The inconsistent, contradictory ramblings of Scarlett the Harlot

If anyone's interested in how The Endeavor is going, this is actually the seventh or eighth book I've read. I just haven't had time to do reviews for most of them. So I guess it's telling that I felt enough about this book to write a review. The book in question is The Other Eden by Sarah Bryant. Full review under the cut for spoilers. Also, serious spoilers are in white, so highlight the blank spots to get full thoughts.

( I ramble on a LOT so be ye warned. )

Listed below is the definition of, and some context for, a southern gothic novel.

From Wikipedia:

Southern Gothic is a subgenre of the gothic novel, unique to American literature.

Like its parent genre, it relies on supernatural, ironic, or unusual events to guide the plot. Unlike its predecessor, it uses these tools not for the sake of suspense, but to explore social issues and reveal the cultural character of the American South.
The Southern Gothic author usually avoids perpetuating antebellum stereotypes like the contented slave, the demure Southern belle, the chivalrous gentleman, or the righteous Christian preacher. Instead, the writer takes classic Gothic archetypes, such as the damsel in distress or the heroic knight, and portrays them in a more modern and realistic manner — transforming them into, for example, a spiteful and reclusive spinster, or a white-suited, fan-brandishing lawyer with ulterior motives.

One of the most notable features of the Southern Gothic is "the grotesque" — this includes situations, places, or stock characters that often possess some cringe-inducing qualities, typically racial bigotry and egotistical self-righteousness — but enough good traits that readers find themselves interested nevertheless. While often disturbing, Southern Gothic authors commonly use deeply flawed, grotesque characters for greater narrative range and more opportunities to highlight unpleasant aspects of Southern culture, without being too literal or appearing to be overly moralistic.

This genre of writing is seen in the work of such famous Southern writers as Poppy Z. Brite, William Faulkner, Erskine Caldwell, Flannery O'Connor, Carson McCullers, Eudora Welty, Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, Harper Lee, Harry Crews, Lee Smith, John Kennedy Toole, Cormac McCarthy, Davis Grubb, Barry Hannah, Katherine Anne Porter, Lewis Nordan, Thomas Wolfe and William Gay among others. Tennessee Williams described Southern Gothic as a style that captured "an intuition, of an underlying dreadfulness in modern experience." However, the genre was itself open to criticism, even by its alleged practitioners. As Flannery O'Connor remarked, "anything that comes out of the South is going to be called grotesque by the northern reader, unless it is grotesque, in which case it is going to be called realistic."


Book #7 of The Endeavor

Can we all just pause and appreciate the awesomeness of this video?

It is 11:56 pm on Saturday night. I am tired. My back hurts. I'm clocking in at 50, 532 words. I've won NaNo for this year. But is it finished? Oh no. That's tomorrow. I've made my word count, that's all that matters right now. That and I ROCK!

I have a lofty goal. That goal is to read 100 books in one year. For those of you doing the math, that means I have roughly four days a book. With a little overlap, sure. Now me, I'm notorious for starting a book, seeing a squirrel or something, getting distracted and putting it down for a few weeks. Then I'll pick it up three months, weeks days later and finish it off. So this goal is more than a little lofty. Actually, it might be too big for my britches, so to speak.

That's why the first book I picked up was easy. Granted, I didn't know it was easy when I picked it up. I picked it up because It's Now A Major Motion Picture. And I have a girl crush soft spot for Ellen Page and roller derby looks badass, so I figured the book had to be awesome, right? Actually, I wasn't far off. I polished off Whip It by Shauna Cross in a day-and-a-half, which is well within my four day goal, and given that I'm ALSO doing NaNo this month (I'm an overachiever--okay, fine, I'm stupid) it was totally a blessing in disguise.

( But don't be fooled because it was a quick read, kids. )







The Endeavor: Book 1

Every now and again I pick up a book specifically because somebody recommended it to me. I don't just mean I pick it up from the book store, I mean, I go to amazon, I add it to the shopping cart, I read the synopsis, and it looks so good that not only do I order it, but I overnight it because it looks so compelling. Such was the case with Sarah Waters' Fingersmith.



