season of the bitch

I wrote something for Global Comment today—should be up tomorrow—about the decade, the politics of it all, and how it was the decade that Americans woke up and got involved again.

Maybe that’s me projecting, though, because the arc of the last ten years for me more than anything else is the formation of my social conscience.

I don’t have any deep thoughts about that at the moment, though—I wore myself out on that.

Instead, 2009. It was a shit year for a lot of people I know, and a shit year sort of collectively, but for me it was an absolutely amazing year. I finished my master’s, saw Obama inaugurated, got my dream internship, moved to New York, met and worked with and befriended people whose work had helped shape me into the writer I am, found out who would have my back and who would go out on a limb for me, and got a job in my chosen career field that I absolutely love, working for a woman who is a constant inspiration. I got stories published in magazines I’ve been reading for years.

Not many people had this kind of a 2009, and it almost makes me sad to see it go because I fear that 2010 won’t be as good.

What didn’t I do in 2009? Pretty much have any sort of a love life. I went on a couple of dates that didn’t result in anything—nice guys that I just didn’t click with. I’m trying to remember if I even kissed anyone in 2009 and I don’t think so (that drunken moment does not count even if part of me did not want to stop it…long story that I’m not telling on the Internet, sorry). I had a series of crushes on absolutely wonderful men, some of whose friendship now I would never trade for a fleeting hookup. But as far as I know I won’t be kissing anyone at midnight, and that’s pretty much OK with me.

New Year’s resolutions? I don’t know if I have any. Maybe to take better care of my body—I eat too much crap and don’t exercise enough. I keep resolving to go dancing more, as it is good for body and soul (and is in fact magic), so maybe I’ll keep that one in 2010.

Tonight? I’m putting on a hot pink dress and I’ve painted my nails with purple glitter and I’m going out to the Lower East Side with some (new) friends. There will be booze. Hopefully champagne, because (hello blog title) it is like liquid happiness and also what is New Year’s Eve without bubbly?

Looking forward: I will keep writing, and keep fighting, and learn new things and meet more new people and love the ones I know better. I WILL kiss someone, and I hope as Mr. Gaiman wished for all of us, that it is someone who thinks I’m wonderful. I will work hard but I will play hard too.

I don’t know if those count as resolutions, or declarations.

2009 might have been good for me, but the past ten years were sort of shit. So let’s have a better decade, everyone.

A friend said on Twitter: 2010: Love, music, wine, and revolution. I think that’s a good plan.

In no particular order:

Elizabeth Taylor. Shakespeare. New comics. black-and-white films. Anais Nin. blank verse. jasmine. pink lipgloss. swingsets. snow. kissing. boys’ hipbones. arm muscles. my dog’s snores. late night phone conversations. Thai food. chocolate. breakfast food at odd hours. outdoor train stations. classic movie stars’ autobiographies. Converse. Levis. the beach at night. naughty whispers. talking movies. Exene and John’s harmonies. the way my tattoos rise up sometimes so you can trace them, like braille, across my skin. red nail polish. big thick hardcover books. Marilyn Monroe’s eye makeup. Axl Rose’s wail. finishing a paper. the words “squid” and “defenestrate.” my pink boxing gloves. girls on motorcycles.

• Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.

• Share 6 / 7 facts about yourself on your blog - some random, some weird.

• Tag 6/ 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.

• Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog

Caroline tagged me with this thing and I’m going to do it because I can’t quite pick up Judith Butler this morning yet. It’s only 9:10.

1. I didn’t cry for about 3 months, and then in the past week I’ve cried four times.

2. One of the times I teared up was at the New York Times’ Obama endorsement. What the hell does that say about me?

3. I am in the middle of four books right now: my Judith Butler reader, the complete works of Zelda Fitzgerald, Transmetropolitan: The New Scum (OK, well that’s a graphic novel) and Neil Gaiman’s Fragile Things. And that’s not counting the other schoolwork.

4. I watched my first James Bond movies ever yesterday. I don’t know if the ones that were free on OnDemand were the shitty ones, but I was not impressed.

5. I secretly fear that in the two years I spent with my ex, all the people I could possibly fall for got snapped up.

6. I procrastinated yesterday by building my dog a profile on DogBook off Facebook. I am silly.

7. I love Katherine Hepburn and hope I can age even close to as well as she did. (I’m watching Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner right now and I find the daughter more annoying than anyone else.)

I tag Queen Emily, Pop Feminist, Belle, FeministGal, pidomon, Janice and Daisy.

So I’m used to feminist complaints about overly retouched, unrealistic photos in fashion magazines. I’ve even indulged in a bit of this myself (even while I photoshop zits out of my own pictures on Flickr.)

But now apparently there’s some controversy (granted, this is from FOX NEWS) about an UNretouched photo of Sarah Palin gracing the cover of Newsweek.

