-fucking-fetched.

That said, Toni Collette is a powerhouse in this and is endlessly likeable.
I'll watch at least another episode to see her run with it.

This report in "The Star" explains that Robert Edwards filed a complaint with the Toronto school board for having students read Margaret Atwood's "The Handmaid's Tale."

Check the out his concern for women:

"Edwards filed a formal compliant with the Toronto District School Board before the Christmas holidays, arguing that while the futuristic theme of the book is acceptable, its focus on 'sex, brutal situations, murder, prostitution' is not.
The book 'is rife with brutality towards and mistreatment of women (and men at times), sexual scenes, and bleak depression,' Edwards said in a letter to the school's principal. 'I can't really understand what it is my son is supposed to be learning from this fictional drivel.'
'I have a major problem with a curriculum book that cannot be fully read out loud in class, in front of an assembly, directly to a teacher, a parent, or, for that matter, contains attitudes and words that cannot be used by students in class discussion or hallway conversation. Let alone a description of situations that must be embarrassing and uncomfortable to any young woman in that class – and probably the young men, too.'"

Students are learning about the scope of patriarchy when they delve into Atwood's brilliant novel. It's a cautionary tale, no less so than "1984" or "Brave New World," only a society which values women as incubators and therefore enslaves women as wombs-for-rent hardly seems all that far removed from the present climate of third world surrogates and virginity cults.

Edwards offers a specious argument in objecting to the book on the basis that it couldn't be read aloud or that students are not permitted to use similarly explicit language. There's no shortage of folks who would enthusiastically stage a reading for him in order to demonstrate that *gasp* it certainly can be read out loud in public. The teens are also well aware that language cannot be separated from context. They are no more likely to wander the halls speaking like Offred or any other Atwood character than they are one of Shakespeare's. Teens are not simpleminded parrots. There's far more value in reading "The Handmaid's Tale" than in the "Great Gatsby" for shit's sake. A gripping feminist parable trumps how to suck up the the rich and selfish.

The question isn't why we should have students read Atwood's novel, but rather why all the hand wringing and spurious claims to "protecting" delicate sensibilities?

What really makes folks uncomfortable is the ugly dehumanization within patriarchy laid bare.

Petty paternalism can fuck right off.

Found this out walking the dogs yesterday.

It's on the back of a Tim Horton's.

While the coffee chain's presence supposedly improves the value of the homes in the 'hood, it feels like a menace with all the noise and traffic it brings, not to mention the litter.

Cars pull in an out without any regard for folks perambulating on the sidewalk.

One day I'm doing to drag one of them from behind the wheel and pour the coffee square in their face.

Dinner prep music extraordinaire

I'd have happily been in a Mick Jones-Don Letts sandwich.

Yum.

This recent feature in the Toronto Star is one of many circulating out there in an attempt to claim a new trend in french braids and prim attire based on the FLDS polygamist cult scandals and the HBO show "Big Love."

Look, oppression is fashionable!

I'm not buying the idea that women are looking to emulate those held captive and subordinate in the most retrograde domestic arrangement patriarchy devised. Just because some non-blinking women choose to embrace their inferior status and become members of some dude's pussy posse, it doesn't erase the fact that they're still really brainwashed victims.

Women at large are not sighing and fantasizing about being in a mormon's long shapeless smocks.

Those intricate braids are impossible to do on your own, and are therefore impractical for those of us who are not imprisoned with a bunch of other women in need of some non-threatening creative outlet. French braids serve as a symbol for the repression of women's sexual agency in my mind's eye. They are a sign of control, order, containment. There's also a smidgen of infantilization going on in that coiffure. We've all squirmed as our mothers put braids in our hair to tame the mane as children, so I'm having a hard time believing that any adult woman wants to return to that sort of hair harassment.

I have yet to see a woman walking down the street resembling the FLDS hostages.

And as far as "Big Love" goes, I have not even a scintilla of interest in watching that patriarchal boink fantasy wherein the poor patriarch is beset by three scheming wives.