Did you know if you're only overnighting one book, the overnight fee from amazon will probably be double the cost of the book, if said book is a paperback? True story.

( Not that I regret it, it's just something to note. )

I have a morbid fascination with the grotesque. Not the really grotesque stuff that I could find on the internet. I never fell for the "two girls, one cup" links floating around, and I never felt the need to look up sex with goats or anything, but I do find myself reading things that most of the people in my alto-liberal-hippie college would have sneered at.

I like Eli Roth, I laugh at dead baby jokes, and I watch Southpark fairly unironically. But I also subscribe to Bitch and Bust magazines, I live for etsy.com, and I despise the The Hills. I don't consider myself a hipster, but I'm self aware enough to know that if I looked more like a hipster I'd probably be more likely to go that way.

So I picked up The Average American Male by Chad Kultgen with more than a little ambivalence. I mean, on the one hand, of course it's something I would read. On the other hand of course it isn't. This is the first cover quote (and the one that sold me): "I can't figure out if this book is a heartfelt dispatch from the front line in the battle of the sexes or a brilliant send-up of the way the male point of view has been misrepresented by militant feminists. I suspect it may be both."

Well, I know what I want for pre-order for Hanukkah.

Checkout the awesomeousity that is BARBIE PALM BEACH SUGAR DADDY KEN.



Yes, that is his real, Mattel given name. And yes, that is his real, Mattel given dog and pink, patent leather leash.

And holy, holy God, let's talk about the white shoes, white pants and pink polo shirt, shall we? He's part of the Gold Label collection and clocks in at only $81.99! He's for collectors! He's got brushed silver hair! And a WEST HIGHLAND TERRIER! But sweet Moses on a speed boat, don't forget the green jacquard sport coat! Those sleepy eyes are ready for a good time, girls...

I wonder if he's got sold separately accessories. Like a flashy red sports car. Or a speed boat. Or a kilo of Colombian blow.

Oy.

True story, I have no appreciation for Bob Marley. College sorta over-exposed it out of me. I know the Gypsy Kings covered a bunch of his stuff and that was pretty cool, but other than appreciating him as a political figure and where he fits into Rasta culture, I could care less, seriously.

However, I defy you to not appreciate the coolness that is this video.


From the website:

playingforchange.com - From the award-winning documentary, "Playing For Change: Peace Through Music", comes an incredible rendition of the legendary Bob Marley song "One Love" with Keb' Mo' and Manu Chao. This is the third video from the documentary and a follow up to the classic "Stand By Me" and the incredible "Don't Worry." Released in celebration of Bob Marley's birthday on February 6th, this tribute to the legend is performed by musicians around the world adding their part to the song as it traveled the globe.


And the fangirl in me geeked out when I saw Keb' Mo' (I don't think he was credited--but he's the old black man rockin out in the newsboy hat and the beat up guitar). What can I say, I love an old blues man.

But yeah, take a few minutes, listen to the lyrics, watch the video, and I defy you to not sway in your seat with the music.

Dear Robert Pattinson (RPatz to your fans):

Full disclosure, I've started this letter off at least three times in my head and each time it began "I hate your stinking guts" or "you make me vomit" or thereabouts. But I realized maybe I was being a little unfair and decided to reign in my particular brand of raging sewer harpy. I started thinking about exactly why you make my teeth itch, that's adult, right? I mean, sure, you don't bathe. You do look like an furry-headed candy corn (cause you're head's all triangular). And your overall, broody brand of emo-surliness does not a good actor make. 

But none of these things are really your fault.

Except the not bathing thing. Dude, you've got to see to that. Even the cro-mag male beat his fur against a rock. Maybe you could...with your head... okay, okay, I can see how that would be bad.

I digress. None of these things are the "really real" reason, as my eleven-year-old cousin would say I can't stand you. The really real reason is simple: Twilight. Fucking Twilight. Dude, you were completely forgettable to anybody but the Harry Potter fans after the twenty minutes you were in that universe, but did you have to sign on for Twilight?

