Let us suppose that a traditional hierarchy of criticism still floats out there in the ether somewhere. You know, literature and visual arts at the top, then maybe dance and theater and instrumental music, then all those things affiliated with the grubby masses like movies and pop music and TV on the next rung (I said traditional), then food and fashion, both of which are too aesthetic to rank any higher but still employ an admirable and tangible amount of skill. Then, down in the dust at the bottom, are the provinces of the effeminate and the frivolous: wine, cigars, perfume, hotels. Writing about these is just more or less an arena for rich dilettantes to throw around made-up terms like "wet rock mouth feel" or "strident floral accords," n'est-ce-pas?
One reason often given for the fruitlessness of writing about scent is that it's too personal, too evocative of individual memories. But come the hell on -- that only makes sense if hearing a certain song doesn't call to mind how it played every half hour at your old job and the sensation of the too-high cash register drawer slamming into your rib cage after each sale (the song being "Marianne" by Leonard Cohen) or if the taste Neapolitan ice cream doesn't transport you to your grandparents' yellow kitchen on a Saturday night. In other words, I don't buy that one of the five senses is any better at evoking memories than the other four.
There's also the old chestnut that goes "Writing about ______ is like dancing about architecture." This also is b.s. The whole point of writing is that you can do it about anything, if you're good, and make it interesting to read. And I'm no modern dance expert but someone has probably choreographed an homage to Frank Gehry or Frank Lloyd Wright, and it's probably pretty cool.
Writing about writing does pose less of a challenge than writing about music or art or dance, of course. Attempting to translate the visual into the verbal was my favorite part of art history classes and essentially the reason I majored in such a useless subject.
So maybe that's why I've developed a thorough appreciation of perfume reviews lately. How does one convey the sensation of smelling something into language? And not just language for its own sake, as with some poetic turn of phrase, but into words that enable readers to mentally conjure the same fragrance and decide whether or not it's something they want their bodies to smell like.
Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez are the reigning monarchs of this particular art. Their Perfumes: The Guide is an encyclopedic work from 2008 (with updates available online) that can be read from A-Z, it's so entertaining. It provides a good foundation, including several essays and a glossary, and immediately made me want to hunt down and smell every 5 start scent they describe. Take this bit, from the review of Dior's Dune:
"Dune is a strong contender for Bleakest Beauty in all of perfumery. It is clearly headed from the start for toward that peculiarly inedible cheap-chocolate drydown that made Must, Allure, and a thousand others, though Dune's is the best of the lot, dissonant but interesting. But the way it gets there is extraordinary, with a beguiling transparency, even freshness, particularly in the anisic carrot-seed top notes. It is hard to pin down what makes Dune so unsmiling from top to bottom; it's as if every perfumer accord had become a Ligeti cluster chord, drained of life, flesh-toned in the creepy way of artificial limbs, not real ones. Marvelous."
Color me fascinated. Of course, the 1 star reviews are much funnier: "A trite, canned-fruit-salad concoction of no interest except to illustrate the cynicism of its makers," Turin writes of Armani Remix for Her.
This being the age of Web 2.0 (or Web.2, as a former professor of mine would always say), the anonymous hordes have of course gotten in the perfume-reviewing game. Obtaining samples has gotten easier and cheaper thanks to the internet, too; instead of trekking to Grasse, or at least NYC, one can now purchase .5 ml samples of even highly obscure fragrances from sites like The Perfumed Court for $3-10. So that's at least a good 50 new smells a year if one were to allot a $6 weekly perfume budget.
Basenotes and Makeup Alley are the main places to find the layman's opinions, along with a fair number of amateur blogs. Like Yelp or Netflix ratings, reading between the lines is key. Sometimes it's possible to tell that a scent that one person hates is exactly the sort of thing you will love or vice versa, such as when a Makeup Alley user named fitmom2 declares Jessica Simpson's perfume, Fancy, "yummy, sweet, soft, romantic...If you love the smell of cupcakes, frosting, soft petals, and vanilla, this is superb." And although there's a whiff of mass hysteria about it, certain perfumes elicit such strong reactions that it's clear something is going on, whether it's Art or not.
Apres L'Ondee (forgive my lack of appropriate accents), a Guerlain scent first formulated in 1906, is widely held to be one such masterpiece. The name means "After the Rainstorm," and according to Turin and Sanchez it's one of the 20 best ever composed. Reading the peanut gallery reviews makes it sound even more like a magical elixer:
This makes me feel spent and hopeful, as though I'd been crying my eyes out and have just realized that things will get better. Chopin in a bottle.
Pale, impressionistic watercolor evoking the saddest damn song you ever heard, the one you keep playing over and over again because it puts you in such a good mood. Fleeting and lovely, emotional and nostalgic, this is a fragrance for a woman who doesn't really mind being a little bit sad.
Sometimes this fragrance moves me to tears of joy. When I wear it, I feel like I am being bathed in bright, bright, sunlight. I think it conjures some memory deep in my subconscious that soothes my soul. I don't wear it all the time because it is so difficult to obtain. I will never be without this.
A smell that makes you cry? I've cried at books, movies, songs, but never to my recollection a scent. So I bought a sample. And here I sit with the last few drops smudged into my wrist. It smells a little like sweet herbs, a little like rain, a little like powder, a bit like what I thought lavender smelled like before I had ever actually smelled lavender. I am not currently weeping. But maybe I lack a certain faculty of discernment, just as I can't tell an E flat from a B sharp by ear, or whether the baba ghanouj needs more salt or more garlic. It's a good smell, and distinctive, probably one I will be able to recognize easily if I ever smell it again.
But it dissipates almost instantly, which sort of defeats the point of perfume. Lately I've taken to wearing Bois D'Iris, a more modern variation on the theme that's a bit earthier (it smells like a flower that still has wet dirt on the roots) and lasts longer. The idea of finding The One, the single signature fragrance that somehow both expresses your worldview and locks your scent into the lizard brain of anyone whose nose gets close enough to your neck, has to abandoned if there is any hope of true connoisseurship. It'd be like trying to pick a single theme song for your whole life.
So maybe I will post some quick Turin and Sanchez style perfume reviews of the samples I've amassed, to see how I do at the scent-to-language translation. Or maybe that would be inane. In any case, I will certainly keep our audience updated the moment I find the smell that makes me cry.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Stuff I wrote in winter (so far)
For your consideration: my interview with Jarrett Dougherty of Screaming Females, one of the few new bands to catch my ears in recent months.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Stuff I wrote in fall
The December issue of Origivation -- in which I interview North Jersey punk powerhouse Screaming Females -- will be out very soon. In the meantime, check out their video for "Buried in the Nude."
