For a Night of Love: Emile Zola

For a Night of Love is a recent release of previously untranslated short stories by naturalist master Emile Zola. The three stories in the slim volume are all about love -- from Zola's sometimes perverse perspective.

What if the kind of man you pine for but could only attract the attention of if you burst into flames in his presence offered you a night of love? (Tom Cruise is single again, so let's use our imaginations.) That is the offer the shy, easily intimidated clerk an amateur flutist Julien Michon must respond to in the title story. He has courted the girl across the plaza by playing his flute for her for nearly a year. A haughty, convent educated marchise, she has ignored him. Then, an unforeseen occurrence in her life causes her to need Julien's body. He responds as expected, but does he achieve satisfaction?

Nantas, the protagonist of the second short story, is in a position readers of Zola and Balzac will find familiar. The young man has come to Paris from the provinces to make his fortune with only 200 francs in his purse. Two months later, he must choose between starving and hurling himself from the garret where he resides. To add insult to injury, Nantas believes himself to be a genius awaiting discovery. All he needs is an opportunity to prove his worth. Unfortunately, the busy world of Parisian commerce does not see it that way. It does not see him, one of thousands of ambitious youths in the same situation, at all.

A form of deliverance arrives at the last possible moment.

The young man decided this lady had come to offer him a job. He answered that he would accept anything. But, now that the ice was broken, she asked him bluntly: "Would you have any objection to getting married?"

"Getting married?" exclaimed Nantas. "Who would want me, Madame. . . .Some poor girl I wouldn't even be able to feed."

"No, a beautiful, rich your girl of magnificent lineage, who at a stroke will place in your hands the means or arriving in the highest position."

Nantas stopped laughing.

"So, what's the deal?" he asked, instinctively lowering his voice.

"This girl is pregnant and the child needs to be acknowledged," said Mademoiselle Chuin straightforwardly, forgetting her ingratiating turns of phrase so as to get to the heart of the matter more quickly.

Nantas accepts the offer. The capital he acquires by marrying Flavie will be the foundation on which his wealth and reputation are constructed. Consideration for her will be avoiding the scandal of bearing a child out of wedlock. One of the spouses is satisfied with the outcome a decade later. The other is not and considers suicide.

The third and shortest story in the collection is a character sketch focusing on two people -- a smug, vapid baroness and her equally depthless minister. It is a meditation on appetites and how easily one kind of desire can be mistaken for another. The baroness hungers for carnal satisfaction, the curate for gustatory delight.

Naturalism was an artistic movement that began around 1870. It was very influential into the 1900s.

In literature, [it is] an approach that proceeds from an analysis of reality in terms of natural forces, e.g., heredity, environment, physical drives. The chief literary theorist on naturalism was ?mile Zola, who said in his essay Le Roman Exp?rimental (1880) that the novelist should be like the scientist, examining dispassionately various phenomena in life and drawing indisputable conclusions. The naturalists tended to concern themselves with the harsh, often sordid, aspects of life. Notable naturalists include the Goncourt brothers, J. K. Huysmans, Maupassant, the English authors George Moore and George Gissing, and the American writers Theodore Dreiser, Frank Norris, Stephen Crane, James T. Farrell, and James Jones.

Persons who are sentimental might find reading naturalists and other practitioners of realism hard going.

Naturalists have been the most uncompromising realists. They believe that knowledge is acquired through the senses, and that the function of the writer is to report accurately what he or she observes. The naturalist tries to be as objective as a laboratory scientist. In their theory of life, naturalists are more pessimistic than realists. The realist believes people can make moral choices, but the naturalist doubts that they can. Naturalists believe everything people do is determined by their heredity, or environment, or both. Naturalists believe people are trapped by forces such as money, sex, or power.

In picturing people as trapped, the naturalist usually deals with the more sordid aspects of life. Characters in naturalistic literature are driven by their most basic urges. They are often brutal and usually failures. They use coarse language, and their view of life is often bleak and without hope. Yet in the best naturalistic works, there is a tone of compassion and even admiration for those characters who struggle against overwhelming odds.

I would describe my own fiction writing as domestic realism. However, I have found the uncompromising insights of the naturalists very useful in my development as a writer.

The stories in For a Night of Love are as vital today as they must have been when they were written. Love is one of those ongoing dilemmas of humans that never becomes dated. Zola is confronting the same concerns master of realism Raymond Carver does when he considers what we talk about when we talk about love.