Especially after reading about the casting sessions, which required the women to rub up and down on Bill Paxton in order to see how far they would go to get the horndog and hence the viewers aroused. Unless you've already done that like Chloe by cock gobbling onscreen.

I'll take a pass on all of it.

We've done the minimalist camping at home deal 5 out of the 8 times we've moved.

You know, where you have to wait until the movers show up with all your shit so you live in an empty house for a week.

Then there were the two years that I lived in another city away from Mr. M doing the coursework for the Ph.D. and had a shitty basement apartment furnished with only a futon, desk, and computer.

And yes, we've had power outages in the past.

But there's nothing quite as unpleasant as 24 hours of having no heat, electricity or hot water when the temperature drags down to an unforgivable -20C.
Most of the West side of Toronto lost power at 10pm on Thursday night after a flood at the local station. When I took the dogs out at midnight, folks were walking the streets with flashlights because not even the moon made a dent in the murky darkness that enveloped this half of the city.
Thankfully Mr. M has three different bike lamps so we had something to read with and maneuver around the house. I'm not one of those women who hoards and takes a delight in candles, so I could only find 4 of them scattered about, one of which was broken in half. They make such a mess, and if you have pets crashing around then candles are only a fire hazard. (Plus I've come to associate them with all the stressed out women who place them strategically in a desperate bid to appear as the perfect host while I'm served food I can't eat. Candles register a preoccupation with surface over substance with me at this point).

Yesterday I slogged for over an hour to get to a market after giving up on waiting for a shuttle bus since the subway was down. The germophobe in me wouldn't trust the chicken after so many hours without power. Police were directing traffic at every major intersection and were also highly visible on patrol to guard against looting, I suppose. Who's going to loot in this fucking weather? Your hands and feet would crackle and shatter in the process. My ugly gloves are so thick and cumbersome that I have to take them off in order to manage any move of dexterity as simple as unhooking a dog's leash. No good for picking up piles of gold chains.

Still, we were lucky. We had two down comforters and the dogs on the bed for warmth. We're able to flush our toilets without power (not so for the condo dwellers) and I could light a burner on the stove with a match to make tea.
When power was restored last night after ten, we peeled off the comical layers and yelled woo-hoo.

Don't you love when you catch the source of what a later writer or director "borrows" from without mention? For instance, a while back I was watching an old film from classic cinema and caught the line that Quentin Tarantino used to great acclaim in his screenplay for "True Romance" during Alabama's opening voice over which intones some folkism like "that's the way it goes, but remember: it goes the other way, too." Since I forgot to write it the fuck down, the title of the original film to use it escapes me at the moment, yet rest assured that the shit was lifted directly from another writer.

Such is the case for "The Hand" (1981) a funny, cheesy and even fairly scary picture with Michael Caine starring as a cartoonist who loses his drawing hand in a grisly auto accident. His mid-life crisis mushrooms at the loss of the primary limb as well as his wife who's distancing herself into some new age cultish shit because her husband thought that her highest ambition was to sit around listening to him talk about work with the dudes. His inner crisis transfers itself into a psychotic break built upon the conviction that his missing hand has reanimated itself in order to seek revenge on those who have betrayed him. There's also an interesting suggestion that one can use psychological categories of dysfunction as both a convenient anodyne and as an excuse to relieve the moral or ethical consequences of one's actions. The psyche or brain takes over to do the dirty work that our id craves and from which our superego recoils. We hear some version of this everyday in patriarchy in terms of the defense claiming "he just snapped" or "he couldn't help himself" when some dude murders or molests a victim.
It's simply an alibi for not having any impulse control.
Anyway, there's a pivotal scene where he encounters the lost hand and they battle to the death that is blatantly stolen by Sam Raimi in "Evil Dead 2."

My stomach turns.

I just watched the first twenty minutes of the ABC show "What Would You Do?"
The programme's premise calculates how people respond in an ethically questionable scenario.
In this episode, the producers have two actors out at a pub staging their first date.

The man drugs his date's drink when she steps away from the bar, and all the patrons remain quiet even when she begins to exhibit a reaction to what has been put in her glass.