Also, I never posted my November feature on intergenerational Philly duo Saudi Arabia, plus reviews of albums by Ola Podrida and Junk Culture. Caleb's take on the recent Feelies reissues is there, too! Behold:
Also, I never posted my November feature on intergenerational Philly duo Saudi Arabia, plus reviews of albums by Ola Podrida and Junk Culture. Caleb's take on the recent Feelies reissues is there, too! Behold:
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Linguistics 101
Every trip I take to Raleigh becomes fodder for the ongoing mental debate over moving back to N.C. The "Con" column includes the facts that all my friends are in Philadelphia and that 75% of this town is suburban sprawl hellishness anyway. In the "Pro" column: people are so much nicer here; I would get to hear words and expressions that I love but forget about when I'm away too long. Such as pine straw. I had not thought about pine straw in so long, but here it's everywhere and used to be such a fact of my daily life (often entangled in my hair). PINESTRAW. jeez.
Another expression I like a lot is the simple, all-purpose response "Do what?" I think of it written as a hyphenate or one word: "Do-what?" or "Dowhat?" or "Dowhatnow?" It can be used anytime you don't understand what someone has said to you either due to mishearing or it being rank nonsense, as demonstrated by the following T-day exchange at the appetizer table:
Great Uncle Warren: "What's this here green?"
Me: "It's salsa verde. It's made from tomatillos!"
Great Uncle Warren: "Dowhatnow?"
The "might could" and "might should" constructions are also faves. For my part, I tried to convince my cousin's wife that it's called a cheesesteak, not a "steak and cheese."
Another expression I like a lot is the simple, all-purpose response "Do what?" I think of it written as a hyphenate or one word: "Do-what?" or "Dowhat?" or "Dowhatnow?" It can be used anytime you don't understand what someone has said to you either due to mishearing or it being rank nonsense, as demonstrated by the following T-day exchange at the appetizer table:
Great Uncle Warren: "What's this here green?"
Me: "It's salsa verde. It's made from tomatillos!"
Great Uncle Warren: "Dowhatnow?"
The "might could" and "might should" constructions are also faves. For my part, I tried to convince my cousin's wife that it's called a cheesesteak, not a "steak and cheese."
Friday, November 27, 2009
F1rst Thanksgiving
My 12-pound turkey endured a near-second-death experience on Walnut Street (hanging on for dear life out of my flopped-over bike basket), a significant bounce down a flight of stairs (broken plastic bag), and a half-pound of butter, six ounces of chopped bacon, and a fistful of herbs inserted under its skin before roasting.
Taste-wise, it was brilliant.
My first independently-hosted Thanksgiving day started at 11 am, when my alarm went off. To remind me to cook. Seriously the best.
The turkey went in around 1 p.m. (dinnertime was 6, so I left a prudent finishing window). I put in laundry, basted. Watched 30 Rock (a Thanksgiving tradition for all-day kitchen marathons), basted. And on until around 3, when Shane showed up to sous with cumin-fennel-brilliance butternut soup, sweet cornbread, and green bean casserole.
I took the bird, deep brown and crispy-skinned, out of the oven at around 4. The thigh registered far above its goal temperature of 175F, but the end result still proved moist. Rivers of butter had burst through the skin steeped in the bottom of the pan with the juices of an onion, an orange, and a li'l herb bouquet. A few glugs of cider and brandy, some tedious fat-skimming, vigorous whisking, and 20 minutes of simmering=gravy.
In the meantime, Toby (along with a healthy mix of guests -- friends and once strangers -- from a few sectors of my life) showed up with his carving skills and a carrot souffle with brown sugar-pecan crumble on top. Also making appearances: a vat of mashed potatoes, improvised stuffing (from Randy and Virginia), bacon Brussels sprouts, cranberry plum sauce, pancetta macaroni and cheese (Andy), and plum galette.
I wish I had snapped some pictures, but I was way too wrapped up in the amazing bacon: Brussels sprout ratio to play photographer.
A few bottles of wine, a few helpings, one ukulele and two couches. Dishes done by many hands.
Take that, holidays 2009. You can't freak me out.
Taste-wise, it was brilliant.
My first independently-hosted Thanksgiving day started at 11 am, when my alarm went off. To remind me to cook. Seriously the best.
The turkey went in around 1 p.m. (dinnertime was 6, so I left a prudent finishing window). I put in laundry, basted. Watched 30 Rock (a Thanksgiving tradition for all-day kitchen marathons), basted. And on until around 3, when Shane showed up to sous with cumin-fennel-brilliance butternut soup, sweet cornbread, and green bean casserole.
I took the bird, deep brown and crispy-skinned, out of the oven at around 4. The thigh registered far above its goal temperature of 175F, but the end result still proved moist. Rivers of butter had burst through the skin steeped in the bottom of the pan with the juices of an onion, an orange, and a li'l herb bouquet. A few glugs of cider and brandy, some tedious fat-skimming, vigorous whisking, and 20 minutes of simmering=gravy.
In the meantime, Toby (along with a healthy mix of guests -- friends and once strangers -- from a few sectors of my life) showed up with his carving skills and a carrot souffle with brown sugar-pecan crumble on top. Also making appearances: a vat of mashed potatoes, improvised stuffing (from Randy and Virginia), bacon Brussels sprouts, cranberry plum sauce, pancetta macaroni and cheese (Andy), and plum galette.
I wish I had snapped some pictures, but I was way too wrapped up in the amazing bacon: Brussels sprout ratio to play photographer.
A few bottles of wine, a few helpings, one ukulele and two couches. Dishes done by many hands.
Take that, holidays 2009. You can't freak me out.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
In Which I Grow Old, etc.
Cintra Wilson, one of the New York Times Styles Section's dastardly critical shoppers, got mega called out for being a snotty, fat-shaming harpy as a result of her review of J.C. Penney a few weeks ago. I do have a sentimental attachment to that particular department store, especially the location within walking distance from my Raleigh home, from whence all my clothes came until I was about 11 and rebelled (and even after that, a good percentage still did -- remember the frustration of combing through the clearance racks in high school, Alex, trying to find the one lone garment that was cheap enough to purchase and also not hideous?) But last Thursday, Wilson took on Ann Taylor, and I found parts of the article a lot more wounding than anything from her diatribe against dowdy suburbanites -- despite the fact that her overall review is positive:
"My shorthand for the look was always 'capitalist burqa' or 'corporate office submissive': cubicle-wear of so-so quality for the single girl in her late 20s whose self-esteem has been almost beaten to death by the beauty industrial complex and whose decent education has been punished with a thanklessly demanding office job. She’s a can-do Cinderella who has always had to change the oil in her own pumpkin and is too overworked to have a healthy social life outside the workplace. Her outfits must therefore be corporate-respectable, yet body-conscious enough to attract a nice tax attorney husband."