Note: Some of the material in this entry is from the World Book Encyclopedia for OS X.

No New Nukes!

Remember the '70s-era band Orleans ("Dance with Me," "Still the One")? I can't get its Baltimore-born band leader and anti-nuke activist John Hall's old song "Power" out of my mind:

Just give me the warm power of the sun
Give me the steady flow of a waterfall
Give me the spirit of living things as they return to clay
Just give me the restless power of the wind
Give me the comforting glow of a wood fire
But won't you take all your atomic poison power away ...

With that in mind, here is an alert from the Union of Concerned Scientists. This message is aimed toward US citizens:

This week, your representative and senators are scheduled to vote on funding for the development of new nuclear weapons. This is part of the Bush administration's strategy to pursue new nuclear weapons by promoting them as "more usable."

With their enormous destructive power and radioactive fallout, all nuclear weapons are unacceptably dangerous. In addition, the administration's strategy could encourage other countries to seek nuclear weapons and build their own arsenals--a grave risk to US and global security. Now is the time to tell our elected officials that you oppose this new generation of nuclear weapons.

Please visit our Web Action Center to send a letter to your legislators. By adding a few of your own lines, the letter will be much more effective. Together, we can stop these dangerous new nuclear weapons!

Good gravy, I have another tune running through my head, this time from Dan Fogelberg (I know, I know, but can I help it if the man makes relevant music? At least it's not another Hugh Jackman reference.):

Face the fire, you can't turn away
The risk grows greater with each passing day
The waiting's over; the moment has come
To kill the fire and turn to the sun...

I've been marching and working and screaming "NO NUKES!" for more than 20 years now. The same holds true for the Council for a Livable World, which printed this classic article on September 11, 1980. The piece warns of the dangers of then-new weapons of mass destruction, such as the MX missile, which was supported by both President Jimmy Carter (who won a Nobel PEACE Prize recently, go figure) and the man who defeated him in that year's presidential election, Ronald Reagan. As the old adage go, the more things change... Oh lord, another brain-enveloping tune, this time from longtime No Nuker Jackson Browne:

Here come those tears again...

There is no time to weep. Please take the action proposed by UCS and stop the creation of new US-held WMDs. Let's take up the cry for yet another generation of world citizens, including my kids and your kids and Hugh Jackman's son: NO NEW NUKES!

Shoes

Do all kids go through a "dress-up" phase where they try on adult clothes or at least think about trying them on? I remember one instance when I succumbed to this particular curiosity. I was maybe ten or eleven. But it wasn't really clothes, per se. No dresses or hats or ties for me. It was the shoes.

They were my mother's: pumps the color of straw and of a basket-weaving design. These shoes were new, too, and they were nestled into the corner of the closet. My mother never wore shoes with heels though and she wasn't meek about her opinion on such scandalous shoes. Women who wore pumps had "horse-feet" and she told me that constant use completely ruined their feet. How was I to argue? It seemed reasonable enough to me considering the abnormal positions the shoe put the foot in.

My mother never bought those pumps. I think some trendy relative gave them to her. But nonetheless, those shoes held some sort of fascination. Was it because it made me taller? Gave me a glimpse who I would be when I grew up? Was it somehow that these shoes made me more trendy and pretty than I normally was. Or was it only false confidence?

I never had many shoes. When I had been in grade school, my shoe collection consisted solely of a pair of worn sneakers and an unsightly pair of low-heeled white dress shoes. It wasn't because my parents didn't want to spend money on shoes; they just thought the money would be spent better elsewhere. Even now, I don't have that many shoes: just some worn boots for winter, hiking boots for summer, the sneakers, the low-heeled dress shoes.

But I have a thing for shoes with heels. Once, on an emergency shopping trip looking for black shoes to go to an orchestra concert (I had forgotten them at home, 2,000 miles away), I came across a pair that would give anyone nosebleeds. They were shiny and black and had thick heels that would increase the height of the wearer by four or five inches. If my mother had been there, she would had shaken her head and adamantly had me try on a different heel-less pair. But she wasn't there.

So I bought them.

Perhaps my fascination with heeled shoes, or any shoe for that matter, that gives the wearer extra inches in height stems from my dissatisfaction with how short I really am. People don't really take you as seriously when you're the shortest person in the room. But with those black shoes, I felt more like an equal. And at moments, I could even sample a bit of the domination and intimidation powers that naturally tall people had all the time.

