Also, am I the only one who compulsively watched that “Portlandia” marathon on IFC the other day even though the unrelenting, precious self-consciousness of it made me want to rip my own ex-hipster face off?
Hey, I finally wrote a sentence concise enough for Facebook! I’m gonna post it right away!
A murdered teen isn’t lurid enough; better make her a prostitute with HIV.
Any moron knows not to kick someone in the head while wearing open-toed shoes.
But here’s a sweet little movie you won’t want to miss. Girl Fight airs on Lifetime this Monday. “Inspired” by a “true story” about mean girls who beat up one of their own and post it on YouTube for internet fame and revenge, it’s super on-trend. Although Lifetime says “Girl Fight” is about “peer pressure, media scrutiny and forgiveness” its actual purpose would appear be 1) to deliver titillating footage of a teenage girl kicking the shit out of a teenage girl, and 2) to intone another cautionary tale about the dire consequences that can go down whenever a teenage girl steps out of line (or, in an unguarded moment, posts something juvenile on Twitter).
The Lifetime Channel, as has been noted by larger brains than mine, is the TV authority of record when it comes to documenting the People magazine experience of Vagina-Americans. Violence, betrayal, insanity, torment, and murder. The Entertainment Industrial Complex has a vested interest in the defeat of feminist revolt, since a victory would rob them of all their most lurid plot devices.
You can always rely on news headlines to breathe a bit of life into the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women. For example, today’s two most popular stories on the KXAN Austin News website are
Pregnant woman beaten in north Austin
and
Mom finds grown man in teen’s bed.
You already know what these stories are about, but here are the synopses anyway:
1. Some prince of a guy punched his pregnant girlfriend in the face, rendering her unconscious, when he learned that the fetus didn’t contain any of his genetic material. Unexpected paternity is a very popular justification for smacking pregnant women around. Dudes love to violently punish women for getting pronged by other dudes, as well as for getting impregnated. Take that, bitch!
2. When a 14-year-old girl seemed too reluctant to leave her bedroom for a whole day, her mother became suspicious and broke down the door, whereupon she discovered a 22-year-old dude lounging in the daughter’s bed. The dude turned out to be one of those online predators. The news story omits no titillating detail. Oh, and in case you were worried that the girl would be let off the hook, rest assured that her mother is “holding her responsible” and has taken away her cell phone and computer. Take that, teen victim of dudely predation!
Note that in both stories the victims get what they deserve. The pregnant slut gets a beatdown, and the teen slut gets shamed by her own mom.
Cultural narratives consecrating the serene glow of motherhood and the innocent beauty of youth are pretty ubiquitous, yet pregnant women and teen girls are two of the most reviled and abused subsets of the sex class you’ll find anywhere (pregnant teens might as well just hang it up; no single group on the planet is as disenfranchised). The aforementioned news stories/cautionary tales show what happens when women fail to precisely mirror the Virgin Mary. They’re popular because beating pregnant women and raping teenage girls are themselves popular. In fact, these violent experiences transcend “popular”; they’re effing universal.
How universal? Well, everyone reading the headlines either has been beaten by, or knows someone who’s been beaten by, or is himself, a fuckwad in a jealous rage. Everyone has either fantasized about raping a kid, or has raped a kid, or knows that kid, or has been that kid.
But woe betide the Internet feminist who asserts that the universality of violence against women proves the existence of a global system of misogynist oppression. Feminists, apparently for the compelling reason that that we are simply jealous of the pretty girls, never shut the fuck up and accept that women are “equal” now. A spinster aunt gets so fed up with hearing how “equal” women are that she is apt to consider a comedy bit delivered by juvenile ultramisogynist Comedy Central dudebro Daniel Tosh a breath of fresh air. I’m not even kidding.
Daneil Tosh, whose tired comedy schtick is an endeavor to give the most offense possible, is, in the parlance of his peer group, a fucking douche. Douche-itude is generally greatly admired by the peer group to which I allude, but clearly something has gone awry with young Mr. Tosh. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t been brought before a DudeNation tribunal to face charges of treason, because here he is on national television actually admitting, to a nation of patriarchy-deniers, that patriarchy exists.
“At least we’re not women, right fellas?”
Laughter and applause.
