DATL Update

When I remember to come over here and check up on my forlorn little blog, you can bet your ass that I will delete comments which tell me I'm suffering from Angry Lesbian Syndrome or which place patriarchy inside quotation marks, as if to question the reality of its ugly imprint upon human history.

I'm not running a Feminism 101 blog and your education is not my responsibilty.
As no doubt your teachers told you: look it up.

*Update on the Update*
I decided to move from blogging as Medbh to using my real name.
There really was no need for the screen name.
I stand by what I've written.
I'm reviving Dante and the Lobster so that I can post as frequently as I like.
The Anti Room is still high on my priority list and I'm so excited about the site, but it's a large group blog and perish the thought that I would hog too much of the space.
Cheers, folks.

Bad Dreams

Spanish instructors used to say in class that it was a positive sign when you started dreaming in the language, as a normal part of language immersion.

Now I've started dreaming about the characters in my novel.

One elaborate scenario involved my namesake staging a moment of comeuppance for a racist regular customer at the pub where she used to tend bar in a flashback scene. The sweaty-pitted man made horrible cracks about the Chinese cook from a smug seat at the bar where he's perched over takeaway from a Chinese restaurant.

The patron taunts the cook with his 'superior' fare.

My protagonist suggests that he tell the dude in question that he's eating nutria, rather than duck. Since the racist dude can't read what's written on the box, the ruse has him fooled and he's repulsed by the wild rat meat in plum sauce. And then he leaves.

I woke up to curse my subconscious.

Dreams are a load of shite.

So Let it be Written; So Let it be Done

I write like
Margaret Atwood

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Manuel was rewarded with a comparison to James Joyce's writing style.
I plugged in the first paragraph of my novel and received the totally scientific analysis that I write close to Margaret Atwood's style.
Yes!
I'll take that as a compliment.

Every Woman Knows a Debbie Pelt

Debbie Pelt finally showed up in the fourth episode of True Blood's third season.
Played by Brit Morgan, she resembles so many bullies from my youth, with those bangs we used to call "wings" and the disposition of pure anger. She would think nothing of tearing off Sookie's head and pooping down her neck.

Debbie's far scarier than Mary Anne.

Movies I Never Wanna See

Dear dogs.
Girls are just like presents under the christmas tree.
One man beats her up, another, her saviour, is a gun for hire.
As long as she keeps up the baby talk about sparkly things, well, he'll stalk and protect her.
I need a lie down after that.

Mr. M Rides the Wicklow Mountains

Treme

Had I been a student in Creighton Bernette's (played by John Goodman) class when he dismissed the understanding of Kate Chopin's novel "The Awakening," as the first feminist novel, instructing the class to resist putting a narrow interpretation on it, to instead not "ghettoize" the novel with such constraints, which only limit its value and importance, I would have walked out in a huff. Dear dogs, I've heard professors say some stupid shit over the years, but this tops the list. Sure, buddy, Chopin's work is "important" and "universal" to you so therefore you can't paint it with the F brush and live with yourself. If a woman happens to write a brilliant book, gender vanishes into the ether. Lemme guess: she’s an honorary man. The novel’s protagonist Edna Pontellier does not choose or get to enjoy ‘spiritual growth’ as he puts it when she walks into the water to pull an Ophelia. Suicide is not an uplifting or positive ending, you jackass. Bernette's reading is even worse than that professor I had who argued in class that Melville's Bartleby was a Christ-figure. Yeah, asshole, he died for the sins of capitalism, is that it? Geez.

One of my minor beefs with "The Wire" was the small number of fleshed out women characters. David Simon sure has taken care of putting strong women in his programme about post-Katrina New Orleans. Khandi Alexander is riveting as pub-owner Ladonna Batiste-Williams. Hard to believe she was born in 1957. I'd have guessed she was in her late 30s. She has some of the best lines in the series, such as when she's writing the check to the undertaker, she leans against the crypt when he thanks her, puts her ear to the stone and says "sounds like every motherfucker up in there spinnin.'" In the first episode a patron asks why her marriage with Antoine went sour. “You want to know what went wrong? I married a god-damned musician. Ain’t no way to make that shit right.”Kim Dickens as Jannette Desautel just needed to catch a break, poor chef.Lucia Micarelli as Annie was so talented you wanted her to dump her loser boyfriend from the outset.The men onscreen were not nearly as likeable, save for Wendell Pierce as Antoine Batiste and Clarke Peters as Albert Lambreaux. Steve Zahn's Davis McAlroy comes off as a horn dog scumbag and the self-righteousness oozing from Goodman's Creighton was unbearable."Treme" is stellar television at any rate.

My Teeth Ache from the Sweetness

A shorter version of this commercial for the Shangri-la hotel chain has been featured on the network showing the Tour de France, which has glued Mr. M to the television as always.

The advert spot is a take on Jack London's story "To Build a Fire," only with a happy ending.

Yes, I wanna cuddle with a pack in the snow!

Can't Keep Up

Many women opt for boob jobs.
For others, it's botox or those injectibles that resemble silly putty in their cheeks.
I've been colouring my hair since forever.
I'll probably cave to the face lift in a decade.
The business of muliebrity is taxing, endless and often scary.
Now we have the advent of the circle eye contact lense, so we can look like dolls and cartoons.
Sufferin' succotash, I could weep.