I rarely wear those shoes, though. They're too dangerous to handle on a daily basis.

Cross-posted on Syaffolee.

iraq's national day

Say what you will about the US, her gluttonous foreign policy, central role in global economic marauding, unnatural affection of citizens for synthetic fibres etc etc. This country may well be an internationally unrivalled producer of both paternalism and static cling. Her citizens do, however, know how to prepare barbeque with full-fat aplomb.
The Cook Out, as you may be apprised, is generally a central feature of the Independence Day festivities just past. It was my great fortune to once attend such a July 4 feast. Despite a distaste for giddy nationalism and an irrational fear of tinsel, I have to allow that I had a very nice time. It was, perhaps, after a fourth ladle of cream gravy, before a third serve of chicken-fried steak and simultaneous to a swan dive into a vat of Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing that I had a fleeting if overwhelming suspicion that This Is The Greatest Country In The World.
I awoke after a sixteen hour post-prandial nap swathed in streamers, a lard hangover and an overwhelming sense of shame. I had been seduced to US nationalism, if temporarily, by cholesterol and fixins.
Now, as ASIO might tell you, I am a difficult test case for the potency of the July 4 barbeque. In my ethical past, I have marched in solidarity with Palestinians and consumed more Sandinista produced coffee than an entire Managua postal district. I have acquired a knee-jerk mistrust for all things US in my adult life and so, one would think, would be relatively impervious to the lure of fat and convivial July 4 spirits.
Not so. For a good ten minutes after my first USA style Cook Out, I was suggestible, content and perfectly happy to consider the editorial on Fox News an enlightened and well-balanced diversion. Further, I would defy even the most vegan anti-globalisation protestor to resist the charm of US suburban cheer when amplified by a tasty batter redolent of celery salt, cayenne and First World glory.
This is the heinous truth: America is propelled in her quest to conquer and forget by baby back ribs, velveeta and soporific desserts. Before you dismiss my hypothesis regard (1) US supermarket aisles stocked entirely with antacids, laxatives and other dangerous medication that allow citizens to maintain a near impossible but powerfully hypnotic diet and (2) the trace of chicken grease that is nearly always dribbling down G W Bush’s ill-defined chin.
On July 14, a mere ten days after the North American Festival of the Gut, Iraq will enjoy her first ‘liberated’ anniversary of revolution since Saddam first publicly waxed his mo’ in 1979. It is indeed fortuitous that Iraq’s National Day, commemorating the 1958 revolution, is celebrated so close to Independence Day.
As anyone who has survived an American Cook Out will attest, the Lard Over is intense and one might not evacuate the barbiturate effects of pork dripping for a good month or so after dosage. Any post-bellum guilt caused by little things like, say, Iraq’s unfortunate lack of utilities, hope or even, perhaps, provision of a real reason for the invasion in the first place, will be MUCH easier to deal with after a huge national meal.
That the US remembered their day with fireworks and that Iraq will spend theirs locating unexploded cluster bombs is a fact so much more palatable with a fry up under one’s belt.
On Iraq’s July 14, , the customary display of military vigour might be diminished somewhat. A sense of national pride or attainment could be slightly allayed by, for example, the lack of decent plumbing.
Fortunately, for Americans at least, that extra slice of Key Lime Pie might just tip the serotonin balance in favour of forgetting.

A Whale of a Tale.

A while ago, Blog Sister Andrea James posted here about the movie Whale Rider.

Last night I went to see it with some women friends, after we had dinner at a great little new place called the “Barefoot Gypsy.” I wish we had seen the movie first so that we could have had all of our dinner time to talk about it. There’s so awfully much to talk about.

Andrea was absolutely right about the movie being extraordinary on all kinds of levels, including visual.

And, I, who am so enamored of mythologies that empower women, was, of course, swept away by the tale’s affirmation of intuition and connections to “feminine” elements (water, sea creatures), ritual as art – and all that “right brain” stuff.

I’m still mulling over how I feel about the role of women in that society – which is very much like the traditional role of, say, Italian and Polish women. And that is that they let the men think that they are the bosses and then the women find ways around their foolishnesses. The men make up strict rules for everyone’s behavior (including their own) based on their interpretation of what their god or gods have supposedly proclaimed. And the women go about their lives on a whole other intuitive, connected, and somewhat devious plane. They “mother” their men, treat them like large children who can be dangerous because of their size, and so they have to be placated and manipulated into doing the right thing.