I found this ridiculous sentence while searching: “The cover photo is a very close-up picture, which drew controversy because many people say that a close-up picture of a woman is meant to be unflattering.”

To me, among many, many other things, this proves the fact that Republicans chose Palin because she was pretty, not because of any other qualities she brought to the ticket. I’ve seen hundreds of unflattering photos of Obama and McCain this election cycle, not to mention insulting and racist cartoons. Yet we’re supposed to be up in arms because she was NOT photoshopped?

First off, from what I know of photojournalism (and I do TA in the photojournalism department of my university), altering the photo is a breach of ethics. Now, granted, that usually has more to do with adding people into events where they weren’t, or making someone look worse (whoops, Fox), or, perhaps, making a black man look blacker?

So apparently I’m supposed to be up in arms because a close-up photo of a very attractive 44-year-old woman with more money than average and better skin than I’ve got shows what, her pores? That she’s got a few fine lines?

This is ridiculous.

I write in defense of beauty rituals and makeup, glitter and sparkle and high heels and femininity. And I don’t pick on Sarah Palin for using any of the above. I don’t even pick on her for being “Caribou Barbie” or “Bible Spice.” She’s allowed to be a pretty woman and to make herself even prettier.

But what the hell is wrong with us that a simple unretouched photo is enough to set the right wing howling that it’s unfair coverage? What’s wrong with showing a 44-year-old woman’s skin? Do they honestly think someone’s going to decide not to vote for her because they can see her laugh lines?

After debates over Biden’s possible Botox, and comments that Palin could wink so she clearly hasn’t had it (used to imply elitism on the part of the Democrats), this whole tempest in a teapot seems forced at best. At worst, it’s profoundly insulting to the woman’s intelligence–and to all of ours.

But then, presidential campaigns in general are an insult to our intelligence. And the more we harp on issues like this, the more they really do seem like a beauty contest.

Get yours at www.emilyslist.org.

“Today, feminist criticism equates ‘the true self’ with a face unaltered by artifice. Such a concept paradoxically defines the presence of self by the absence of its expression. The self is thus imagined as passive and preexisting rather than processual and consciously spoken. An ‘expressive self’ seems as valid and liberating a concept as the pared-down notion of unvarnished selfhood advocated by feminism. From an ‘expressive’ viewpoint, valuing individuality is not inconsistent with the unabashedly artificial self-adornment practices of the 1960s.”

Fresh Lipstick, Linda M. Scott. p 264

“Today’s feminists would not begrudge the expression of sexual orientation and desire through dress within the lesbian community, but the attitudes that pathologize the same behavior from a heterosexual female are still powerful. In the spirit of Simone de Beauvoir, they consider the effort to ‘dress for sex’ with a man a pathetic, self-demeaning behavior–as if the human need for affection and erotic experience were less legitimate in a heterosexual situation. Presenting oneself in a way that expresses availability and desire is the way humans, male or female, gay or straight, get the love that they need. Nevertheless, one segment of the sexual spectrum is still precluded from expressing itself without condemnation from feminists: The feminine, heterosexual woman is still presumed to have no agency in the performance of gender, regardless of her transgressions in work, sexuality, or politics.”

Fresh Lipstick, Linda M. Scott. Page 234.

(for Monica, Dana and Emma)

Sarah Palin can’t have my lipstick. She can’t take my right to the word or use it against me, and she certainly can’t copyright any metaphor using the word.

Lipstick is such a great word. It immediately calls up a certain picture, both of the object itself and of a lipsticked woman, and even though lipstick comes in many colors, somehow it always comes out red in my mind.

I’ve spent hour searching for the perfect red lipstick. Emma Forrest named a novel after the perfect lip color. Red lipstick is not common any longer, and thus it now always signifies. It may read “slutty” to some and “retro” to others, but it is usually sexual, the assumption.

Mostly I wear lipgloss, because lipstick is a commitment. You can’t kiss it off without leaving your mark all over your lover–and that’s the way I like it. If you’re planning on kissing, you can either leave off the lipstick–a clear invite–or apply it perfectly, daring them to cross that line, mess it up, brand themselves with your lipstick, mark themselves as yours.

Sarah Palin doesn’t even wear that kind of lipstick. She just uses it as a metaphor when she wants to (”what’s the difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull?”) and then her crew turns it around and claims that Obama’s being sexist? Not so much.

Lipstick doesn’t just signify woman in Sarah Palin’s claims–it now signifies her. Well, I refuse to think of her when I put on my lipstick in the morning. I prefer to think about Clara Bow, Marilyn Monroe, Lauren Bacall, Madonna, Courtney Love, and me.

According to Linda Scott in Fresh Lipstick, the modern makeup trends in the U.S. started with the growth of the movie industry and spread to independent young women. Lipstick, therefore, started as a signifier of the independent woman, and I like keeping it that way.