“Ugh. Jeez. What is that like? Is it awful? Is it horrible? To know you’re Number 2?”
Laughter.
“By the way, these aren’t my beliefs, it’s my observations on the world I live in. If it changes, I’ll adjust the material accordingly.”
Laughter.
“I love when you try to rationalize it: ‘Oh, it’s great being a woman! Free drinks is worth not having equality!’”
Laughter and applause. [From Daniel Tosh one-hour special "Happy Thoughts," aired March 2011 on Comedy Central]
I consider this a breath of fresh air, not because it’s so nice when young white dudes exploit oppression for personal gain, but because a member of Team Misogyny has actually spoketh the truth for half a second. The truth being Men Hate You.
Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I can’t link to the actual bit, since the video, which unsurprisingly also contains hilarious jokes about raping babies and beating girlfriends, is apparently considered actual comedy gold and is kept in some kind of a comedy vault.
According to the Blametariat, irrational fear of crows is a thing.
Spinster aunts are award-nominated experts on irrationality, but this crow dealio was news to us down at HQ, where the tragic dearth of crows has long been lamented, especially since recently screening a PBS documentary on the extraordinary intellective powers of these birds.
Still, it’s not surprising that people irrationally fear crows. The beady eyes, the ominous portent of deathiness, the nevermore, the occultish silhouette against a full moon. According to the Internet, people can irrationally afear pretty much anything. Feet. String. Death.
My sibling Tidy, for example, cannot abide a snake in any way, shape, or form. I’m not saying I don’t lurch sideways a foot or so whenever a serpent unexpectedly heaves into view, but the possibility of snakecine encounters doesn’t prevent me from traipsing through the woods on a spring morning with a cup of coffee and a couple of fairly decent dogs. Not Tidy, though. She wouldn’t traipse through the woods on a spring morning, with coffee and dogs or without, if it was the last spring morning on earth. She would rather have root canal sans novocaine performed in an unheated Siberian gulag in February by an ex-Nazi who keeps asking “is it safe?”.
Irrational behavior is entertaining as hell, apparently. It is so goddam entertaining that enterprising TV producers routinely exploit it for personal gain. Yesterday I happened to see on television a docu-reality show called “My Strange Addiction.” A woman compulsively eats toilet paper, a dude is in love with a mannequin. Experts are consulted. Gripping stuff. And this show is but e pluribus unum; there’s a whole Behind The Scenes With Crazy Chicks TV genre.
The depressing “Intervention” springs to mind. Producers collude with family members to deceive unsuspecting addicts into allowing themselves to be filmed shooting up or passed out in their own vomit. Lots of footage of weeping mothers. The addict inevitably storms out of the titular intervention, but eventually is talked into rehab. The family promises to attend codependency counseling, but they never bother to actually follow through, revealing that they don’t, in fact, give as much of a fuck as they pretended to during the shooting. Riveting reality-ishness, guaranteed to physically sicken you if you have ever known or been a real-life addict.
Voyeuristic schadenfreudians cannot be said to lack for hoardersploitation shows. There are not one, not two, not three, but four programs (as far as I know) devoted to compulsive hoarding. A light, comedic take on the debilitating illness is Style Network’s long-running “Clean House.” Host Niecy Nash opens up cans of SBF (Sassy Black Girlfriend) on clinically disposophobic couples from whose filthy households you can’t believe CPS hasn’t removed the kids. You can’t help but be alarmed that Nash, a D-list comedian who doesn’t even play a doctor on TV, has been put in charge of counseling all these clinically ill people. But somehow every show culminates with a jolly yard sale, and in the end the family gets a spa weekend, a home makeover, and happiness.
Possibly because hoarding is actually somewhat less hilarious than “Clean House” would suggest, things get progressively darker from there. “Hoarders” on A&E, and TLC’s “Hoarding: Buried Alive” are essentially the same dispiriting show. In every episode, a lone woman’s deep emotional attachment to her floor-to-ceiling mountains of garbage, hazardous waste, and thrift store crap threatens both her relationships and her physical health. Each dirty little stuffed animal or chipped teacup is a treasure with which she cannot part without trauma. When the despondent family fails to cure her with tears and shame, an expert wearing a respirator (it stinks in there!) tries to talk some sense into her. But the siren call of the trash is too strong. The epilogue always delivers the sad news that the city has condemned her house because the poor woman couldn’t get a grip.