But despite my discomfort with that “woman’s place” thing, I felt in my very bones the power of the movie’s honest message. Whoever rides the whale is the one who was meant to ride the whale. Ride, Sisters, ride.

"Men are wilting away..."

In her article on the "Incredible Shrinking Y" Maureen Dowd writes:

In a new book called "Y: The Descent of Men," Steve Jones, a professor of genetics at University College in London, says males, always a genetic "parasite," have devolved to become the "second sex."

The news that Dolly the sheep had been cloned without masculine aid sent a frisson through the Y populace, he writes, because men began to fear that science would cause nature to return to its original, feminine state and men would fade from view.

The Y chromosome, "a mere remnant of its once mighty structure," is worried about size. "Men are wilting away," Dr. Jones writes. "From sperm count to social status and from fertilization to death, as civilization advances, those who bear Y chromosomes are in relative decline."

Read her article here and my post about it here.

Homeland Security: Strange, but True

Imagine this: For whatever reason, you need to reach the US Gestapo -- aka the Department of Homeland Security (John Ashcroft's so-called Justice Department is its partner in crime). You look through DHS press releases for the name or phone number or fax number of a contact person for the department. But your search turns out to be in vain -- there is no contact person. Dig this, from the Hartford Advocate.

Does this set warning bells in your head? It does for me. So I conducted a search of DHS press releases and the departmental Web site -- nothing. There is no phone number listed, no fax number listed, only a snail-mail address (and we all know how useless sending mail to any gummint agency can be) and a Web-based feedback form.

State DHS offices have phone numbers, so citizens do have a place to go, and there is the DHS Fear and Loathing, um, Ready.gov site, which offers a toll-free number for US residents with questions. But the omission of phone numbers in departmental press releases presents a number of concerns, which are well articulated by Oregon-based journalist, grassroots activist, and organizer David M. Baker:

This story has VAST implications! I don't know about you folks, but this is the first i've heard that the venerable DHS is sending out press releases with no cotnact information. what's crazy here is that nobody, until this story popped up, NOBODY in the news media has said a thing about it!

Think about what this means, folks! It means that anything you've

1. read in the paper,
   
2. heard on the radio,
   
3. seen on the television

citing information from the DHS could well be information that has not been verified, clarified, or otherwise vetted by the so-called journalists receiving it.

I'm trying not to freak out...really...but i think that this story should be used as a springboard for an action. I'm thinking that this could be a WONDERFUL opportunity to challenge local media outlets on how they handle information they receive from government sources. At the very least, it provides a point of interrogatory.

Again, imagine a tired reporter on deadline. Imagine she gets a press release from the Department of Homeland Security. Imagine her printing the information from the release without verifying the facts contained within, under the assumption that the news is accurate and reliably sourced. What if the info in the release is, in fact, untrue or nothing more than governmental propaganda?

Great. Another reason to question the integrity of the media and the government.

Want to discuss the matter, along with possible actions progressives could take along the lines of Dave's suggestions? Write us.

An Independent Woman

Two great female pioneers of cinema are long-worshipped icons for me: the actors Hepburn, graceful gamine Audrey, who died a decade ago, and stylish independent Katharine. Today, we lost her too. I still miss the former... and it seems I will miss the latter for a very, very long time as well.

Miss Katharine Hepburn, who had been in poor health for a number of years, died today at her home in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, at the age of 96. She was known for being an intelligent, self-sufficient, freethinking woman -- quite the firecracker, onscreen and onstage, of course, and when she was just being herself. Daily Celebrations offers a terrific summation of the screen legend's life and career.

Some of the award-winner's most interesting words came back to me today as I remembered her presence and talents. Surfing around, I found a bunch of Hepburn wisdom and thought I would share it in honor of a gifted artist and a fine role model for indepndent women everywhere.

• "Acting is the most minor of gifts and not a very high-class way to earn a living, " she once said. "After all, Shirley Temple could do it at the age of four."
  
• "Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then."
  
• "We are taught you must blame your father, your sisters, your brothers, the school, the teachers - but never blame yourself. It's never your fault. But it's always your fault, because if you wanted to change you're the one who has got to change."
  
• "Without discipline, there's no life at all."
  
• "It's life isn't it? You plow ahead and make a hit. And you plow on and someone passes you. Then someone passes them. Time levels."
  