What I'm saying is I broke down during the first week of my job and purchased a garment from Ann Taylor -- a green short-sleeve sweater on sale for $9.99. It's become the opposite of a good-luck outfit or talismanic accessory. I wear it a lot but but always feel vaguely defeated.
Then, today, I ended up reading "Goodbye to All That," sort of by accident. I was taking a break from another pilgrimage to adulthood: walking the three miles from my workplace to the car dealership where I was to pick up the new used vehicle I bought two days ago. This trek happened to involve a stretch of the Baltimore Pike I walked many times in college, although the chain stores are a little different than they were when I graduated in 2007 (I still can't believe the Baja Fresh shut down, or that the supermarket now has a Starbucks inside it). So I went to Borders to read trashy mags, as I was wont to do in college, with girlfriends or sometimes alone.
I got bored of the mags and pulled out a borrowed copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem, which has been my public transport reading for a while now. I was finally to the last essay, which is of course "Goodbye to All That." Joan Didion is obviously no corporate submissive, but it seems the same tragedy befalls confessional essayists and office drones alike:
"That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things in fact are irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and every procrastination, every mistake, every word, all of it."
After that I walked the rest of the way to the dealership (next to the Babies-R-Us, across from the Kohl's), thinking about how my friends can be roughly separated into those who think about The Future and those who won't or don't or can't yet. I finished signing all the paperwork with a woman named Cheryl whose cell phone kept bursting into the chorus of "Single Ladies." She got the mechanic to take my ugly little economy car to the gas station so I'd have a full tank. I drove back down the Pike and almost took a familiar left turn, with the intention of spending the rest of my remaining free time in the college library, where I have alumni borrowing privileges and still know the guest password for the computers. But I didn't want to go in my office clothes, so I just went back to work.
"My shorthand for the look was always 'capitalist burqa' or 'corporate office submissive': cubicle-wear of so-so quality for the single girl in her late 20s whose self-esteem has been almost beaten to death by the beauty industrial complex and whose decent education has been punished with a thanklessly demanding office job. She’s a can-do Cinderella who has always had to change the oil in her own pumpkin and is too overworked to have a healthy social life outside the workplace. Her outfits must therefore be corporate-respectable, yet body-conscious enough to attract a nice tax attorney husband."
What I'm saying is I broke down during the first week of my job and purchased a garment from Ann Taylor -- a green short-sleeve sweater on sale for $9.99. It's become the opposite of a good-luck outfit or talismanic accessory. I wear it a lot but but always feel vaguely defeated.
Then, today, I ended up reading "Goodbye to All That," sort of by accident. I was taking a break from another pilgrimage to adulthood: walking the three miles from my workplace to the car dealership where I was to pick up the new used vehicle I bought two days ago. This trek happened to involve a stretch of the Baltimore Pike I walked many times in college, although the chain stores are a little different than they were when I graduated in 2007 (I still can't believe the Baja Fresh shut down, or that the supermarket now has a Starbucks inside it). So I went to Borders to read trashy mags, as I was wont to do in college, with girlfriends or sometimes alone.
I got bored of the mags and pulled out a borrowed copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem, which has been my public transport reading for a while now. I was finally to the last essay, which is of course "Goodbye to All That." Joan Didion is obviously no corporate submissive, but it seems the same tragedy befalls confessional essayists and office drones alike:
"That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things in fact are irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and every procrastination, every mistake, every word, all of it."
After that I walked the rest of the way to the dealership (next to the Babies-R-Us, across from the Kohl's), thinking about how my friends can be roughly separated into those who think about The Future and those who won't or don't or can't yet. I finished signing all the paperwork with a woman named Cheryl whose cell phone kept bursting into the chorus of "Single Ladies." She got the mechanic to take my ugly little economy car to the gas station so I'd have a full tank. I drove back down the Pike and almost took a familiar left turn, with the intention of spending the rest of my remaining free time in the college library, where I have alumni borrowing privileges and still know the guest password for the computers. But I didn't want to go in my office clothes, so I just went back to work.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
New Origivation writings
The October issue of Origivation is so, so out right now. I've got features in there on These United States and the Independent Music Awards. Read away.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Wire and Doctor Who, together at last
Sort of, anyway.
Clarke Peters (aka The Wire's Lester Freamon) will voice a character in a new animated Doctor Who spinoff. I have pretty much zero intention of watching this, but we came awfully close to a fave TV show 'splosion for me. Get Ian McShane as the voice of K-9 Mark XII or whatever and we'll see.
Clarke Peters (aka The Wire's Lester Freamon) will voice a character in a new animated Doctor Who spinoff. I have pretty much zero intention of watching this, but we came awfully close to a fave TV show 'splosion for me. Get Ian McShane as the voice of K-9 Mark XII or whatever and we'll see.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
DW Scarf Nooz Update #2
I have about 20 rows of the greenish color to do before I have to wait for that fucking khaki shade. DAMN YOU CASCAAAAAAADE! DAAAAAAMN YOUUUUUUUU
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Important news
I've just finished the first color section of the Season 14 Doctor Who scarf. I'm using Cascade 220 in the colors mapped out by Tara.
The biggest obstacle between now and Halloween (besides the 10' of 12"-wide garter stitch) is that the tan color is on back order from the website I used to buy the yarn. They're supposed to ship it on Thursday, so I'm hopeful that I'll get it by Monday. I can still do 76 rows (9.63 percent) before I need it.
Further bulletins as events warrant.
The biggest obstacle between now and Halloween (besides the 10' of 12"-wide garter stitch) is that the tan color is on back order from the website I used to buy the yarn. They're supposed to ship it on Thursday, so I'm hopeful that I'll get it by Monday. I can still do 76 rows (9.63 percent) before I need it.
Further bulletins as events warrant.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
In which I appear in the paper
The first time I was ever in a newspaper, I was 10 years old and wearing a black-and-red flannel shirt and a purple bike helmet. My similarly Angela Chase-ly-clad elementary school friends and I were walking our bikes across Six Forks Road on our way home from elementary school, probably about to go to the Taco Bell and get cups for water and then fill them with all the different horrible sodas. In the caption, my name was "Alex Taylor." Fact checking!
Fast forward 10 years and I have a sheaf of college newspaper blathering and a healthy sprinkle of my own electronic opinion strewn about the web. So it's kind of weird for me to be like "Look, I'm in the paper!" but here I am, an expert witness to tabloid feuds and contemporary ladymade music. My mom called me at the ungodly hour of 11:30 this morning to ask if I was "Philadelphia-based, feminist music writer (and former Raleigh resident) Alexandra Jones" -- "That couldn't be a coincidence, right?"
Wanna take bets on long before The Rachel Maddow Show comes callin'?
Fast forward 10 years and I have a sheaf of college newspaper blathering and a healthy sprinkle of my own electronic opinion strewn about the web. So it's kind of weird for me to be like "Look, I'm in the paper!" but here I am, a
Wanna take bets on long before The Rachel Maddow Show comes callin'?