But just when you think televised video of shattered lives edited for your viewing pleasure couldn’t get any more exploitative, Animal Planet presents the contemptible, incomparable “Confessions: Animal Hoarding.” New York magazine calls this “the most depressing reality show of all time.”
Horribly, truer words were never published on this or any other Internet.
It’s no secret that all reality shows are depressing in one way or another. Whether the competition style (wherein contestants turn on each other and ostracize the weak while “judges” decide their fate), or the documentary style (the focus is on some sort of aberration, such as homicidal brides-to-be), you can’t watch them without a gnawing sense of shame. That plastic surgery-cum-beauty pageant series was pretty hard to take, and lard knows the regular hoarding shows are seriously problematic, but it is difficult to imagine passing off as entertainment a more disturbing scenario than the one presented by “Confessions: Animal Hoarding”. Sad, damaged, isolated people try to cope with personal pain by imprisoning in their own filth dozens or even hundreds of helpless cats, dogs, horses, or bunnies. The afflicted subjects don’t perceive themselves as abusers even when mummified kitten corpses are excavated from couch cushions; they “love” the animals upon whom they have visited this suffering, and freak out when removal is threatened. If you can sit through an entire episode of this horrorshow your lobe is made of sterner stuff than mine.
Where to begin with the blaming? The hoarders are goaded into crisis mode by the producers, are filmed at their most degraded and desperate moments, and are ultimately depicted as delusional grotesques. It is unclear whether they actually receive any long-term psychiatry, or whether their “treatment” ends when the respirator-wearin’ expert splits town with the film crew. The exploitation of animal suffering adds a whole nother level of quease. Often, because animal protection laws are inadequate, some of the removed animals may be returned to their abusers. But the most repellent aspect is that the whole enterprise is fed by a slavering prurience for human debasement-as-spectacle.
Who but a stunt driver with a death wish would attempt the insane Ben White/I-35 flyover?
Anyway, “Confessions: Animal Hoarding” wins this week’s Ditwuss Award.*
_______________
* Ditwuss = DTWS = Degrades The Whole Species.
Crow photo: screengrab from “A Murder of Crows” | Nature | PBS
Flyover photo: Google Maps
If only pornography was just dirty pictures. That would still be bad, but not as bad as the real actual truth. Pornography — that is, the graphic representation of violence against women — is in fact like unto a thick, noxious gas percolating through every conceivable stratum of human culture.
Take this example of multi-tiered pornography from the Huffington Post: a blurb noting the death of a 23-year-old woman named Carolin Berger.
The headline:
“Carolin ‘Sexy Cora’ Berger Dead: Porn Star Dies After Sixth Breast Enlargement Surgery (PHOTOS)”
[Arguably, one may even perceive an element of perpetration in the very act of critiquing this article. That's because pornography leaves a putrid grease on everything and everyone it touches, including spinster aunts who clamor for its eradication. But, onward.]
On one hand, this HuffPo item supports the anti-porn mores of Savage Death Island: Young Berger has died of extreme femininity. Her heart stopped during her 6th breast augmentation surgery and she never regained consciousness. The patriarchy blamer naturally recognizes a familiar narrative: desperate to appease the oppressor through rigorous adherence to deeply internalized pornographic beauty standards, Berger undertook multiple self-mutilations, and paid the ultimate price. Femininity kills.
But … that headline! It is the spinster aunt’s duty to expose what at first blush appears to be the announcement of a tragic accident for what it is: a titillating squirt of micro-porn to whet the insatiable appetites of typical prog-liber-o-prurient HuffPo readers.
This headline’s got it all. “Sexy.” “Dead.” “Porn Star.” “Breast Enlargement” “PHOTOS.” Who wouldn’t click on that? It’s an opportunity — one of the hundreds, or perhaps thousands, presented daily to the average media consumer — to ingest sex, to taste the greasy juxtaposition of sex, mutilation, and death, to check out some hottt pixxx, and to pass smug judgement on another blonde bimbo — Marilyn Monroe, Anna Nicole Smith — who failed to get it just right.