The embedded clip recognizes some dude who confronts the guy as the stand up citizen, but he never actually intervened to tell the woman what was happening, he confined the truth of what he saw to the predator and not the victim.
Plus it was shocking that his wife was telling him to shup up the entire time.

Only one woman in the second half of the segment warns the woman that her date has drugged the wine. All of the others tell her merely to get a new drink when she starts having a reaction. No one else points out his criminal behaviour.

My jaw was on the floor.

There's also a clear difference in how patrons reacted when the young woman was dressed "demurely" versus when she's later in a cleavage-bearing mini dress.
You know, because if you wear anything revealing, then you're just asking to be raped.
The idea that men can openly prey on women without interference or being challenged is not feminist paranoia, it's the fucking reality of living in a rape culture.
When two dudes see him dropping in the powder when she's scantily clad, their only objection is to another dude on the way out, with one commenting that "he cheated."
The plan to drug and rape a woman isn't a crime, it's just some tricky short-cut to getting what he has coming to him.

The word "rape" was not uttered once during the programme.

The legendary infighting among feminists can be healthy, and then at times it can just make you gasp in exasperation.

Ms. Magazine's editor Eleanor Smeal counters yesterday's feminist blogger objection to Obama on the cover issue over at the Huffington Post by noting:

"When the chair of the Feminist Majority Foundation board, Peg Yorkin, and I met Barack Obama, he immediately offered "I am a feminist." And better yet, he ran on the strongest platform for women's rights of any major party in American history. Feminist Karen Kornbluh, the platform's principle author, ensured women's rights, opportunities, advancement, and issues were addressed throughout the historic document."

Ms. and many others are celebrating that we have the first U.S. President to self-identify as a feminist in office.

Ever.

Never mind the fact that he's a dude.

The idea that only women are able to be included in feminism has always seemed like simply reinscribing the political and social ghetto we know as "women's issues" in the civic spirit and discourse.

How the fuck are we ever going to put an end to patriarchy if we don't ask men to step up and be held accountable for the unethical division of labour and power by gender?

I expect men to be at the very least pro-feminism if they want me to regard them as bearing a moral compass.

We invest far too deeply in the arbitrary and artificially imposed categories of gender.

Welcome Obama to the table.

This ad campaign to stop the fur trade from IndyAct borrows a page from PETA's misogynistic playbook wherein the fate and well-being of animals is prized over that of women.

Women covered in blood as "teh sexy predators," for real.

Animals have access to more dignity than the femmebots pictured.

Call me crazy, but "The Dark Night" was rubbish.

I knew when I sat down to watch it that I was not the target audience.
Even so, I didn't think it was made for spastic 15 year old boys with ADHD who needed a diversion before they next wank it.
There was absolutely no narrative flow to the story.
Scenes cut jarringly from eruptive action sequences to what little character development they decided to offer.
Christian Bale in the suit was giving his version of Clint Eastwood's military man in "Heartbreak Ridge," with that incessant, growling, machismo-whisper. It also seemed as though he wouldn't let his lips touch his teeth for some reason.
And enough about Heath Ledger.
How can anyone credit the Joker with any nuance or real human scope?
The dude came off as a ham-fisted, static cartoon character.
Rolling your tongue and neck around isn't exactly a stretch for a crazy dude.
He was like an outsized Men's Right's Activist in grease-paint who wanted to bitch about how tough shit was for dudes and the rotten bitch who left him.
*Yawn*
Honestly, this did not seem like a movie for adults.
The whole bit with the coin made a pedestrian Philosophy 101 take on fate and agency, or at best it reeked of repeating the trope from "No Country for Old Men."
Bah.
The dialogue was hackneyed. All of the actors couldn't get me to care less.
Yes, I will invoke the "P" word.
In Gotham, male privilege in patriarchy means that dudes can rationalize any and all behaviour while they live in a lonely, isolated world separated from any real or meaningful relationships, especially with women. Women are just the plot points who either help or hinder their personal development.
Dudes can live out their adulthood as stunted adolescents who never have to give up the toys and grow up.
I need a little bit more from escapist films.