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Young, adult.
You may have seen the recent Facebook meme sweeping the newsfeeds of the over-educated/underemployed set: 15 Books in 15 minutes. Basically, one names the first 15 books that spring to mind, with the idea that those are the most influential and important to the individual in question.
After mentally scrolling through the recently-read (like 2666, which is every bit as good as all the slavering reviews would have you believe) and the big name (Proust, Joyce, Nabokov), I realized that a lot of the books that I remember best and think about most often are the ones I read between ages 8 to 14. I know there’s a whole cult of grown-up YA enthusiasts out there, and blogger Lizzie Skurnick has a book coming out about rereading preteen girl classics. But worried that revisiting my childhood novels would ruin my foggy memories, I generally avoided the kids’ section at the Carnegie Public in favor of trying, yet again, to slog through Infinite Jest.
My particular poison was always of the historical-fantasy-adventure variety. First came the Narnia books (the Christian overtones of which totally escaped me as a child), then an intense devotion to Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain Chronicles. I didn’t just like them; I believed them. Eventually I knew I would be able to figure out some sort of spell or portal to get myself into those magical kingdoms. Life in the suburbs of Raleigh (which was all I knew existed) was just too unbearably boring. I was in a constant state of anticipation, just waiting until Aslan showed up to offer me a lift on his big golden haunches. Reading Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy last winter, I was actually glad they hadn’t been published yet when I was 12 because I know I would have been obsessed with them to the point of despair – a fated and passionate-yet-chaste romance always sealed the deal for me; I would have been in love with Will 4-eva.
After Alex posted her 15 books (which are pretty similar to mine anyway – all through middle and high school we would trade books or read them at the same time so as to have someone intelligent to discuss them with), and I became lost in my reverie of YA favorites, one title in particular drifted into my brain and wouldn’t let go until I marched into the brightly-painted children’s area of the library, checked it out, and read it nonstop that night.
I remember seeing the eerie black cover in the Douglas Elementary library and being too scared to check it out in second grade; I don’t think I worked up the nerve until probably fourth (sadly I can't find an image of the spooky original cover). I read it so many times those last two years that I considered stealing it when I left for middle school. Even though I hadn’t thought of it in ages, as soon as the idea hit me I remembered the author’s name and oddly-spelled title down to the letter: The Perilous Gard by Elizabeth Marie Pope.
Pope was of that particularly well-heeled variety of children’s authors; she was in the class of 1940 at Bryn Mawr and went on to get a Ph.D. in English Literature from Johns Hopkins. The Perilous Gard is set in 1558, just before Elizabeth I came to power, and full of the nerdy sort of historical detail only a particularly scholarly author would include. I thought I had caught an error at one point; a character refers to the “fields of corn” behind the castle. Ha, thought I, they totally did not know about maize in England until the 1600s! Of course a minimal amount of research proved me wrong; corn is a generic term for any grain in British English (our corn, maize, is called sweetcorn).
Much like Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley (whom Pope presumably knew to some extent, as they were both founding members of the Society for Creative Anachronism), The Perilous Gard concerns the conflict between Christianity and older pagan belief. Kate, the main character, is a smart and practical girl who regards the old stories as superstition at first. Unlike MZB’s hippied-out Powerful Mystic Moon Womyn vision, though, in Pope’s book the Christians are the good guys. The narrative is based on the Scottish ballad Tam Lin, and the Fairy People are scary as hell.
Not that you are going to rush out and purchase this book or anything, but I still don’t want to spoil all the plot details – suffice it to say that the main character, Kate, is trying to save her friend Christopher from the Fairy People, who are going to burn him alive as a sacrifice on All Hallow’s Eve. She ends up living among them as a servant in their lair of tunnels deep underground while scheming how to free them both.
So this is where I get to my actual point: what makes this book a kids’ book? Because it is fucking dark – literally, too, ha! When Kate first joins the other human servants, she is led to a pitch-black cave chamber and thinks the snorting and flopping sounds she hears are made by sleeping pigs. It turns out the three other women are just drugged into a complete stupor 24/7. The Green Lady (the Fairy Queen, basically) tries to get Kate to accept the narcotic potion, too, warning her ominously that it will make “the weight” easier to bear.
Later, looking up at the rock ceiling of the servants’ chamber (which “hung in great laps and folds and waves and pendulous bulges of stone”), Kate experiences her first attack of the weight:
And then suddenly all she knew of the place as it really was came rushing over her. The earth and the stone; the blind passages worming their way under the ground; the slippery paths with the slime under foot; the cold air and the darkness; and always, everywhere, pressing about pit and cavern and passage, the incalculable weight of the rock. Her breath was coming quickly now, in light shallow gasps, as if she had no room to draw it. The fear that the cave roof was bulging and collapsing had been a fear of appearances, something she could argue away. The agonized horror she felt now was of the reality of the Hill itself – the tons and tons of actual earth and stone lying above her, closing down on her, shutting her in. It was like some suffocating dream of being buried alive; or rather it was like the moment of awakening from that dream to find that it was true.
I don’t know about you but that’s one of the best descriptions of intense depression I think I’ve ever read (except instead of rock, of course, it’s Life in general that’s the weight). Her fairy-boss is somewhat sympathetic and entreats her again to let the Lady take away the weight. “ ‘It will return…at its own time.’”
Yet this book is considered appropriate for children despite its heavy themes (don’t forget that whole human sacrifice element). What then are the requirements of YA lit compared to grown up books? No sex, nothing too violent, clear language with no stylistic trickery a la our dear departed DFW. Protagonists who are children or adolescents (although certainly “real” books can have young central characters). Most importantly, perhaps, is an unambiguous moral tone, Good vs. Evil. We can’t be confusing our young ‘uns with mixed messages about right and wrong, and that sort of reductiveness is the real reason (in my view) that most kids’ books don’t qualify as Great Literature, no matter how classic.
But reading this book as an adult, I think the Good vs. Evil battle is more complex and subtle than I grasped in fourth grade, although I apparently grasped something that made me latch on to the memory of reading it for over ten years. The struggle is, on the surface, that whole pagan vs. Christian thing. But Christianity only ever helps Kate in the most practical, least spiritual ways possible. At a crucial moment, the Green Lady tries one final time to lull her into senselessness with an incantation. Kate maintains her presence of mind by squeezing a metal cross necklace so tightly that her clenched hand fills with blood. The real victory is her intelligence and logic prevailing over the mysticism and eerie beauty of the Fairy Folk. In the end, the Fairy Folk even become slightly sympathetic; there’s a sense that they are doomed to retreat further into the mythical realm and eventually die out altogether. It’s really kind of sad, especially since some of them actually had begun to show her kindness. But there’s an air of historical inevitability to the conclusion. Logic just wins out in the end.