And there again, I can see how it arguably wasn't your fault. Back when it was just the first book and maybe New Moon, nobody really understood what a scourge on the earth phenomena Twilight was going to turn into. Sure, it had it's fans. But then, Harry Potter had fans. They weren't cutting themselves over Rupert Grint's pubic hairs or anything. So you signed on for three movies. I don't blame you. You're a "strapping lad", as the Brits say. I can use English slang, I read Dickens. You saw Kristen Bell and went "wow, she's hot", or, you know, however you guys say it. Probably has a word like "shag" or "knackered" in it.

But there were still those damn fans.

Those...whatdoyoucallem. Twihards. Hormonal bacchae, if you will. Willing to tear you limb from limb just to hear the sound of your voice, to steal the lisp from your lips, to catch a glimpse of your manly collarbones of truth--well you get the picture. I mean them's some scary bitches. And I know from scary bitches. I was thirteen once. I had my own crushes. I would cut a bitch over Isaac Hanson. True story. Of course, you never saw me making an entire family schlep to wherever the hell Hanson's from just so I could breathe the air of Oklahoma City or whatever (I have no idea how I pulled that city out of my ass to this day). But those freaks of nature Twihards are a different breed, man. They'll make their families go to Forks, WA for a family vacation and not think twice.

Want to know what's in Forks? 

A shrine to Twilight.

And a zillion girls all worshiping at the altar of Edward Cullen and throwing out random Wuthering Heights quotes completely out of context. Not, you know, real Wuthering Heights quotes because that book is actual literature and while it's also badly written, it's badly written for a Victorian novel which means it's scads more intelligent than Stephanie Meyer will ever hope to be. So they quote Wuthering Heights as it was quoted to them in Twilight and have no idea that Heathcliffe was the original emo asshole.

I guess what I'm saying Edward Robert, is that I think I get you now. If I were you and I'd suddenly stepped into a cult phenomena that nobody really saw coming and I didn't necessarily wish on myself and while I didn't mind being a hearthrob in theory (because I'm a guy) I'd want to be a hearthrob for me, and not for, you know, a 109 year-old sparkly-vampire-virgin who is completely safe and will cuddle and kiss and pet and hold a girl for months but never, you know, try to stick it in because the peen is evil, I'd probably stop bathing too. I'd do exactly what you're doing. I'd call the writer of the series a bat-shit soccer mom MORMON who basically fanficced herself and tried to touch me inappropriately in the bathroom (not that you did that last bit, I'm just offering a suggestion). Like an abuse victim I'd try to appear unattractive so no one would want me and I too would fade into the wood work. I'd probably go Ancient Greek on their asses, shave my head, dress in sack cloth, and smear my face with ashes lamenting the sad state of...I don't know, something important. I'd become a sculptor wherein I collected different kinds of poo from varying species and unveiled these specimens at a chic gallery in SoHo and call it "Abstinence Means Doing Anal". 

In short, RPatz, I'd make a point to very publicly loose my shit.

Pretty much what you're doing, only quicker and on a bigger scale.

So I'll close by saying I think I know where you're coming from a little bit. I have no idea if I'm right or not. But I feel for you man. 

My condolences,
Scarlett the Harlot

PS: did you know there's a Twilight dildo? I know where you can get some sack cloth for cheap. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Dear Directors, Producers, Agents, Actors, and Fucktards,

Roman Polanski is a rapist. He is. Just because Switzerland finally decided to arrest and extradite him does not mean he deserves a walk, nor does it mean he didn't do it. I get that it smarts. I mean, he was in Switzerland specifically to go to the Zurich film festival to get a lifetime achievement award (I actually appreciate the irony, "oh, you thought you were getting a gift? Too bad, enjoy your cell!" ) but to begin a campaign to free him, to add your name to a petition, to insinuate that he didn't do exactly what he pled guilty to isn't just immoral, it's actually pretty fucking stupid.

