I admit it. I am a blogger in name only, at least for a while longer. The move to the Faster country seat is taking longer than previously anticipated, and further complications have complicated things. I dislike complication, and am not taking it well. At this juncture, no tub of Cool Whip is safe from me.
I did watch a few minutes of an old movie on TCM last night, though, and was repelled enough by its Yay Patriarchyness to embark on a series of contemplations on how Western literature would scarcely exist if plots did not so consistently revolve around the purity of the female lead’s vagina, puritanical conceits concerning marriage and divorce, and whose-baby-is-it. Seriously, if you take away bastards, fallen women, and dominion-over-the-uterus as plot devices, nearly the whole canon instantly evaporates. I honestly don’t know how TCM broadcasts this crap with a straight face. “The story of a man who lived a man’s life, the story of a woman who believed in one man.” It amounts, in large part, to hate speech.
Then, while in line at Whole Foods, I espied the current copy of Vanity Fair, and was repelled by a cover featuring, in full drag, the most famous dude-fantasy cipher of the 20th century, Marilyn Monroe. The cover story, which I haven’t read, purportedly contains vital new information on the “mystery” of her death. Pah. I’ll tell you what killed Marilyn Monroe. Femininity. It kills thousands of women every day.
Why was I at Whole Foods? I’d run out of an absurd thing. Chardonnay Oak-Smoked Fleur de Sel. I put this wacky salt on everything, including watermelon and peanut butter toast. You may opine that sodium chloride is sodium chloride, but until you do a side-by-side taste test with this Chardonay Oak-Smoked Fleur de Sel and Morton’s Iodized I have nothing to say to you.
Meanwhile, Stingray’s out in Napa lurking in some wine cellar, and she’s got a wine cellar blog. It’s got great photos of incomprehensible winemaking equipage, as well as of the porta-potties that dot Napa’s picturesque vinyards like the plastic turquoise flowers of spring. Before she biffed out there and began reporting back about the full-blown sexism, classism, and racism attending viticultural culture, I used to think that wineries were pleasant, sun-drenched agrarian paradises. Now I realize that I will have to give up oenophilia on principle and start brewing my own feminist hooch in the bathtub.