Kima and Omar are one year old today!

They've come a long way since their first day with us.

This clip of Whitney Casey hawking her book "The Man Plan" ranks her as the lap cat of the patriarchy du jour. Even though one of the hosts tells us that 54% of American women are single, the always already assumption is that they're unhappy about it and need to land a man as soon as possible. Advice on how to trap a man gets just as old in the new year as the diet mania. We can't have women thinking that they have a right to live out their lives without a man to give them meaning and purpose.

Check out the book description on amazon:
"While it’s great to suggest that a woman shouldn’t have to conform to unreasonable expectations of perfection in order to attract a guy and keep him, the reality in the dating world is somewhat different. Men are tactile, visual, and visceral, and a spectrum of factors—from the way a woman orders wine to the pictures she has next to her bed to how often she shaves—can be enough to turn a guy off…permanently.With The Man Plan, relationship columnist Whitney Casey shares with women what men really think on a variety of issues, from the way women dress to how they take care of their cars. Including the opinions of a cross section of single men—as well as such notable personalities as Joel Osteen, P. Diddy, and Dr. Laura Berman—The Man Plan helps women identify the little issues that can make a big impression."

So in other words, it's perfectly reasonable for women to have to conform to men's expectations for female perfection in order to land and keep a man. Only male tastes matter. Women should evaluate and police every move they make so that they always please men. If women fail to be femmebot fuck toys, they risk getting cast off by a man for insignificant infractions, from ordering incorrectly to not being appropriately hairless in the right places. Casey talks to lots of men (including godbags and failed rappers) and women who hate other women just so that we're sure that we're up to date on male opinion. What else matters but what men think?

If hard pressed to name my favourite film, "All About Eve" would certainly be at the top of the list. This scene makes my toes tingle.
I wanna be Bette Davis every time I see it.

There's a whole lotta woo and fuckery behind the marketing of moisturizers.
We all know this.
Mr. M's reading Ben Goldacre's "Bad Science" now and flippantly read this out to me as I was fixing dinner the other night:
"I can very happily view posh cosmetics--and other forms of quackery--as a special, self-administered, voluntary tax on people who don't understand science properly."
I had my fingers in my ears while la-la-la-ing.

My new wonder jar is "Egyptian Magic," which is not at all expensive and feels like a kiss from Isis on your face. I've been using it as a night cream. They say you can use it on your hair even although I'm wary of new products in the tangle on my head.

“The only sticking point is how hard it is to believe that Medea would fall for such a worm in the first place. Jason seems like some kind of Hellenic John McCain, a rank opportunist who made his name by hooking up with the right woman. Maybe her biggest humiliation came not from his betrayal and her subsequent imposed exile, but in the knowledge that she threw over her position and family for such an unworthy shit-stain. Euripides offers a cautionary tale for women, which tells them not to burn all of their bridges for a man, because he’s likely to simply throw you over when it suits him.” All that and more I said to the husband on the walk home from the matinee of “Medea.”

Seana McKenna imbued the classic tragic figure with the warmth, humour and grace that would stymie even the best actors out there. It’s no small feat to make a child killer sympathetic, yet she masters the role by embracing all of the gallows humour in the indignity of being the cast-off woman. McKenna fills the stage with a huge wig of wild locks and voluminous cloak to make the out-sized emotions of her character palpable. Medea is the woman wronged writ large. She had deceived her father and killed her brother in order to get Jason the fucking Golden Fleece for his quest, hence leaving her position as a chosen daughter in her own land. More than once she saved his ass; he repays her by marrying Creon’s daughter once they settle in Corinth. The production underscored the ambivalent connotation behind the claim to “civilization” from the beginning, in the idea that Jason can characterize his relationship with Medea as only a “barbarian match,” therefore easily null and void, as opposed to a proper Greek marriage to Creon’s daughter. The irony rests in the idea of the civilized world as a place where one can banish wife and sons to a life of penury and ignominy just so that a dude can marry well. From the local women and the higher-ups, Medea is feared and pitied for her knowledge and power. Nothing marginalizes a woman as quickly as being labelled a witch. The Greek women counsel Medea to respond with blessings on the newlyweds rather than retribution, which invites another interpretation into the cracks of so-called civilization. Medea makes it plain that she’s no meek Greek woman ready to eat a plate of shit with a smile on her face.