Especially if you're Woody Allen. Hey Woody, how's your step-daughter wife?

Listen, I get that Roman Polanski had a tragic life. I cannot imagine what he went through as a child, he lost his mother to Auschwitz and he himself barely escaped the Nazis. There aren't words to losing your lover and your child at the same time to Charles Manson & Family. And I can even see how the former gave him a serious fear of authority and a persecution complex. This does not, however, excuse him from committing a crime. A few crimes, actually, but he pled to the one so the others would be forgotten.

This is what Roman Polanski, your hero, did: he took pictures of a thirteen-year-old girl--those pictures were topless and/or completely nude. He said they were for French Vogue, but if he hadn't said that, then wouldn't that be, oh, I don't know kiddie porn? He then gave said thirteen-year-old an endless supply of champagne and a third of a qualude. Other news outlets are calling it a sliver, but frankly there's a big fucking difference between a sliver and a third. Call a spade a spade. He then got into a hot tub with the girl while they were both naked. She, being appropriately skeeved out, said she was having an asthma attack and had to go home. He ignored her. They ended up back in the house (owned by Jack Nicholson), whereupon he put his face in her vagina even though she said no. He then proceeded to have intercourse with her. She said no. He asked her if she was on The Pill. She said no. He asked her when her last period was. She said she didn't remember. Mind you, this is all while he's fucking a doped up adolescent who asked him repeatedly to stop. When she said he couldn't remember when her last period was, he then sodomized her so she wouldn't get pregnant. The entire time this is going on, she's saying no, and asking him to stop and take her home. Needless to say, he ignored her.

That my friends is rape. It's not a little rape. It's not maybe rape. It's not even "rape". It's fucking rape. The man raped a thirteen-year-old girl. I don't care if he's Moses. He raped her. He might still be a talented film-maker, but rapist is on his resume.

He was indicted and charged and pled to "sex with a minor" which is basically statutory rape. Why? Because he knew if he didn't plead to something he'd be convicted of something worse. Then, before he could be sentenced he skipped town. For thirty fucking years.

This is not the action of a man who believes himself to be innocent. This is the action of a coward. Who rapes thirteen-year-olds.

Then, knowing if he set foot in the United States he'd be facing jail time, he went and had a merry old time in Europe, living the high life in Paris, traveling to basically any country that didn't have an extradition treaty with the United States, making movies, and giving the girl a settlement when she sued him (because he raped her). Also, he played the victim rather nicely the entire time.

And he continued to make movies.

When he filmed Lolita (irony of ironies), he famously said of his relationship with Natasha Kinski--then only 15 herself--"I don't know why you're surprised. I thought you all knew I liked them young." If that isn't a blatant disregard for the fucking law then I don't know what is.

Even if you don't want to acknowledge that the man's a rapist, you have to acknowledge the fact that he's been living on the lam. There's a reason the man hasn't been back to the United States. Because he'll be arrested for skipping town. Sad, but true. And you're right, he did already plead guilty to the rape. So he's pretty much going to be charged with bail-jumping or whatever. Good. He should be in prison.

For a while there were rumors of judicial misconduct and the possibility of an appeal. This would have happened, the LA District Attorney was even willing to let it happen. But Roman refused to show up at trial. So it didn't. He had his chance. 

Now a lot of you are saying that because the talented artist's victim wants to let it all go, water under the bridge, blah blah blah the rest of us should too. But that's stupid. For two reasons, one, he broke the law and he should be held accountable finally, and two, because it sets a horrifying president to force victims to forgive their aggressors so the aggressors won't have to go to jail. "But my son [Chris Brown?] would never do that. You should forgive him [Rihanna?] because it's just not in him to do that bad thing [beat you like it's Mario Cart?]"

