Particularly Us. Particularly Here.

I keep trying to say something profound about Alison’s post here, about the work the Women’s Studies Department at her college is doing.  But I don’t know what.

When I think of the fact that talking about a play is such a threat to the established order that she can’t get certain printers to take her business, that girls who are on the Pill don’t understand enough about their bodies to understand how it works, that the idea of women having bodily autonomy is so foreign that they’re trying to pass a law in her state that would let pharmacists pass judgment about whether they thought it was “moral” for them to fill a woman’s prescriptions–I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

It’s easy to feel daunted, like what needs to be done is so great that the doing of it is nearly impossible.

But I think that, because the need is so great, it makes it easier to do something.  I mean, shit, if talking about a play is so controversial, how hard can it be to challenge the powers that be?  Just say “vagina” out loud like it’s nothing to be ashamed of.  Just walk around like having one is nothing to be ashamed of.  Just walk around like loving someone with one is nothing to be ashamed of.

God, knowing there are feminists in the world like this makes me feel proud and inspired.

Alison, if you are who I think you are, I think we may have eaten lunch with Annie Sprinkle together.  If so, hello.

Watching Men

So, I was out last night with Mack (who is still complaining that I never comment on his blog and yet, does he ever update it? No, if you look, his last post is from October 4, 1642. You literally have to travel back in time to comment on his blog. And I’m sorry, but if I’m going to the effort to travel back through time, it’s only so I can fuck Lord Byron.) and this dude who’s running for city council, and another dude from CMT.

And it was really interesting to watch them. The guy running for city council has this Berkeley professor vibe*–the kind of guy you’d imagine you could find sipping coffee in any interesting city anywhere in the world, reading a book of poetry and smiling to himself about some darling thing his kid did and how he might put that to verse.

No, wait. I have a better analogy. Let’s say that each of these men was a painter. The guy running for city council would be the kind of painter whose studio looked out onto his back yard. He would go out there every afternoon and stare at the crab apple tree he’s been painting for the past three years. Pondering the crab apple tree would make him smile and he’d get lost in his thoughts and be there for a couple of hours. He might not paint at all, and yet, he’d feel artistically fulfilled.

The guy from CMT is the kind of guy with an enormous studio in a hip industrial loft. He has canvases ten feet tall and he throws paint against in a frenzy. He’s painting and talking on the phone and watching tv and seducing a neighbor and when he’s done in the studio, he has to take a shower and a nap.

Our friend, Mack, claims he’s no artist. Just a punk with a bag full of cans of spraypaint. And yet, when people drive by his graffiti, they sometimes have to pull over and check to make sure they aren’t dreaming.

And when they talk, they seem to be discussing both what it is they’re talking about and a proper aesthetic response to the world.

The would-be councilman would gently make his points over and over again, sitting straight in his chair, but working his way like an unnoticed avalanche through the conversation.

The CMT dude would lean in and tap his finger on the table and scratch notes and make brilliant points that were true and smelled of bullshit simultaniously.

And Mack would just lean back. Or leave the table.

I was watching for a tell. But I never saw one.

Behind Mack sat two men who came to the table in impeccable well-cut suits. Each had enormous diamond studs in their ears. They were at their meeting early and so I had time to watch them. One opened his suit jacket and slightly loosened his tie. His broad shoulders, coupled with the cut of his suit, made him look like he was five feet across. He sat with his back to the wall, where he could watch the room. His buddy, who was slimmer, took off his jacket and his tied, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He had nice forearms.

After they were situated, their dinner guests arrived, two younger men, trying to look badass in their baseball caps and their oversized jackets. The kid on the left, next to the more casual professional guy, was wearing all new clothes. The meeting appeared to be about him.

I don’t know how it went, but I have a feeling he was outmatched.


*Shit, by saying that, I probably just ruined his chances.

I’m Speechless

I don’t even know what to say. I’m like a girl with a new car. I want to drive around, zipping all over the internet in my shiny new blog, but I don’t know even how to turn the radio on.

Lynnster, I am so grateful to you, I don’t even know what to say.

Y’all, if you want to know how amazing this is to me, how awesome and how much it breaks my heart with happiness, just click here.

Did you see that?

My first post.

Here, at the same place as my most recent post.


So, yeah, update your bookmarks and update your feed.