My favourite bit of stage direction came when Medea’s servant returned to regal her mistress with the details about how the princess received those golden “gifts .” McKenna coiled herself up at her life-long caretaker’s feet in a snake-like pose, where she gave the illusion of returning to her girlhood, before all this ugly business began. It was also a physical cue to emphasize how the emotive basis of revenge and anger twists us up into ourselves. You don’t really share this type of hate for another; you swallow it and hold it closer than your own breath.

When she stretched out her blood-drenched hands at the end, I felt faint.

If Joan Holloway were a private detective, she’d resemble Anne Francis’ titular character Honey West from the 1965 television show produced by Aaron Spelling. The dvd collection includes the 30 episodes from the sole season, and serves as filler for my “Mad Men” addiction, for the impossibly stylish West wears gorgeous apparel from the era while handily stomping on the bad guys. “Bitch” magazine’s recent issue had a glowing review about the show, saying that the protagonist donned a cat suit a full year before Emma Peel showed up in “The Avengers.” Honey West was the first American woman action star on television. She runs her own detective agency, has an assistant Sam who doesn’t try to usurp her authority or command, and she also has a pet ocelot named Bruce. Yes, an ocelot! In the second episode it’s lying in bed with her gnawing on her arm.
Here’s a summary for the first episode:
In the opening scene, the camera tracks Honey walking alone in a dark alley where she’s making a drop off, only the dudes double cross her by taking the 50Gs she’s brought and knock her out; Sam the assistant comes round after the violence subsides. The next scene cuts to a meeting with Honey’s client, an aging widow who’s being blackmailed by a younger man who seduced her and took pictures. The older woman's afraid the demand for money will never end. Honey remembers a dude in the alley striking a match to light a cigarette, goes back to find the book of matches from a resort, and then books herself in as a wealthy married woman. A bunch of dudes and one of their mamas run a scam by preying on vulnerable women with money. In a poolside scene, she’s sipping a martini when a waiter appears to bring her morning coffee and paper. Martinis before breakfast! Even “Mad Men” waits for some toast and coffee.

Honey has plenty of Bond-esque gadgets at her disposal, such as a powder compact doubling as a walkie-talkie, martini olives bugged with listening devices, and a set of pearl earrings which release tear gas when thrown. She even uses the trappings of compulsory femininity to her advantage, when for example, in the second episode, she’s abducted and uses her high heels to break a window and escape. It’s clear that Honey has some legitimate martial arts moves, so it’s strange to see a more than obvious body double at the end of the first episode in a sparring match. It’s as obvious as the stunt doubles they used for Shatner in the original “Star Trek.”

Overall, the writing is tight and smart with engaging plots. Honey West was way ahead of her time. While the rest of American women were trapped in the problem that has no name, she was her own woman, kicking ass and solving crimes. Brilliant!

The room was spinning.

Was I really hearing this?

From a woman:

"Have you ever known a woman that you would approve of marrying a man that you really cared about? C'mon, would you really want to sic any woman on a man you loved?"

Behind me, at the very same moment from a man:

"Working with women is the worst. They are awful. Get ten of them in a room together and it's like a war zone."

Gawker had a link to The Hood Watch who snapped and posted a series of pics taken at the abandoned set of "The Wire."

This one shows the dilapidated state of the former homicide detective's office.

Where's Bunk? And Kima?

I'm watching my favourite, the fourth season again, and seeing these photos of the skeletal set just sucks.

Wah.

Movie, please.

Go and cast your picks for the Irish Blog Awards before voting closes on January 14th.

This Spanish PSA uses the faces of women to remind the public that "there is a new case of gender related violence every second."