See? That makes everybody uncomfortable. Except Hollywood. Because it's been a tragedy that Roman Polanski couldn't work there while he was in exile eating dry bread and expensive cheese off of gold plated dishes in his big shiny mansion in Paris. It's a horror that he's faced vilification by his peers. Even though they hid it well by giving him an Oscar and a standing ovation a year or so back. It's an unthinkable mess that he had to accept said Oscar in absentia because he'd be arrested.

Want to know how you don't get arrested? 

You don't break the fucking law.

Want to know what I think is a tragedy? 

That a little girl has to deal with the scars of being raped and sodomized by a man who she was supposed to be able to trust.

That at the time Angelika Houston, who I normally love, had the nerve to say "I don't think he's a bad man, I think he's a sad man" when she was in the house for part of the time.

That people are still throwing out the tired bullshit that the girl was a Lolita or her mom was a bitch. It. Doesn't. Matter.

The girl said no.

No halfway decent mother would want her child exposed to that.

Also, the age of consent in California was sixteen. It's now eighteen. The girl was thirteen. That means she couldn't legally consent even if she had been sober. Roman Polanski broke the law.

So many people today lament the fact that the idea of justice is relative. That Justice is not color blind, or class blind, or opposed to taking the occasional bribe. I'm one of them. I can't think of a person who hasn't complained that the rich have a different set of rules. And so far, that idea has proven true. And when you think about it, Hollywood is lamenting the same thing. Only they're doing it from the opposite side of the argument. I want Roman Polanski arrested because, as a rapist, he deserves it. They want him let off because, as an artist, he doesn't. The problem is, Roman Polanski does deserve justice. Unfortunately for you people Justice for Roman Polanski is a prison sentence.

Cordially,
Scarlett the Harlot

PS: This is what a rapist looks like:

Dear Fashion Industry*,

I just want to take a minute to tell you how amazingly cool I think you are. I mean, I know we've had our differences in the past, and you might have felt that I was being a little bit bitchy to indict the entire industry as a hole for something as trivial as airbrushing (because let's be honest, everybody does it and nobody should be penalized for making someone look as young and teensy as possible) but I've seen the light. I have. Also, I was on my period that week and eating way too much chocolate. So, you know, hormones. Also, I think I was a little upset because I missed a bikini wax. I can't remember, I'm on this new diet where I only eat three crackers and one cup of water a day and my memory's a little hazy. But damn am I dropping the pounds!

Anyway, after hearing about the goings on over at London Fashion Week I had to send you a note letting you know about bygones and how we're buds now. Seriously, how terrific is it that when Mark Fast tried to put some "plus size models" on his runway somebody quit in protest and somebody else was fired? I mean, first of all, can we just call them cows? Oh, and while we're at it, can we be sure that if they have to be seen in public, we're going to put them in something that's two sizes too small with underwear that cuts them a new waist line? Because that'll ensure that they look truly craptacular in the dress and nobody is going to want to hire "that girl" to be seen with, well, normal people.

You know, this is what has made me want to be in fashion. I think you are one of the only industries in the world (second only to Women's Clinic nurses and technitions) who can look at your job description and then refuse to do it. Do you know how much I would like to get told by my boss that I had to prepare some project for a big event wherein hundreds of people are going to be looking and go "you know what? I don't feel like it today." And still be golden. That's just...astoundingly avante garde.

I mean look at that girl! She looks miserable. And she's in a fashion show! She's not just normal, model miserable. She's actually miserable. How does she get off feeling that way when she's wearing a designer dress and killer shoes? I mean sure, the dress is too small, you wouldn't let her wear a bra so we can all see her nipples, and her thong is digging into her hips in a way that can't be comfortable, but she's being allowed to walk with skinny people. I mean, what do us fatties think, that we should be allowed to wear clothes that fit or something? The absolute nerve.
I mean, okay, so granted I've got a sneaking suspician that Mark Fast doesn't so much care about plus sized models as he does about selling his clothes. I mean, the controversy over the fashion-savvy staffer who just up and quit rather than tell those girls where the freaking lipstick was is sure making headlines and making sure people know his name. Likewise, having to fire another stylist for straight up passive aggressive, bitchy behavior is enough to make me want to check out his website. I mean, he cared enough to make sure those girls were treated with respect. Even if, you know, he couldn't give them clothes that fit. So Mark Fast is officially off my myspace buddy list. I mean, how dare he. It's like those fatties expected to be treated like people or something. 