I guess that’s sort of what happened to me, too. At some point, probably much later than is normal or healthy, I realized that no closet door was going to transport me to Narnia, and that Taran and Eilonwy were just characters invented by some old dude. Around the same time I realized that reading fantasy books was totally lame, socially speaking. After that it was all Catcher in the Rye and Catch-22 and etc (although I do have to wonder why dystopian novels like 1984 and Brave New World get a free pass instead of being tarred with the genre brush). And I’m pretty fine with that, although if I am missing out on some awesome fantasy books for grownups, by all means let me know. I kind of doubt it-- though I have recently discovered that fantasy art calendars are hilariously amazing. For some reason, fantasy stories just seem to work better when they have the streamlined language and morals (and no tacky sex, ugh) of children’s books. I’m not necessarily sure I’m any smarter now than I was at age 12 anyway. It’s hard to say whether I would have enjoyed The Perilous Gard as much if I didn’t already have that strong nostalgic pull. I do know that if I have kids, this will definitely be on their bookshelf.
After mentally scrolling through the recently-read (like 2666, which is every bit as good as all the slavering reviews would have you believe) and the big name (Proust, Joyce, Nabokov), I realized that a lot of the books that I remember best and think about most often are the ones I read between ages 8 to 14. I know there’s a whole cult of grown-up YA enthusiasts out there, and blogger Lizzie Skurnick has a book coming out about rereading preteen girl classics. But worried that revisiting my childhood novels would ruin my foggy memories, I generally avoided the kids’ section at the Carnegie Public in favor of trying, yet again, to slog through Infinite Jest.
My particular poison was always of the historical-fantasy-adventure variety. First came the Narnia books (the Christian overtones of which totally escaped me as a child), then an intense devotion to Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain Chronicles. I didn’t just like them; I believed them. Eventually I knew I would be able to figure out some sort of spell or portal to get myself into those magical kingdoms. Life in the suburbs of Raleigh (which was all I knew existed) was just too unbearably boring. I was in a constant state of anticipation, just waiting until Aslan showed up to offer me a lift on his big golden haunches. Reading Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy last winter, I was actually glad they hadn’t been published yet when I was 12 because I know I would have been obsessed with them to the point of despair – a fated and passionate-yet-chaste romance always sealed the deal for me; I would have been in love with Will 4-eva.
After Alex posted her 15 books (which are pretty similar to mine anyway – all through middle and high school we would trade books or read them at the same time so as to have someone intelligent to discuss them with), and I became lost in my reverie of YA favorites, one title in particular drifted into my brain and wouldn’t let go until I marched into the brightly-painted children’s area of the library, checked it out, and read it nonstop that night.
I remember seeing the eerie black cover in the Douglas Elementary library and being too scared to check it out in second grade; I don’t think I worked up the nerve until probably fourth (sadly I can't find an image of the spooky original cover). I read it so many times those last two years that I considered stealing it when I left for middle school. Even though I hadn’t thought of it in ages, as soon as the idea hit me I remembered the author’s name and oddly-spelled title down to the letter: The Perilous Gard by Elizabeth Marie Pope.
Pope was of that particularly well-heeled variety of children’s authors; she was in the class of 1940 at Bryn Mawr and went on to get a Ph.D. in English Literature from Johns Hopkins. The Perilous Gard is set in 1558, just before Elizabeth I came to power, and full of the nerdy sort of historical detail only a particularly scholarly author would include. I thought I had caught an error at one point; a character refers to the “fields of corn” behind the castle. Ha, thought I, they totally did not know about maize in England until the 1600s! Of course a minimal amount of research proved me wrong; corn is a generic term for any grain in British English (our corn, maize, is called sweetcorn).
Much like Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley (whom Pope presumably knew to some extent, as they were both founding members of the Society for Creative Anachronism), The Perilous Gard concerns the conflict between Christianity and older pagan belief. Kate, the main character, is a smart and practical girl who regards the old stories as superstition at first. Unlike MZB’s hippied-out Powerful Mystic Moon Womyn vision, though, in Pope’s book the Christians are the good guys. The narrative is based on the Scottish ballad Tam Lin, and the Fairy People are scary as hell.
Not that you are going to rush out and purchase this book or anything, but I still don’t want to spoil all the plot details – suffice it to say that the main character, Kate, is trying to save her friend Christopher from the Fairy People, who are going to burn him alive as a sacrifice on All Hallow’s Eve. She ends up living among them as a servant in their lair of tunnels deep underground while scheming how to free them both.
So this is where I get to my actual point: what makes this book a kids’ book? Because it is fucking dark – literally, too, ha! When Kate first joins the other human servants, she is led to a pitch-black cave chamber and thinks the snorting and flopping sounds she hears are made by sleeping pigs. It turns out the three other women are just drugged into a complete stupor 24/7. The Green Lady (the Fairy Queen, basically) tries to get Kate to accept the narcotic potion, too, warning her ominously that it will make “the weight” easier to bear.
Later, looking up at the rock ceiling of the servants’ chamber (which “hung in great laps and folds and waves and pendulous bulges of stone”), Kate experiences her first attack of the weight:
And then suddenly all she knew of the place as it really was came rushing over her. The earth and the stone; the blind passages worming their way under the ground; the slippery paths with the slime under foot; the cold air and the darkness; and always, everywhere, pressing about pit and cavern and passage, the incalculable weight of the rock. Her breath was coming quickly now, in light shallow gasps, as if she had no room to draw it. The fear that the cave roof was bulging and collapsing had been a fear of appearances, something she could argue away. The agonized horror she felt now was of the reality of the Hill itself – the tons and tons of actual earth and stone lying above her, closing down on her, shutting her in. It was like some suffocating dream of being buried alive; or rather it was like the moment of awakening from that dream to find that it was true.
I don’t know about you but that’s one of the best descriptions of intense depression I think I’ve ever read (except instead of rock, of course, it’s Life in general that’s the weight). Her fairy-boss is somewhat sympathetic and entreats her again to let the Lady take away the weight. “ ‘It will return…at its own time.’”
Yet this book is considered appropriate for children despite its heavy themes (don’t forget that whole human sacrifice element). What then are the requirements of YA lit compared to grown up books? No sex, nothing too violent, clear language with no stylistic trickery a la our dear departed DFW. Protagonists who are children or adolescents (although certainly “real” books can have young central characters). Most importantly, perhaps, is an unambiguous moral tone, Good vs. Evil. We can’t be confusing our young ‘uns with mixed messages about right and wrong, and that sort of reductiveness is the real reason (in my view) that most kids’ books don’t qualify as Great Literature, no matter how classic.