After watching the ad, I read the Spanish PM, José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero's address in the special "The World in 2009" issue of The Economist.
The second paragraph begins with an appeal for the veracity of liberal values:

"In these times, facing despondency, we should be aware of the enormous potential for our values: passion for freedom, a constitutional state, respect for human rights, tolerance, equality between men and women, recognition of diversity, the deepening of solidarity both inside and outside our borders."

The next paragraph outlines a commitment to eradicating poverty and to protecting the marginalized and the victims of violence.
I've been a fan of Zapatero's ever since reading this interview in Time where he identified himself as a feminist. Check it out:

"YOU'RE SAID TO HATE MACHISMO. WHY?
I'm not just antimachismo, I'm a feminist. One thing that really awakens my rebellious streak is 20 centuries of one sex dominating the other. We talk of slavery, feudalism, exploitation, but the most unjust domination is that of one half of the human race over the other half. The more equality women have, the fairer, more civilized and tolerant society will be. Sexual equality is a lot more effective against terrorism than military strength. "

Sniff. It brings a tear to my eye to hear a man acknowledging the real material conditions of power in the world.

Fritz Lang's "The Big Heat" (1953) is one of the lesser known gems of the original film noir cycle, primarily because it lays bare the violence against women that existed comfortably and without question in the mob scene. Although dudes may have looked dapper or charming in their suits in the Omerta underworld, the idea that they reserved the brutal retaliations for only other men (as popularized in Mario Puzzo's saga) stands as deceptive revisionism. Mob bosses were and are no less informed by patriarchy and male privilege than any other dude group with power. Romanticizing their relationships with women doesn't change the fact that the patriarch owned the family as property, and when bitches got uppity, there were violent consequences.
*Spoilers*
In "The Big Heat," Glenn Ford's cop character Bannion investigates the mob boss, and in order to punish him, the syndicate chief plants a bomb in his car, blowing up Bannion's wife played by Jocelyn Brando (yes, she's HIS sister). There's a minor show of hand wringing that the wife was killed instead of the cop, yet it fades quickly. What brings Bannion to the case in the first place is the heinous torture and murder of one of the club girls by a young Lee Marvin in a turn as a cruel henchman. He stamps a cigar out on another woman's hand. Later, he attacks his girlfriend (the glorious Gloria Grahame) with a pot of boiling coffee in the face for speaking to Bannion behind his back. It makes Cagney's grapefruit-in-the-face gesture seem almost quaint by comparison. The scene plays out in the clip above.
"The Big Heat" is arguably the first major studio production to unveil the systemic misogyny and violence against women in American culture.

Andi Zeisler's Feminism and Pop Culture takes a cue from Susan J Douglas' study of girls and women in the media of the baby boom generation, Where The Girls Are, by taking note of the Janus faced nature of popular culture in transmitting conventional gender roles and stereotypes while also at the same time serving as the catalyst for feminist politics. Women in the audience never recognized themselves in the wooden matriarchs of McCarthy-era sit coms such as Donna Reed or June Cleaver and wanted more scope in their own lives as well as who they viewed on television. Zeisler's estimation of the relationship between women and the entertainment industry spans the post WWII era. If I were to construct a Feminism 101 curriculum, this would certainly be featured on the reading list. If you're a seasoned feminist, much of this is familiar territory, but there's still enough fresh analysis to make it worth your time. The small bone I'd pick is that she covers the women in film noir in two scant paragraphs, openly dismissing the characters and plot lines of any subversive content, when really, there's a substantial body of feminist scholarship devoted to the genre for its gender renegades and rebellious content. That's a minor quibble bourn of my own love for the original cycle of noir films in the 40s and 50s.

Zeisler's at her best when she gives a comprehensive summary of the bullshit myth about bra burning; how Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie teased out men's anxieties about powerful women; what kind of changes altered Wonder Woman from her original inception; how Roseanne Connor changed women on television; a serious evaluation of the revenge flick fad such as I Spit on Your Grave; also the transition from Riot Grrrl to Girl Power is deftly covered.

She's the co-founder of Bitch magazine, so if you're already familiar with Zeisler's writing, this is an extended version of the snappy prose she crafts for the periodical.

Highly recommended.