As the story progresses, we discover that Berger’s porn star name was “Sexy Cora.” Naturally, the sex name is the one used throughout the remainder of the article. Porn stars are not human beings, they are a brand of consumer sex receptacle. Thus are the dimensions of Berger’s breasts, both pre- and post-op, more germane to the announcement of her death than, apparently, the detail (omitted by Huffpo) that her surgeon-butchers are now up on negligent homicide charges. To find out about that, you have to go to CBS News’ lurid true crime website, where Berger’s humanity is of little importance compared to her value as a sensationalized dead TV slut. If you doubt this, you have only to observe the 38-page wealth of “Sexy Cora” images available in a CBS online photo gallery, and compare it to the amount of CBS discourse relating to Berger as a human person (barely any), or to the instances of broader CBS discussion of the murderous effects of institutionalized misogyny on the quest for human enlightenment (zilch-o).
[Thanks, Jessica]
Patriarchy blamers are world renowned for their (professed) eschewment of cable television, so it is possible that you have not heard of the most misogynist TV show ever conceived. As an award-nominated professional bearer of bad news, I am here to correct this situation.
The history of women’s degradation is long and colorful, but this “Bridalplasty” show takes the wedding cake. Once it has taken the wedding cake, it smushes it in the face of the last little shred of simple human dignity to which the sex class has been desperately clinging for the past 8000 years.
Wait, did I say “Bridalplasty”?
I’m afraid so, and yup, it’s exactly the gross-out you think it is. The hideous mutant clone of “Bridezillas” and “The Swan,” “Bridalplasty” is a tour de force of exploitation megalotainment such as the world has never known. The laughably sicko “plot”? Says the website: “Brides-to-be compete in challenges to earn plastic-surgery procedures in a quest to win their ultimate dream wedding.”
Is there anything about that sentence that fails to induce dry heaves?
Still, you almost have to admire the show’s creators for managing to clabber together into a single pulsating, inspissated lump of banality not one, not two, but three really top-tier femininity behaviors: catfighting, weddings, and self-mutilation. A typical scene depicts one contestant visiting another in her hospital bed as she convalesces from a nosejob; their conversation is about forming an “alliance” to thwart the evil bitch Jessica (“You better sleep with one eye open, bitch, ‘cuz I’m after you.”). Promos include a conventionally pretty contestant stabbing at her own head with pointed fingers, declaiming “I want this butt-face fixed!” Of the humiliating “challenges” let me say this: brides-to-be are given two glasses of sparkling wine and instructed to determine which one cost only $3.98; apparently this test reveals whether they possess sufficient taste to pull off a classy wedding reception. So it’s classist on top of everything else. Awesome! The prize for guessing correctly is a surgery to implant cadaver meat in their lips or some shit.
The lobe-blowing thing is that the show’s audience can drink in all this misogyny week after week and not take to the streets demanding immediate liberation from patriarchal tyranny.
Or can they? Has “Bridalplasty’s” corporate-sponsored hate and scorn finally pushed devoted E! channel viewers too far? A glance at the E! discussion board reveals this glittering jewel of feminist outrage:
“Personally I think this is a disgustingly misogynistic show! The very idea that a woman is incapable of being a ‘perfect bride’ without undergoing radical, dangerous surgery to be more aesthetically pleasing to the general public is obscene.”
I regret to say that this commenter’s future as a patriarchy blamer is not, perhaps, so bright as it initially appears. She knows what “misogyny” means, and she gets that plastic surgery is an extreme form of it, but doesn’t seem to grasp the inherent misogyny in the concepts of either bride-dom or feminine perfection. Sadly, although a few other detractors add their rancor to the comments, their unanimous refrain suggest that beauty, dudely validation, and marriage remain undisputed life goals:
“These women [don't need surgery; they] were obviously proposed to because their husbands think that they are [already] beautiful.”
That is, they’ve got it made in the shade; their dudes have pre-approved their degree of conformity to the patriarchal beauty mandate or they never would have popped the question in the first place.
Unsurprisingly, most of the remaining comments are quite the little tiptoe down Self-Loathing Lane:
There is nothing wrong with wanting to enter marriage a lil more perfect/ sexier than you did when you were just a “girlfriend”….what better gift to give urself and hubby than to be than a (better) “trophy wife”, even if it takes a lil bit of twerking and lifting.