• "If you obey all the rules you miss all the fun."
  
• "Life is hard. After all, it kills you."
  
• "Death will be a great relief. No more interviews."

These quotes and many more can be found at Brainy Quote.

Rest in peace, Miss Hepburn, and thank you very much.

rubs me the wrong way

I posted something on allied that I wanted to post over here too. About a site that is fascinating, if not to my mind creepy. Let me say that I'm not anti-donor sperm in general, nor am I against lesbian couples and single women having children. Wonderful parents are wonderful parents, period. But there's something about this business model that makes me suspect of those attracted to spend their money here... Without further delay--here's my post:

Have you heard about this one? The world's first "Internet Baby" will arrive next month.

No, this doesn't mean live blogging from the event, or web-cam assisted delivery, which I'm pretty sure have already taken place. In fact, the story is about man not included, a site that nearly removes the man from the conception equation.

FAQs here.

The service, which is marketed as a kind of e-marketplace or match making service between interested parties--both sperm donors and primarily lesbian couples and single women--gives me the willies. Especially the name, and the branding which has all the panache of a dot.com with a rather twisted business model. Guys--if you didn't know what you were good for before, you do now. Ante up the sperm and get lost.

I see a lot being done to ensure peace of mind and security for the sperm consumer, but I don't see fuck-all about making sure the parents to be are legitimate. I'd feel a lot better if I knew no boy children would be born from those drawn to the site.

The notion of "home insemination" with donor sperm from an online matchmaking service that overtly male bashes and now controls the most sacred of data from participants takes conception to a new level: somewhere between a back alley rape and a sterile motherboard insertion.



I wonder when they'll come out with onesies for the children? Imagine the blonde-haired, blue-eyed toddler boys of the future running around with this logo on their chests. Destiny pre-determined.

Am I being too hard on the site and its members? Maybe. But I'll take that chance.

And I'll even do the favor of giving them a tagline for free--one they would no doubt be proud of: "No guy, no lie."

Ladies who tattoo

I keep a curious eye out for the phenomenon of body art, and was sent this article in the Sydney Morning Herald about the growing popularity of tattoos for middle-class women in London. It seems that a Selfridges department store has opened a tattoo department that is doing a fair amount of business-- enough for the store's managers to want to keep the department.

It's interesting the way body art is perceived. In tribal cultures, tattoos, scarification, piercing, etc. are a symbol of belonging, but in Western culture they've long been the symbol of the outsider: criminals, soldiers, rebels, rockstars, etc. They were especially stigmatic for women. Now they are becoming a fashion symbol for the middle class, acceptable even for 44-year-old housewives.

What do I think of tattoos? Well, I don't know that I'd get one for myself, because I'm pretty fickle (though I do have my bellybutton pierced), but I do find many of them fascinating and beautiful. For those that dare to go under the needle, I'm sure it can be a great form for self-expression.

Is the Sky Falling Yet?

And it's still PRIDE Month...

I don't yet know if this makes up for the crime against humanity committed when the US Supreme Court put an illegitimate ass into the Oval Office's main chair. But credit where it is due: The nation's highest court finally did something to uphold justice, ruling that Texas' ban on gay sex is unconstitutional.

Pro-justice and pro-GLBT organizations are, naturally, ecstatic by this supreme occurrence. Some fundamentalist Christians, predictably, accuse the court's justices of signing onto some "homosexual agenda."

Well, if that agenda is fairness for all, good for the justices. I'm certainly thrilled by the long-awaited verdict, even a little shocked. Cynical me, I don't always trust people to do the right thing. On the rare occasions when they do, I am generally left in a state of grateful bewilderment -- it is there I reside today. My happiness and thankfulness is, in part, due to my proud status as a queer human. But the "human" part is glad too -- today's Supreme Court ruling underscores the freedom and protection that we all are supposed to enjoy.

On the heels of Canada's recent breakthroughs in marriage equality, today's controversial high court decision makes me feel actual hope for the future of GLBT Americans; for women; the elderly; differently abled and bodied people; religious, ethnic, and pigmentational minorities; and all the world's citizens. Good stuff does happen!

So raise a glass. Celebrate! Watch for falling bits of sky. And take that, Rick Santorum.

Beautiful Woman Month.

There was an interesting article in the New York Times the other day, regarding an e-mail that’s going around. It announces Beautiful Woman Month. I got it from a friend. The NYT article takes some shots at the veracity of some of the claims made in the e-mail but also talks about the importance of size acceptance.

