The author fraternizes sensitively with fake flowers at the Summer Moon coffee shop on South First. Photo and sunglasses by Stingray.
â€¢ The Shulathon, which the astute reader will recall as having been scheduled to commence on or about March 1, will, barring some sudden climatic event, formally launch on Monday, March 5. This will give you slackers the whole weekend to finish up.
If you’re just joining us, my allusion is to the Experimental I Blame the Patriarchy Radical Feminist Literacy Program, or, in Oprah parlance, “book club meeting.” Our first, and possibly last, subject is to be Shulamith Firestone’s iconic 1970 delight, The Dialectic of Sex: The Case for Feminist Revolution. This post contains some preliminary remarks and features a comments section bulging with possible discussion topics.
I invite everyone to peruse at least the first chapter, which is short, and can be found here. I am confident you’ll agree that this shit is a hoot and a half, and am really looking forward to what I know will be brilliant and frustrating arguments.
Regarding the syllabus: I’m no visionary professor of feminist studies (or of anything else), so in my ham-fisted way I figure we can just start with the aforementioned Chapter One and take it from there. If anyone has a better idea, which contingency I suspect is not at all remote, by all means put it forth in the comments.
â€¢ Once again I gotta cry uncle re: your email correspondence. I am beholden to everyone who has taken the time to send in a blame-worthy link over the past couple of weeks, but I have fallen hopelessly behind, and have reluctantly come to the conclusion that there’s no way I’ll be able to respond to them all. It is my fervent hope that you will grant me amnesty if I vow to keep current in the future (as it were).
Which is not to say that I’m imposing a linkage moratorium. Au contraire! I rely on you to keep those cards and letters coming.
â€¢ Since these remarks seem to have taken on the tone of a general address, I hope you won’t mind if I take a moment to wipe a tear of gratitude from the Twisty eye and congratulate you members of the commentariat on your high-calibre blaming of late. Your contributions to the discourse have made patriarchy-blaming more enjoyable — you know, in a hideous sort of way — than I had ever imagined possible. I wish I could make each of you a taco.
But of course the great diversity of your kooky individual dietary requirements makes that impossible.