This is the thing, bottom line: plus sized models shouldn't be around regular sized models. Anybody who was in that audience will tell you that everybody was uncomfortable when those girls walked out--they looked miserable and their clothes didn't fit. So double props to you, fashion industry for making an example of those girls and being sure that everybody knows that curves have no place on the runway. 

I'll let you know how my diet works out.

Love and awe,
Scarlett the Harlot




*If you think for one minute I've gone over to the dark side and this letter is anything but absolute sarcasm then why are you reading this blog? Obviously hunger and dehydration have made you delirious. Go eat a cookie.

When I was a kid I used to put on this turquoise dressing gown from the seventies (it had ruffles at the cuffs, collar and the hem and because I was nine it trailed behind me like a train of awesome) and sit in my rocking chair three feet from the television and watch musicals. I thought that turquoise dressing gown, coupled with a ruffly top/high-cut-shorts combo teddy thing made me look tres chic and beyond sexy. In retrospect I think I looked like a twee Ms. Hannigan from Annie.

Anyway, I would sit and watch these stories and rock and rock and rock and transport myself to another place. I would say the lines of the character I wanted to be, sing songs with her, and completely rewrite the story in my head so it wasn't so saccharine and Broadway-ish. I would imagine the main characters and wonder what happened to them when the camera panned away. When the audience wasn't watching.

Did Anna and the King have an illicit affair? 

Did Maria find out about the Captain's hidden kink? I mean really, there had to be a reason why he was so attached to that whistle.

I drove myself crazy with these thoughts. And then there was fanfiction.

One of the things I love about this new fiction genre, Fiction Retold, is it's basically Publisher sanctioned fanfiction. I mean, nobody ever tries to rewrite the novel of somebody still living (except maybe the continuation of the Godfather series) but you end up with things like Mr. Darcy's Daughters and Wicked and God knows what else.

And while they're cool, they never really recapture my wild childhood thoughts because they're just continuing the same story, aren't they? 

Enter Eileen Favorite's The Heroines.



( Onto the review, but really how awesome a name is Favorite? )

I just got finished watching The Boy in the Striped Pajamas.

Not going to lie, I tend to collect WWII movies. Mainly because I like the clothes and the music. I've never been this moved by one before.

Just... there aren't words.

Because, obviously what little girls need is a pole-dancing doll.



And yet, when I say little girls are being sexualized at too-young ages (what with the padded bras, thongs, and makeup peddled to them via Bratz) I get blank stares and the Scary Feminist With No Sense of Humor label.

Does anybody else think it's truly bizarre that the doll looks like a miniature Jackie Kennedy?

Dear Fashion Industry,

It's me again. I know you're surprised to hear from me considering the last time we had words. It wasn't pretty, I'll admit it. And it's hard to look someone in the eye after they've basically told them to sit on it and rotate. I know. I feel for you. But I'm back. This time with links.

What I'm talking about is the recent hullabaloo over the September issue of Self Magazine and Kelly Clarkson.



For those of you looking at that cover and saying "Wow, Kelly looks great." I think you should know, that's not Kelly Clarkson. That is a digitally enhanced image of Kelly Clarkson. This is Kelly Clarkson:



Self shaved, tucked, slimmed and hid the real Kelly to make a pretty cover. Note the obvious size differences in the upper arms, the chin, and the way they stuck a big circle over her ass to hide, well, her ass. And they're proud of it. To hear Lucy Danziger tell it (Lucy's an editor at Self and the blogger who's entry you'll read if you click that link) they love Kelly's "style" and her "love of her body" and her "joie de vivre", which is a bit strange considering they Photoshopped all that right out of that picture. One of hte awesome things about Clarkson is the way she embraces who she is and rocks her body and wears great clothes no matter what her size. Self had the ability to truly showcase that. Instead they chose to hide behind the bizarre idea that "a cover tells a story". To which I find myself asking, "what story exactly?" If I look at that cover, the story I'm seeing is a picture of a faux Kelly next to a REALLY BIG AD for how to slim yourself down. Oh, and a thing at the bottom about body confidence.