But reading this book as an adult, I think the Good vs. Evil battle is more complex and subtle than I grasped in fourth grade, although I apparently grasped something that made me latch on to the memory of reading it for over ten years. The struggle is, on the surface, that whole pagan vs. Christian thing. But Christianity only ever helps Kate in the most practical, least spiritual ways possible. At a crucial moment, the Green Lady tries one final time to lull her into senselessness with an incantation. Kate maintains her presence of mind by squeezing a metal cross necklace so tightly that her clenched hand fills with blood. The real victory is her intelligence and logic prevailing over the mysticism and eerie beauty of the Fairy Folk. In the end, the Fairy Folk even become slightly sympathetic; there’s a sense that they are doomed to retreat further into the mythical realm and eventually die out altogether. It’s really kind of sad, especially since some of them actually had begun to show her kindness. But there’s an air of historical inevitability to the conclusion. Logic just wins out in the end.
I guess that’s sort of what happened to me, too. At some point, probably much later than is normal or healthy, I realized that no closet door was going to transport me to Narnia, and that Taran and Eilonwy were just characters invented by some old dude. Around the same time I realized that reading fantasy books was totally lame, socially speaking. After that it was all Catcher in the Rye and Catch-22 and etc (although I do have to wonder why dystopian novels like 1984 and Brave New World get a free pass instead of being tarred with the genre brush). And I’m pretty fine with that, although if I am missing out on some awesome fantasy books for grownups, by all means let me know. I kind of doubt it-- though I have recently discovered that fantasy art calendars are hilariously amazing. For some reason, fantasy stories just seem to work better when they have the streamlined language and morals (and no tacky sex, ugh) of children’s books. I’m not necessarily sure I’m any smarter now than I was at age 12 anyway. It’s hard to say whether I would have enjoyed The Perilous Gard as much if I didn’t already have that strong nostalgic pull. I do know that if I have kids, this will definitely be on their bookshelf.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
EXCHANGE: A one-act
CAST
Schultz, a neurotic
Michelle, a dark pragmatist
Alex, a wizard's baker
Rich, a cheesemonger
Firestone, a firestone
Setting: Int. my living room, post beer-buying and Con Air-watching and pie-eating.
[EVERYONE discusses the question of whether one would rather be able to pause reality or fast-forward reality. MICHELLE proclaims her affinity for one or the other.]
MICHELLE: I would choose fast-forward. Then you could just skip all this bullshit in your twenties and wake up when you're 50.
[GENERAL verbal scuffle about the viability of this option; it is stated that 50 is not the new 20, probably, if I remember correctly.]
ALEX: Yeah, 50 is the prime of your life -- IF YOU'RE A TIME LORD.
[GENERAL giggles and neutral reactions to this statement.]
FIRESTONE: Yeah. If you're a GAYLORD.
[ALL PRESENT guffaw heartily at this bon mot.]
END
Schultz, a neurotic
Michelle, a dark pragmatist
Alex, a wizard's baker
Rich, a cheesemonger
Firestone, a firestone
Setting: Int. my living room, post beer-buying and Con Air-watching and pie-eating.
[EVERYONE discusses the question of whether one would rather be able to pause reality or fast-forward reality. MICHELLE proclaims her affinity for one or the other.]
MICHELLE: I would choose fast-forward. Then you could just skip all this bullshit in your twenties and wake up when you're 50.
[GENERAL verbal scuffle about the viability of this option; it is stated that 50 is not the new 20, probably, if I remember correctly.]
ALEX: Yeah, 50 is the prime of your life -- IF YOU'RE A TIME LORD.
[GENERAL giggles and neutral reactions to this statement.]
FIRESTONE: Yeah. If you're a GAYLORD.
[ALL PRESENT guffaw heartily at this bon mot.]
END
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
New Origivation Magazine feature
I wrote another feature for Philly music rag Origivation on acoustic/rock artist Kevin McQuiston. Check me out!
If you don't want to download a pdf (although there are other cool pieces in the issue too), here's the text.
Emerging
with Alexandra Jones
Kevin McQuiston is probably happier than you. Not because Sway, the first EP from his latest project, Refurb, blends slick-as- hell rock with heartrending, emotional lyrics. Not because he gives the impression of being the hardest-working musician in Philadelphia, burning out his BlackBerry to promote his projects. Not because the way he’s selling Sway is a new platform that could change how bands market their music online.
He’s happy, it seems, because he wants to be.
Among other faiths, McQuiston identifies as a Buddhist, and applies a beatific, live-and-let-live philosophy to daily life and relationships. “[Being happy]’s not easy, but it’s really pretty simple,” he explains – to passengers in the cab he drives for his day job. “You do this, you do this, and if that doesn’t work, you try that.”
As chill as he can be in person, however, McQuiston is dedicated to his art, his band and its marketing. He’s gone beyond the independent musician’s typical marketing toolkit with “Karma Currency,” an online platform that gives potential listeners a few different ways to pay for music. Would-be listeners can choose between four options to acquire digital downloads of individual tracks: Pay “market value,” the iTunes standard of 99 cents; pay what you want, à la Radiohead’s In Rainbows; accept the track for free as a gift from the artist; or pledge to do a good deed – helping others, animals or the environment, perhaps – in exchange for the download. The last option requires users to type in how they’ll pay it forward, which might seem like more of a guilt trip than it’s worth. McQuiston, of course, sees the good in the system.
“You’re not responsible for what other people think, say and do, just what you think, say and do,” he says of the honor code implicit in Karma Currency. “You can actually ask for it [as] a gift. If they’re so harried that they can’t find a kind moment, we’ll give it as a gift. We’ll do the kind moment for them.”
While McQuiston’s ostensible goal is to gain exposure for his music, the Karma Currency model fits him in particular. When his last band, acoustic-pop outfit KMB missed out on a record deal when their A&R man left his record label, McQuiston
turned away from rock ‘n’ roll fun and entered an interfaith seminary in New York City.
But hold that thought – McQuiston is no Scott Stapp. “I don’t think I’ve ever written a non-secular song,” he says. “And yet everything I write, because I write about love - love is my religion. I might wrap it in Buddhism and Taoism and Quaker Unitarianism, but to me, really, everything’s about love. Love and fear, [those are] the only two things in the universe. Everything’s based in one or the other, and I base mine in love.”
True enough - although the songs on Sway evoke the longing, bitterness, and loneliness that can accompany unrequited love more than its warm, fuzzy counterpart. Despite McQuiston’s cloud-nine disposition, his muses are lost loves, or loves that
never were.
“Somebody asked me the other day, ‘What’s the harder part, writing the words or writing the melody?’” the singer explains. “And I said the hard part is living through it. Having that thing mean enough to you that you need to express it. I have to cough this shit up on a regular basis, so, to me, it’s gotta kinda mean something.”