I was struck by the increase numbers in average weight. Apparently the numbers have jumped (their word) from 144 in the late seventies to 152 in the nineties. Eight pounds. I don’t know about the rest of my Blogsisters but I gain and lose eight pounds every month. It doesn’t seem like much of a jump.

The article does say some very cool things about a shift toward fitness and not thinness. If you have read my blog and read me rant about fat issues you might guess that it does not go far enough for me.

The article has a sales pitch for Curves. Now. I want to say that I’ve not been in a Curves. But I did hear a story about a fat woman who went in one to say that she wanted to join and get exercise but wasn’t interested in losing weight. They wouldn’t let her join. It may be a lone story.

The article quotes Dr. Kelly D. Brownell
“If there's a change so far, it may be that women have gone from being horribly dissatisfied with their own bodies to being somewhat less horribly dissatisfied. It's very hard to find a woman who really likes her body. Even if she likes the shape, she will not like her toes, her knees, her elbows or her ankles. There's always something wrong."

He also goes on to say that body dissatisfaction stems from two assumptions — that a body can be shaped at will, so that the only thing that lies between any woman and perfection is effort and that an imperfect body reflects an imperfect person.

The article includes the usual litany of fat phobia. I guess it’s OK to accept your size but not if you’re fat.

The mighty Deb Burgard, who keeps the Body Positive Site, has the last word.
"I don't see how we're going to stop eating disorders until we stop reading character into the size of people's bodies. It's stereotyping. We've made progress against other stereotypes, and we can make progress against this one, too.”

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Small personal note for anyone who normally checks my blog daily. Blogger is apparently overhauling (or upgrading or whatever) a whole bunch of blogs and I haven't been able to get into my edit page for 12 hours now. Pisses me off because I've gotten obsessively anal about posting daily. So just wanted folks to know.

Vacationing with Friends

I just got back from a week in a rented cottage at the ocean in Maine with two of my women friends. I hope that you all have friends like mine, and you can share our adventures at www.kalilily.net.

Evolution from a Female Perspective.

A post by Jeneane over on her site about evolution made me remember a book I read when it came out in the early seventies that speculated on evolution of the human female. The Descent of Woman (entitled that to contrast with Desmond Morris’ The Naked Ape ) rejects the brutish ape-man in caves theory and substitutes a vision of pre-human creatures living in a primarily aquatic environment.

In 1994, Elaine Morgan came out with another book, The Scars of Evolution. According to Ingram review of the book on Amazon:

Natural selection dictates that enduring changes to a species occur because of the need to adapt to changes in the environment. Elaine Morgan, author of The Descent of Woman and The Aquatic Ape, maintains that the human propensity for lower back pain, obesity, varicose veins, and other chronic conditions is the result of an earlier need for humans to survive a watery environment.

It’s always so surprising to me that so many women never even heard of Elaine Morgan’s theories. They make as much sense as the aggressive caveman ones, and I sure like them a lot better. But then, again, when media like the Discovery Channel opt for programs like the one scheduled for tomorrow, Walking With Cavemen, rather than a less male-centric vision of the past, it's not surprising.

A World without Husbands and Fathers

Last night on the Discovery channel here in Oz: Civilisations focused on a culture almost completely the inverse of many cultural commonalities. The Moso of China do not have an institution of marriage, and no word for "daddy." They are matrilineal and matriarchal. Promiscuity is not only common, but sought after, and jealousy over affection is mocked and discouraged. Men have no role in the upbringing of their children-- indeed, the Moso believe there is no biological link between father and offspring. Instead, uncles take on a father-like role. This unique group debunks the notion that some cultural constructs, like marriage and fatherhood, are not as universal as previously thought. I couldn't find much online about the Moso, but I did find this.

Watch out for Paynter!

He’s done it with other Blog Sister before, here, and here, and here, here, here, and, his very first, here. Well, you can look here for the whole list of those he’s unveiled.

Now he’s set his insiteview on Betsy Devine and says he’ll have his interview with her up any day now. Watch out for it. It’s bound to be delightfully revealing.

And while you’re over there, check out his post on Cyberfeminism and hacker/artist Cornenlia Sollfrank.

If we had a category for “Honorary Blog Sister”, I most certainly would want to see Frank Paynter head the list.