More troubling, if you continue reading that convuluted excuse for a lie that is Lucy Danziger's blog entry she goes on to say that she photoshops her own pictures if she's going to be say, sharing them with her peers. What the hell does that say about the industry in which she works and what shes' been made to think about herself. Should she really be working for a magazine that's supposed to be ostensibly about finding yourself or gaining self esteem or whatever it is Self even stands for? 

Airbrushing in the fashion industry is certainly nothing new. I think my generation especially has internalized the idea that beauty standards are impossible to such an extent that not even the models can live up to them. Of course we know that the cover shot isn't really what that woman looks like. Remember when Faith Hill was on the cover of Redbook and they basically erased her face? At the time, Jezebel did a truly hilarious, and truly depressing, breakdown of the pictures. In fact, airbrushing has been around so long they don't even airbrush anymore. Now, because we're in the digital age they do something totally different with a Raster image editor. Anyhoodle, you're they fashion police so you already know all this. My point is that the problem has become so pervasive that certain political parties have started to get involved.

Not in this country of course. America's too busy being afraid of fat and old age. No, but in Great Britain, Parlimant is talking about making advertisements have disclaimers if they've been airbrushed specifically so we'll know we're not looking at the real thing. Think about what that would mean for a second--instead of seeing pretty, perfect Tyra Banks or Jennifer Love Hewitt on the cover of whatever magazine and being completely appalled when we see them on the beach in the tabloids. Why? Because the tabloid picture is the real, candid shot. That's what they really look like after all.

But you people. I swear.

Okay, so in response to the whole British Parliament/Photoshop Disclaimer thing, Nigel Barker felt the need to weigh in:

The reason why talent in the modeling industry is so young is because of this desire to have flawless-looking women. But with good retouching, you can have older-looking women working longer. You can show her maturity, but perhaps you don’t show every wrinkle and line. What you are seeing are older models having longer careers that they never would have had because of retouching.

Really Nigel? You're going to make it sound like you're doing the models a favor? Wow. That's big of you I guess. But I find it really fucking douchey of you to claim that you (the fashion industry) have no control over what goes on the covers of magazines or what is deemed hot or attractive. I call serious shenanigans.

Do you remember a while back there was a little book published called The Devil Wears Prada? Remember how the story was the writer was actually an assistant to Anna Wintour, head fashion editor at Vogue and Goddess of Garb? Remember how Anna's PR people denied that she was a bitch to work with but she still showed up at the premier of the movie wearing Prada? My point here is that in that movie, based on the book, based on reality, there was this gem of an exchange between Andy the Assistant and fashion hick and Miranda the Garb Goddess:

Miranda Priestly: [Miranda and some assistants are deciding between two similar belts for an outfit. Andy sniggers because she thinks they look exactly the same] Something funny?
Andy Sachs: No, no, nothing. Y'know, it's just that both those belts look exactly the same to me. Y'know, I'm still learning about all this stuff.
Miranda Priestly: This... 'stuff'? Oh... ok. I see, you think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you select out, oh I don't know, that lumpy blue sweater, for instance, because you're trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don't know is that that sweater is not just blue, it's not turquoise, it's not lapis, it's actually cerulean. You're also blithely unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar De La Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns. And then I think it was Yves St Laurent, wasn't it, who showed cerulean military jackets? I think we need a jacket here. And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of 8 different designers. Then it filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic casual corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of some clearance bin. However, that blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and so it's sort of comical how you think that you've made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you're wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room. From a pile of stuff.