What made McQuiston transition from acoustic music to electrified rock? “It could have been like a midlife crisis, I suppose,” he says. “I bought a Les Paul and a Marshall [amplifier], and I’d always kinda had this sorta Ani DiFranco-meets-Chris-
Isaak-on-crack kinda [thing].”
Refurb, however, is a four-piece outfit that sets McQuiston’s songs, from cool brush-off tunes to gritty breakup missives to straightforward rock ‘n’ roll. They’re billed as “indie-tinged alt-rock,” but the music doesn’t bristle with quirky-as-hell instrumentation or sound like it was recorded in a bedroom closet. What defines Refurb is the combination of McQuiston’s deeply felt poetry and his band’s ultra-tight but soulful vibe – a solid formula that would benefit from neither bells nor whistles. “Everybody Likes You” is the badass riff-rocker of the EP, while the bittersweet “Too Much For You” boasts a vibrant, voicelike guitar melody.
The band is McQuiston’s project, but he gives even more credit to the other three members of Refurb as he does himself. Darnell Hillary plays drums, Ron Telfor (who was also involved with KMB) is on bass, and Kirk Abernathy rocks keyboards and guitar. “People just go ‘You’re so lucky,’ and I just let them be themselves,” McQuiston says of Refurb’s sweet skills. Although he has to be his own street team, the setup works for him. “On those nights when I’ve been online for like eight hours promoting a show, or sending out MySpace bulletins or flyering or press releasing or whatever, and I’m
like ‘[I wish] I had a regular band where the people help me out.’ And then I remember, these guys, they show up and they kill, and they’re so underpaid by me compared to the other people that they play for,” he says. “They play with me because they like my music, and they like what they do, and it works out pretty good.”
McQuiston has also been working with Sway’s producer, Mike McCarthy, in yet another project. “Don’t Miss You Like I Used To,” available on McQuiston’s personal MySpace, is a smoldering, “Sexy Sadie”-esque ballad boosted by McCarthy’s near-jazz flugelhorn melodies.
He’s not yet sure what will happen with Refurb – a soul project next, maybe? “I know I’m changing styles,” he says. “I’ve been listening to a lot of Amy Winehouse…”
Wherever he goes, McQuiston seems to have it – whatever “it” is – figured out.
“When I was younger, I wanted a deal,” he says. “I wanted a record deal and a limo deal and an actress girlfriend deal, and now all I want is to make a living from my craft.”
If you don't want to download a pdf (although there are other cool pieces in the issue too), here's the text.
Emerging
with Alexandra Jones
Kevin McQuiston is probably happier than you. Not because Sway, the first EP from his latest project, Refurb, blends slick-as- hell rock with heartrending, emotional lyrics. Not because he gives the impression of being the hardest-working musician in Philadelphia, burning out his BlackBerry to promote his projects. Not because the way he’s selling Sway is a new platform that could change how bands market their music online.
He’s happy, it seems, because he wants to be.
Among other faiths, McQuiston identifies as a Buddhist, and applies a beatific, live-and-let-live philosophy to daily life and relationships. “[Being happy]’s not easy, but it’s really pretty simple,” he explains – to passengers in the cab he drives for his day job. “You do this, you do this, and if that doesn’t work, you try that.”
As chill as he can be in person, however, McQuiston is dedicated to his art, his band and its marketing. He’s gone beyond the independent musician’s typical marketing toolkit with “Karma Currency,” an online platform that gives potential listeners a few different ways to pay for music. Would-be listeners can choose between four options to acquire digital downloads of individual tracks: Pay “market value,” the iTunes standard of 99 cents; pay what you want, à la Radiohead’s In Rainbows; accept the track for free as a gift from the artist; or pledge to do a good deed – helping others, animals or the environment, perhaps – in exchange for the download. The last option requires users to type in how they’ll pay it forward, which might seem like more of a guilt trip than it’s worth. McQuiston, of course, sees the good in the system.
“You’re not responsible for what other people think, say and do, just what you think, say and do,” he says of the honor code implicit in Karma Currency. “You can actually ask for it [as] a gift. If they’re so harried that they can’t find a kind moment, we’ll give it as a gift. We’ll do the kind moment for them.”
While McQuiston’s ostensible goal is to gain exposure for his music, the Karma Currency model fits him in particular. When his last band, acoustic-pop outfit KMB missed out on a record deal when their A&R man left his record label, McQuiston
turned away from rock ‘n’ roll fun and entered an interfaith seminary in New York City.
But hold that thought – McQuiston is no Scott Stapp. “I don’t think I’ve ever written a non-secular song,” he says. “And yet everything I write, because I write about love - love is my religion. I might wrap it in Buddhism and Taoism and Quaker Unitarianism, but to me, really, everything’s about love. Love and fear, [those are] the only two things in the universe. Everything’s based in one or the other, and I base mine in love.”
True enough - although the songs on Sway evoke the longing, bitterness, and loneliness that can accompany unrequited love more than its warm, fuzzy counterpart. Despite McQuiston’s cloud-nine disposition, his muses are lost loves, or loves that
never were.
“Somebody asked me the other day, ‘What’s the harder part, writing the words or writing the melody?’” the singer explains. “And I said the hard part is living through it. Having that thing mean enough to you that you need to express it. I have to cough this shit up on a regular basis, so, to me, it’s gotta kinda mean something.”
What made McQuiston transition from acoustic music to electrified rock? “It could have been like a midlife crisis, I suppose,” he says. “I bought a Les Paul and a Marshall [amplifier], and I’d always kinda had this sorta Ani DiFranco-meets-Chris-
Isaak-on-crack kinda [thing].”
Refurb, however, is a four-piece outfit that sets McQuiston’s songs, from cool brush-off tunes to gritty breakup missives to straightforward rock ‘n’ roll. They’re billed as “indie-tinged alt-rock,” but the music doesn’t bristle with quirky-as-hell instrumentation or sound like it was recorded in a bedroom closet. What defines Refurb is the combination of McQuiston’s deeply felt poetry and his band’s ultra-tight but soulful vibe – a solid formula that would benefit from neither bells nor whistles. “Everybody Likes You” is the badass riff-rocker of the EP, while the bittersweet “Too Much For You” boasts a vibrant, voicelike guitar melody.
The band is McQuiston’s project, but he gives even more credit to the other three members of Refurb as he does himself. Darnell Hillary plays drums, Ron Telfor (who was also involved with KMB) is on bass, and Kirk Abernathy rocks keyboards and guitar. “People just go ‘You’re so lucky,’ and I just let them be themselves,” McQuiston says of Refurb’s sweet skills. Although he has to be his own street team, the setup works for him. “On those nights when I’ve been online for like eight hours promoting a show, or sending out MySpace bulletins or flyering or press releasing or whatever, and I’m
like ‘[I wish] I had a regular band where the people help me out.’ And then I remember, these guys, they show up and they kill, and they’re so underpaid by me compared to the other people that they play for,” he says. “They play with me because they like my music, and they like what they do, and it works out pretty good.”