The E! channel, for those saintly readers who don’t own televisions, is also responsible for such life-affirming programming as “The Girls Next Door,” a reality show about the enpornulated women who make a living draping themselves like silk bathrobes over septuagenarian perv Hugh Hefner’s living corpse, and “True Hollywood Story,” which produces incisive documentaries revealing such “insider secrets” as Katy Perry’s having once eaten at Taco Bell, and interviews with prostituted women who have been used by Charlie Sheen.
Yeah, it burns.
_____________________
Photo nicked from the “Bridalplasty” website.
Advanced patriarchy blamers have already strapped into their handydyke utility belt of blaming techniques the Bechdel Test. But a little refresher can’t hurt, so check out the vid.
The Bechdel test dates back to the 80’s and Alison Bechdel’s iconic comic Dykes to Watch Out For. The test aims the Blistering Beacon of Blame at the infrequency with which female characters in film are represented as fully realized human beings.
To pass the test, a film (or, if you like, any other sort of arty or infotainment-y work*) has to have at least two female characters, the characters have to have names, and they have to have a conversation about something other than dudes.
These criteria are always burbling in the back of the my lobe as I ingest media from the various screens in my life. Constant scanning for representations of female characters that even vaguely nod at the truth makes the act of consuming entertainment absolutely exhausting. You more or less expect women to be characterized as dude accessories in pre-feminist movies, but the scarcity of more recently produced shows that pass the test continues to boggle the spinster mind. The other day during an episode of “Star Trek Voyager” I did the butt-dance when Janeway and Torres had a discussion about a warp core breach. Of course, they do that on every episode. I personally think the Bechdel test ought to exclude Janeway-Torres warp core breach discussions.
Let us not forget, however, that the Bechdel test only measures whether two female characters have a few lines of human dialogue. It doesn’t gauge whether the female characters in question are generally representative of female humanity, so it can’t really be used to award any feminist points. There may have been, for example, a few seconds here and there in “Sex and the City” where the women chit-chat about getting Brazilians instead of about getting laid, but the show’s overall unmitigated heteronormative misogyny pretty much cancels out any brief flirtation with the notion that women are human.
I don’t know if you have young nieces and therefore were compelled to see “Toy Story 3″ in a theater with about 4792 other kids, but I do and I was. (“Toy Story 3″ sort of borderline passes the Bechdel test on a sort of technicality, but definitely flunks it in spirit; there is one brief scene where two women, one of whom is named “Mom,” discuss giving toys away to charity). I won’t bore you with “Toy Story 3’s” yawn-o plot details, but it will not bowl you over to hear that the hero toy is a dude, the sidekick toy is a dude, most of the supporting character toys are dudes, and the kid who owns the toys is a dude. Oh, and one of the two or three female characters is a Barbie, and she is an airhead. Business as usual.
But check this out. Yesterday, while shoveling a buttload of horse manure into my Gator, I listened to a recent “Fresh Air” podcast wherein Terry Gross interviews two Hollywood dudes who had something to do with making “Toy Story 3.” The Hollywood dudes start talking about “getting to the emotional truth of the characters.” I have, with my usual painstaking attention to detail, transcribed the portion of the interview in which they reveal how they went about getting to the “emotional truth” of a Ken doll character.
Hollywood Dude #1: I don’t know if you had any Ken dolls when you were growing up; I certainly didn’t. But my friends’ little sisters did and we made endless fun of Ken. Ken’s just a-a-a whipping boy [...] We thought, well what does it feel like to be a guy who’s a girl’s toy? You’re a guy, but you’re only played with by little girls. And then further, he’s just an accessory to Barbie. You know he doesn’t carry equal weight to, with Barbie, he’s really no more important than a pair of shoes or a belt or a purse to her, and we knew that he would have to have a complex.
Hollywood Dude #2: Yeah, no, I mean, that’s one of the things that’s such a pleasure working on a film like this is that you go, OK, what, you know, what are gonna be the issues of a character like Ken, like what’s gonna be the thing that like keeps him awake at night, you know, and, so, you know, immediately you come into the fact that maybe he’s a little bit insecure about the fact that-that-that he’s-he’s, you know, a girl’s toy and maybe he’s in denial of that.”