In all honesty I hate quoting a tell all but there it is. You people control everything. You know you do. Maybe not Nigel Barker personally, he's too pretty and he's just a shutterbug, but if Anna fucking Wintour suddenly decided that size was sexy and put Steve Tyler's other daughter on the front cover of her magazine without making her go on a crash diet to get down to 150 pounds (like she did Oprah--true story, look it up) then trust me when I tell you other magazines would follow suit. Suddenly plus size would be in. Kate Moss would be out of work. Young girls wouldn't feel like they had to go on a diet in the third fucking grade. I could find clothes that actually fit in straight sizes. There would be dancing in the streets.

It wouldn't be considered politically subverssive to be fat.

How fucking bizarre is that?

Here are a few statistics for you:

• It is estimated that 8 million Americans have an eating disorder – seven million women and one million men
• One in 200 American women suffers from anorexia
• Two to three in 100 American women suffers from bulimia
• Nearly half of all Americans personally know someone with an eating disorder (Note: One in five Americans suffers from mental illnesses.)
• An estimated 10 – 15% of people with anorexia or bulimia are males

Upset yet? Well how about these:

• Anorexia is the 3rd most common chronic illness among adolescents
• 95% of those who have eating disorders are between the ages of 12 and 25
• 50% of girls between the ages of 11 and 13 see themselves as overweight
• 80% of 13-year-olds have attempted to lose weight

Or these:

• Rates of minorities with eating disorders are similar to those of white women
• 74% of American Indian girls reported dieting and purging with diet pills
• Essence magazine, in 1994, reported that 53.5% of their respondents, African-American females were at risk of an eating disorder
• Eating disorders are one of the most common psychological problems facing young women in Japan.

Here are some celebrities that have been diagnosed with eating disorders:

I think that if pressed, or even asked nicely, every fat girl (and guy) has at least one story to tell where the outside world has made them feel like complete and utter shit for even existing. We're the side kicks. The comic relief. We're a-sexual fashion accessories for skinny friends, like the Gay-Boy Best Friend ™ or the Sassy Friend of Color ™ who dispenses sage advice and the occasional bitch slap where appropriate. Incidentally, any and all of these stereotypes can bleed into one another depending on the time, setting, and dress code. 

Personally I can tell you I've had family members (who were, ironically just as large or larger than I was) tell me to stop eating because the food would go straight to my ass, I've had strangers off the street ask me if I'd ever considered Weight Watchers, I've felt rage at the fashion industry, and I've had to wear my grandmother's clothes in the sixth grade because that was the only thing that would fit me. So I'm a little aware of America's diet-centric culture and exactly how it relates to me specifically for good or evil.

Now, some would say that we in America are obsessed with our Causes. We've got civil rights, womans' rights, gay rights, and we've also got the fat acceptance movement, although I'm only just now hearing about it and I'll bet you probably haven't seen it blaring on your television either. Apparently it's been around since the 1960's. But in our thin-obsessed culture is it any wonder that CNN isn't wanting to have it's leaders talk about their beliefs? Of course not, CNN is too busy pushing the obesity epidemic.

Obviously I'm still a little bitter.

Okay, so by chance I stumbled upon this great community called fatshionista a few months ago. They're obivously big believers in fat acceptence. Through that community I heard about awesome bloggers Marianne Kirby and Kate Harding. Now Marianne and Kate have written a book.



( Dude, check it out, I finished a non-fiction book! )

Les Paul died.

And it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye. ~Miss Piggy


Here's the thing: unlike most women of my generation I didn't like Sex and the City. I was sortof offended by He's Just Not That Into You''s message of "just be a bitch and you'll get a guy", somehow hidden in the mantra "don't waste the pretty". So color me a little biased when my new book club that I just joined a week ago (and had three days to read their chosen book) told me their assigned book was How to be Single by Liz Tuccillo, an editor of Sex and the City and co-writer of He's Just Not That Into You.

To quote Carrie, "There is a God. And he's got a wicked sense of humor." 



( Self-help book it ain't. )

I grew up on the beach. This made me laugh a lot.



Also, go visit twolumps.net