McQuiston has also been working with Sway’s producer, Mike McCarthy, in yet another project. “Don’t Miss You Like I Used To,” available on McQuiston’s personal MySpace, is a smoldering, “Sexy Sadie”-esque ballad boosted by McCarthy’s near-jazz flugelhorn melodies.
He’s not yet sure what will happen with Refurb – a soul project next, maybe? “I know I’m changing styles,” he says. “I’ve been listening to a lot of Amy Winehouse…”
Wherever he goes, McQuiston seems to have it – whatever “it” is – figured out.
“When I was younger, I wanted a deal,” he says. “I wanted a record deal and a limo deal and an actress girlfriend deal, and now all I want is to make a living from my craft.”
Monday, May 25, 2009
Relevant
As you probably don't know, I am slightly enamoured with David Mitchell, the less conventionally attractive (and much nerdier, neurotic, and black-humoured) half of the Mitchell & Webb comedy duo. He and Robert Webb (voted 88th sexiest man in the world, as I learned watching Would I Lie to You?) star in The Mitchell & Webb Situation, That Mitchell & Webb Look, and Peep Show, which are all awesome and worth watching right this very moment.
Despite the similarities and heavy borrowing between US and UK television, they've got one sort of programming over there that's no longer around over here: panel shows. These are part game show, part chat show -- basically, a game show with no prizes whose contestants are minor celebrities, TV personalities, and comedians. The entertainment lies in the competition and the contestants saying funny and ostensibly off-the-cuff stuff. Would I Lie to You? is one, along with my favorite, QI, which is hosted by Stephen Fry and would never take off in the US because of its emphasis on knowledge and wit. David is a regular on WILTY? and frequently appears on QI -- there are more, god knows. While most of the TV comedians here (Mencia, Larry the Cable Guy, Colin fucking Quinn) totally suck, many of those on these shows are actually funny and quick witted (plus they can swear): Jimmy Carr, Rob Brydon, etc.
ANYWAY. In my hunting around for more of Mitchell's work, I found this, even though it's sponsored by some eco-friendly Euro equivalent of Axe body spray or something:
Go watch all of them right now.
Despite the similarities and heavy borrowing between US and UK television, they've got one sort of programming over there that's no longer around over here: panel shows. These are part game show, part chat show -- basically, a game show with no prizes whose contestants are minor celebrities, TV personalities, and comedians. The entertainment lies in the competition and the contestants saying funny and ostensibly off-the-cuff stuff. Would I Lie to You? is one, along with my favorite, QI, which is hosted by Stephen Fry and would never take off in the US because of its emphasis on knowledge and wit. David is a regular on WILTY? and frequently appears on QI -- there are more, god knows. While most of the TV comedians here (Mencia, Larry the Cable Guy, Colin fucking Quinn) totally suck, many of those on these shows are actually funny and quick witted (plus they can swear): Jimmy Carr, Rob Brydon, etc.
ANYWAY. In my hunting around for more of Mitchell's work, I found this, even though it's sponsored by some eco-friendly Euro equivalent of Axe body spray or something:
Go watch all of them right now.
Friday, March 13, 2009
PBR never raped anybody
So the American Psychological Association publishes a journal called Psychology of Addictive Behaviors, which recently published the results of a study on college women's drinking habits. Specifically, the study asked hetero female students how many drinks they thought their male peers preferred them to drink in social situations. Hetero male students were asked how many drinks they wanted female friends, potential sex partners, and dates to drink. (Prior studies have determined that college students in general overestimate how much their peers drink/find acceptable for others to drink, and that female students may be more susceptible to the influence of their peer groups' normative behaviors.)
The study found that women greatly overestimated how many drinks they thought their male peers wanted them to have. The journal article concludes that this discrepancy between what women think men want them to do and what men actually want can be exploited to get female students to drink less.
Here's what's fucked up: That alcohol abuse educators, however well-intentioned, still base efforts to curb binge drinking among women by invoking what men will think of them. I remember a pretty offensive anti-drinking ad campaign at Michigan that strongly implied that getting drunk would lead to women -- only women -- to (regrettable, of course) whorish behavior. If they're not invoking the spectre of sexual assault (which the APA article does in a section of statistics on women and drinking), they're warning you about stepping outside the bounds of male-defined femininity. Never mind trying to educate men on the consequences of binge drinking, and god forbid we recognize and address that what causes rape and sexual assault is the action of the rapist or attacker, period.
I can't judge the women in the study for the reasons they decide to drink, but it's really fucking depressing that this kind of thing still factors into the thinking of so many women in just about any area of life from clothes to careers to everyday behaviors like this.
Grrr. The super-short version of the study's findings is here. The 6-page peer-reviewed article is here.
The study found that women greatly overestimated how many drinks they thought their male peers wanted them to have. The journal article concludes that this discrepancy between what women think men want them to do and what men actually want can be exploited to get female students to drink less.
Here's what's fucked up: That alcohol abuse educators, however well-intentioned, still base efforts to curb binge drinking among women by invoking what men will think of them. I remember a pretty offensive anti-drinking ad campaign at Michigan that strongly implied that getting drunk would lead to women -- only women -- to (regrettable, of course) whorish behavior. If they're not invoking the spectre of sexual assault (which the APA article does in a section of statistics on women and drinking), they're warning you about stepping outside the bounds of male-defined femininity. Never mind trying to educate men on the consequences of binge drinking, and god forbid we recognize and address that what causes rape and sexual assault is the action of the rapist or attacker, period.
I can't judge the women in the study for the reasons they decide to drink, but it's really fucking depressing that this kind of thing still factors into the thinking of so many women in just about any area of life from clothes to careers to everyday behaviors like this.
Grrr. The super-short version of the study's findings is here. The 6-page peer-reviewed article is here.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
YAY Lionsgate has finally acquiesced to Mad Men creator dude Matthew Weiner's probably outlandish (and totally deserved) contract demands for TWO more seasons.
Let us celebrate:
Let us celebrate:
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Mad Men: No News, Not Good News
God DAMN it, Matt Weiner, get it together!
How much money can you possibly want? Haven't you heard about this thing called THE ECONOMY and how we should all be happy that we have jobs at all?
I know there's gonna be a third season either way, but if anyone except Weiner takes the reins, I will always believe that really Betty Draper put her head in an oven sometime in early 1963.
How much money can you possibly want? Haven't you heard about this thing called THE ECONOMY and how we should all be happy that we have jobs at all?
I know there's gonna be a third season either way, but if anyone except Weiner takes the reins, I will always believe that really Betty Draper put her head in an oven sometime in early 1963.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