Check out this interview with William Hurt about his role in the second season of "Damages" which premiers tomorrow night.

On one hand, he sounds like a pompous old codger who's a bit sniffy about lowering his star to the small screen. Hurt slams the rapid production schedule and last minute changes involved for its lack of ability to "consider" the character and plot. He sounds like a jerkface with back handed compliments for the show.

And how about his comparison of acting to "the law of visible moisture"?

He explains:

"That sometimes, latent humidity doesn’t become visible moisture until there’s a particulate in the air to which it can attach. So, if there’s a fine dust, for instance, in the air, you will have the moment when the latent humidity in the air catalyzes into visible moisture. What happens is, the H2O molecule latches onto the particle of dust and that starts the chain reaction, by which clear air becomes foggy air. Or cloudy. Or water itself that falls out of the sky. And I’m not really an artist until I have something to attach myself to. An idea or a concept. I know it sounds like parasitism, but it’s not. It’s just that I don’t exist, really, as an artist until I’m doing something."

What kind of fuckity-fuck weed is he smoking?

Doesn't he sound like a windbag?

Although by the end of it I forgave him for his self-importance because it is refreshing to read an interview with an actor that doesn't sound as though it's been filtered by an agent or studio, plus he's trying to be thoughtful, and the dude can put a sentence together.

Also, his performance as Macon Leary in "The Accidental Tourist" ranks as one of my all-time favourites.

Nothing like getting heavy doses of cute as well as disgusting in under an hour.

Leading Omar out of the exam room, I watched some dude with the incredibly adorable kitteh he had just adopted. As we waited for Omar's meds, I looked over to see the guy biting the kitteh on the side. A grown man nomming and he wasn't the least bit bashful about it. A few minutes later he filled a paper cup from the cooler and the furball was drinking from it!

I could have passed flat out in a diabetic coma, it was that sweet.

Cut to:

Omar's home, coaxed into taking the pills, he eats his daily fried egg, and then abruptly regurgitates them across two separate piles in the kitchen and dining room.

It was my own version of Renton diving in the shitter for the opium pills.

I sifted through his puke to see if the tablets were there because going out every four hours so that he can squeeze out some soft -serve ice cream poo is no fun at all.

Among the eggs, kibble and dog treats was a swath of some sort of fabric or fucking cheese cloth.

He will eat anything.

Last week he swallowed a sizeable chunk of frozen cat food in the park and had trouble breathing.

He's a fucking nutter.

Omar's now at the stage where he lifts his leg when he whizzes.

Although it's not official until next week, he's no longer a puppy.

Kima's another type of crazy all her own.

We're lucky to have them.

The NYT has an article about Dominican immigrants in NYC procuring misoprostol and other drugs to induce a miscarriage. It strikes me as racist and other-izing since what they're really talking about is a scenario that all women have dealt with under patriarchy. Shit, there were even advertisements for emmenagogues (potions to bring on your period) or ads for elixirs captioned with warnings about how it would end a pregnancy that flourished in the 19th century press. It was all code for "take this if you want to end a pregnancy."



When I was young and poor, I collected the anecdotal and written advice for how to get your period going, just like all the women I knew. What's at issue is the regularity of a woman's menstrual cycle, not what may be growing in her womb. Not every woman starts knitting booties when there's a chance she's pregnant. I remember going in to work a shift waiting tables when I was 18 and telling an older woman on staff that I was a few days late. She ordered me into the kitchen and had one of the cooks make me a large carrot/beet/cucumber juice, while telling me that I'd be fine because it was so early. During clean-up at the end of the shift, I got my period and sighed heavily. I didn't know whether I was pregnant or not and then it didn't matter. The NYT attempts to make the Dominican women look backward for seeking their own solution to unwanted pregnancy, but really, what is so strange about wanting to be able to take control over the situation cheaply and privately? It's easy to understand why women such as Amalia Dominguez want to avoid all the public scrutiny and judgment for going to an abortion clinic. Who wouldn't rather take a handful of pills to end a pregnancy than have to endure a traditional abortion? The negative side effects and consequences attached to abortifacients could be avoided by making all forms of contraception cheap and over the counter, same for the morning after pill. The UK program to have the birth control pill available without a prescription sounds wonderful step in helping women to gain bodily sovereignty.

