My New Year Resolution was “blog, ya twit!” Consequently, I’m making a smallish bit of an effort to get up offa that thang and resume scribbling, with increased frequency, the odd trenchant remark and/or pithy observation on Our Busy Sexist Society. For example, many blamers appear to share my aversion to the word “panties.” This is important work that I do!
Of course, I’m already a failure in the daily blogging department. I forgot to write a post yesterday and I don’t have time to write one today. I guess we might as well have a Spleenvent. By which I mean “open thread.”
Go ahead. Blurt it.
Fuck Woody Allen. I have never understood, ever in my entire life, why everybody is so fucking in love with Woody fucking Allen. Oh yes, I used to pretend to love him back in my pre-Savage Death Island funfeminist poseur days. I’ve seen most of his movies up to the 90’s, and I’m here to tell you: the dude is a pig of the first water. I wish I could un-see them.
So I was pissed off and saddened — but not, alas, surprised — when I read his daughter Dylan Farrow’s open letter outing him as an abuser and calling out the complicit silence of his fawning Hollywood collaborators. Like blamer Josquin said in yesterday’s comments, I totally believe her.