Immediately one is struck by the empathy shown poor Ken by the Hollywood dudes. Through his degraded status as a “whipping boy” toy whose lot in life is to be “only” played with by little girls, Ken accrues pathos. The subtext — that little girls are low prestige toy owners and confer shame upon any “male” toy forced to associate with them — reveals that the Hollywood dudes have thoroughly assimilated the message that female children are of lower status than male children, and actually do have cooties.
Another hilarious facet of Hollywood dudes’ remarks is their cogent assessment of the condition of existing solely as an accessory. It is obvious to them that relegating a sentient being to the role of one-dimensional second banana degrades that sentient being, which sentient being would then logically suffer psychological damage as a result (Ken’s “complex”). Yet it eludes them that this is precisely the condition they have imposed on the female characters in their own film, much less that it’s the condition overwhelmingly imposed on female characters in most other films, as well as the condition imposed on all actual live women. Does Mrs Potato Head lie awake at night pondering the horror of existing only as an afterthought to, and entirely in terms of, Mr Potato Head? Not in “Toy Story 3!”
In other words, the Hollywood dudes have perfectly illustrated the point of view of the entitled default human: men are men, and women are toys.
__________________________
* Is it just me, or does even Terry Gross seem to interview way more dudes than dudesses?
[YouTube link courtesy of Veganrampage]
Wolf spider the size of Guam, covered with tiny wolf spiders the size of an island smaller than Guam.
When a wolf spider the size of Guam strolls by, encrusted with, literally, a buttload of teensy wolf spiders, it is understandable if you widen the eyes a little and say something along the lines of “whoa!” or “what tha?” Nobody will think the less of you.
This heartwarming Neoscona inhabits my bedroom door jamb.
October is among the spideriest of months. Ghostly white crab spiders hide in the sunflowers, green-headed jumping spiders spring out from the wood piles, and giant Neocsonae cover all the windows and doorways in the bunkhouse with cobwebs, eventually enveloping the entire structure, imprisoning the unsuspecting inhabitants for later use as a food source over the winter. If you haven’t seen the dog lately, check the Neoscona web.
The kitchen window Argiope is the Platonic ideal of ubiquitous cardboard Halloween decorations.
I was watching the horror movie channel the other day and there was a scene where a dangling tarantula lowered itself down a thread onto a screaming girl. I laughed and laughed. Tarantulas burrow in the ground, they don’t dangle on screaming girls. That director. What a stupe.
Screaming girls are one of the four cornerstones of modern (and oldern) television. The other three cornerstones are ice girls, prostituted girls, pregnant girls, violated girls, and dead girls.
Phil, my secretary, has declined to ghost-write my essay today. He called in claiming writer’s block. What a load. He just wanted to lie around on the couch eating sour cream ‘n’ onion potato chips. I could hear Hair Battle Spectacular in the background when he called.
What’s Hair Battle Spectacular? A TV hair-do competition reality show. Stylists with fake nicknames affix scaffolding, found objects, and neon hair extensions onto models’ heads, whereupon they back-comb mile-high “fantasy” hair-dos that nobody could ever actually wear because if you lifted your chin even a couple of degrees to swig a marg, the earth’s gravitational pull on the hair-mass would snap your neck in half. The show is mesmerizingly asinine. I’m begging you not to watch it without hootin’ a doob first.
On a patriarchy-blaming note, the hair models are all beautiful women, presumably because, owing to the gender-binary component of the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women, similarly attractive men wouldn’t be caught dead looking that ridiculous. In our photo, stylist “Malibu” pours an actual cocktail into her model’s coiffure to demonstrate its ability to hold its liquor. It’s about time somebody invented a watertight beehive.
Anyway, with Phil on the lam and me without a minute to spare, you’re stuck with heartwarming nature crap again in lieu of a post. Luckily, it’s a molting Argiope aurantia, everybody’s second-favorite orbweaver.
________________________
Hair Battle Spectacular photo swiped from the Oxygen website. Oxygen, Oprah’s purportedly woman-centric cable channel, is also responsible for Bad Girls Club, a stultifyingly dull reality show consisting mostly of catfights between hot babes, Tori & Dean, a stultifyingly dull reality show featuring a privileged white celebrity heterosexual married couple living their uninteresting lives, and Snapped, the it’s-horrible-yet-I-can’t-look-away documentary series about ‘normal’ women who turn without warning into homicidal maniacs.
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