Is it too early to be excited about "Star Trek XI"?
It's due in May.
Watch the trailer.
Fab!

There's plenty to hate about "The Other Boleyn Girl."

The near absence of any accent from Scarlett Johansson (but yore my sistah!) and her inability to raise her voice above a whisper had me gritting my teeth early on. Speak the fuck up already.

It features leaden embarrassing dialogue such as "the art of being a woman is getting what you want from men by making them think they're in charge";"The Queen no longer bleeds"; "A man's love is worthless." My dogs could write better lines.

Then there's the gratuitous rape scene. And the later invitation to incest.

I've never read Philippa Gregory's novel which the film is based upon, but it offers a really dangerous historical revisionism, all but exonerating Henry for being a misogynist fuck face.

The break from Rome along with ending his marriage to Catharine and throwing her into exile was all Anne's fault.

We're supposed to chalk up national instability and religious schism to a scheming woman?

Are you shitting me?

"The Other Boleyn Girl" contains a replete catalogue of reasons why women are subhuman cunts in patriarchy. The "good woman" is a meek doormat who asks nothing from the man she loves and continues to love him even after he throws her over for her sister. When Henry says eat shit, she asks for more. Mary understands that her loftiest goal is to be a pleasing fuck toy above all else. The "bad woman" speaks her mind and suffers from placing too much value on her own life's worth. Anne won't be bought for the price of a necklace but wants the legal title of wife. She should have kept her ambitions low and not been a cocktease is what this ghastly film argues. The Henry wouldn't have had to establish his own religion and such.

He had no choice but to chop her harpy head off!

Come the fuck on, Ms. Gregory.

Henry used a long succession of women as cum dumpsters and incubators and then casually had them killed or exiled when it suited him. Why let him off the hook and make Anne the villain?

There's always a payday at hand for women who are eager to shit on other women.

This filth makes Harlequin romances look positively radical by comparison.

Two weeks ago, Mr. M was awarded a kinda prestigious EU Fellowship, so we're having a dinner pawtee to celebrate.

I've kept the menu simple.

A queso fundido will be served because *heck* it says fun right in there.

The butcher showed me this beautiful tenderloin from Baretta Ranch so I cut it into thick steaks. I'm into minimalist meat. When you have decent beef, all you need is fleur de sel, black pepper and a little worcestershire to just wet it down. Then I have some prawns the size of my fist marinated in fresh basil, tamari, and scotch bonnets minced for a kick.

I picked up some chocolate thing for afters.

One of the best opening scenes in the history of cinema.

You know what I hate most about the New Year tradition?

No, it's not waiting for an hour amidst the nasty throngs at the liquor store. It's all the fucking predictably hateful diet mania that bloats media airwaves. You can't take a breath in January without seeing a show, segment, article, advertisement or testimonial about how we all need to lose weight. I watched ten minutes of one of the most disingenuous versions of the formula before my head was ready to explode. Are you familiar with Channel 4's "Three Fat Brides, One Thin Dress" hosted by Gillian McKeith? I'm not sure how long ago they imported it for Canadian television, but wow. This is some seriously hateful shit. Gillian McKeith ranks on my list of lap cats of the patriarchy, for sure. She collects three engaged women and throws heaping amounts of scorn and humiliation on them for being overweight. But she's helping them! She physically recoils at the women forced to parade around in their underwear while the camera superimposes a rifle target scope on their midsections in a terribly blunt visual cue telling viewers fat needs to be eliminated. You'd have to be unconscious to miss such violent imagery placed on women's flesh. We get the message loud and clear: McKeith says that if you're fat you're better off dead. She will mortify, debase and bully the women just for the chance that they might get a fucking dress out of it. Whoopie! The dress holds more worth than the brides-to-be.

I'm waiting for the next execrable piece of programming to debut in 2009. Maybe an honest one will come along and just have women eat a plate of shit on television.