And just for fun: NPR puts actual lipstick on an actual pig.

Marie Antoinette, as Sofia Coppola imagined it, is all about beauty, ‘sparkle’ and femininity as the only pleasures available to a woman in a society where she is just a bargaining chip to be bought and sold—even by her mother, a political force in her own right.

Coppola gives us Kirsten Dunst, a star we are familiar with precisely for her lack of uber-glamness, her waifish build and glowing skin with little makeup, and transforms her before our eyes into the Queen, powdered white and perfect, hair not just styled but turned into a living sculpture on her head, seizing her pleasures where she can.

Marie Antoinette is, after all, denied even the freedom to dress herself in the mornings, and her husband is incapable of sexual performance, so she is denied not only pleasure in sex, but her very identity. It must be her fault, after all, that he cannot perform.

Beauty is both a millstone round her neck and the thing that saves her, at least for a time. She is dressed in the clothing of her new country—the forcible public removal of her clothing happens more than once in this film—and presented to her new husband as a cake upon a platter. The same as the cakes she so gleefully crams into her mouth later, and like the one she is mistakenly accused of telling the people to eat when they have no bread.

The aunts are jealous of her beauty, and they turn her against the one woman who might have helped her gain any freedom and happiness, Madame Du Barry, the old king’s mistress, played lushly by Asia Argento, all blacks and reds to Marie’s pastels and blonde. Du Barry is of course the ‘whore,’ yet she wants nothing more than to be friends with Marie, and is only angered when she is spurned. The simple pleasure on her face when Marie speaks to her is telling—and leads directly into a scene contrasting her lively sex life with the aging King and Marie and Louis’s bedtime conversation.

Later, of course, Marie takes up with another woman of questionable virtue, and it is then when she starts to have her own life.
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Courtney Love is probably the most hated woman in pop culture, but I adore her–her too-big mouth, her weight fluctuations, her mama-lion protectiveness of her daughter. Everyone who looks down on Courtney should look in the mirror first and ask themselves if they’d have the courage to go where she’s gone and come back for more.

Courtney understood the strategic power of red lipstick and girly dressed and her performances, even at her most glam, always had a sense of subversion. Courtney glamorous was saying to us, “Look, I can play this game as well as any of you if I want to, and you will have to call me beautiful for it–me, who tore these things to bits in front of you and will go back to doing so again. Because when it comes down to it, I don’t need them–I am under your skin.”

She is. She’s that piece of all of us that can and will go there.

Go all the way down.

While today’s celebutantes seem lost and questioning, Courtney found what she was looking for a long time ago and wasn’t afraid to keep fighting for it.

‘Crazy’ they say, and leaving behing the implications there–who are we to judge? When men fall apart in public it doesn’t inspire anyone to shame them or pity them. Hell, we romanticize them. We love them (Pop Feminist tells you all about it) We worship Kurt, but Courtney dances in front of us, tormenting us with the words of another contemporary–”I’m still alive.”

Bad mother, bad role  model, blah blah blah–give me a thousand Courtneys over one Paris Hilton any day.

She’s the anti-Madonna, the one who instead of crossing boundaries, scribbles all over them in red lipstick and smears them all over. She’s the Joker. She laughs at us.

I grew up defined by Madonna and Courtney and Tori Amos–the triple pop-culture goddesses of my youth. The rock star, the pop idol, the faerie godmother. Each of them had her excesses and their lack of respect for boundaries, but only Courtney is a monster–to say you like her is akin to saying you eat babies for breakfast in some quarters. Particularly male quarters. She’s our generation’s Yoko.

I wore my Hole T-shirt to high school once and someone made fun of me for it. I didn’t wear it again, didn’t admit I liked Courtney until college and even then I skipped out on going to see her play when my friends did. And then one day in my 20s I went on a binge and ordered all her CDs, and admitted yes, I love her, need her, blonde goddess, the other side of Marilyn.

In one video on YouTube you see her in jeans and it’s so strange–it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her in them. Courtney wears dresses, skirts, even underwear, but never something so casual, so American-rebel-chic-turned-mainstream as jeans. Courtney never changes her hair color except for movies–it’s always blonde and always obviously fake–because after all, who knows better than she does that it’s all a performance?

After all, she’s the one who wrote the lyric, “I fake it so real I am beyond fake.”

Yes, Courtney. And you’re beyond most of our grasp, those of us on the safe side of the lines, and we like to torture you for it.

In the “Mono” video Courtney returns to her shredded-lingerie-princess style, but here she has a flock of younger princesses to protect—they come out of her skirt, yet she shields them protectively even when they produce weapons to scare the boys off with.

And at the beginning she climbs out of a glass coffin with her head resting on a bag of sugar—she rejects the girl box, but she doesn’t reject the trappings of girlhood. She simply rips them and shreds them and makes them her own.

As we all can.