Booth Bitch

Popular culture has embraced many former Coat-Check Girls. These include: Liverpudlian songbird Cilla Black; willowy blonde starlet Gretchen Mol and Fabulous Disaster Mariah Carey. Any reasonable history of coat checking could not, of course, overlook celebrated Exotic Dancer Blaze Starr. Apparently she was ‘discovered’ while sitting behind her Baltimore counter. How, exactly, one demonstrates a talent for burlesque while sitting in a booth is a question I regularly attempt to address. This fascination is due less to my interest in nipple pasties and more to my recent induction into the Cloaking Sisterhood.
Coat-Checking is not, altogether, an unenviable arrangement. Certainly, the position description is more succinct than some and the job title may not command the same line of credit as, say, Chief Executive Officer. However, the pay is reasonable, the coats are, oftentimes, intriguing and, when I think about my former stint as a Senior Public Servant, the complete lack of meetings called to discuss which letter-head the Corporate Mission Statement should be printed on is refreshing.
I am, for the moment, quite content to add Coat Check Girl to my Résumé. I quite like people, for the most part, and I enjoy guarding their possessions with lady-like brutality. I am warmed by their gratitude when I produced their unscathed garments and I am often politely amused to see their coats depart with a coat they have only just met. Further, the confessional aspect of my booth permits all sorts of truths. I am the trustee of more secrets and venal sins that your average Father and, according to Cloaking Code, far less likely to reprimand.
So, work as a Booth Bitch is fine by me. I provision a dependable and useful storage-and-risk-minimisation solution to coat-wearers AND there’s enough down time to get through one decent novel per night. However, my first service industry experience in fifteen years has given me cause to recall: Some People Have No Manners.
There is a handful of people in every well populated room that live, quite simply, to Lord It. These are the sorts who love to rub one’s low-income earning nose into a big pile of crude humiliation. They like to shout at Call Centre staff, tut inscrutably at busy bar staff and roll despondent eyes at anyone near a cash register. Whether this amply expressed frustration is the by-product of Hating The Capitalist System or just a really rotten week, I am unsure. All I know is that I am aghast at the tendency of a few to make the servile feel really servile.
Two to three times an evening someone will just HURL their garment at me. At least one of these people will say ‘watch it, I paid a lot of money for that’ as though it were my habit to drag lesser raiments through a pig-sty of stinking disrespect. One of these errant customers may also (a) blow cigarette smoke into my booth (b) ash said cigarette into my tip jar and/or (c) insist ‘you’ve got a GREAT job, haven’t you?’ without a hint of empathy nor cheeky wit.
I do understand that many people wade through their weeks feeling trammelled and alone. I also understand their need to ‘blow off steam’ – or smoke into my booth as the case may be. It befuddles me, however, that such people choose to relieve themselves on relatively powerless institutions such as Coat Check Girl. Why not pick on the Big Boys?
In my effort to cleanse the world of poor manners and ill-feeling, I have now devised an information sheet for my more troublesome customers. Entitled ‘Yo, You With The Coat: Use Your Rage for Good Instead of Evil’ it suggests a number of bodies to which they might more profitably address their anger such as the World Bank, President George W Bush and the Advertising Standards Agency. (To date, this document has confused all but one parton into silence and has encouraged the emergence of at least two anti-globalisation activists.)
Respect the servile. Or you never know what kind of pamphlets they may produce!

So mad that I missed this one!

I don't know how I missed this! I guess I'm too sandwiched between cute little grandbaby and frail old mom.

People of the world take note: The women have met. They've hatched a plan. Think Seneca Falls 1848. Think healthy planet. Think: Magic hips.
So begins the report in my newspaper today about the second annual Women & Power Conference to explore self-transformation and world healing that was held last weekend at the Omega Institute -- which is less than an hour's drive from where I live. Eve Ensler, Alice Walker, and Eileen Fisher were there, along with more than 450 women from around the world, including Jungian analyst Marion Woodman and hip-hopper Rha Goddess. Plans are underway for a June 2004 convention to develop a platform for the national elections to ensure, as Ensler asserted, that whoever runs for president "cannot deny the power of women." Supposedly Ensler is going to organize the convention through her V-Day web site, but I haven't seen anything on there yet. I wonder what it would take to be named a delegate from New York?

Whakakau Paikea hei

Whale Rider is the story of a young Maori girl defying the expectations of her very traditional grandfather. You see, she's a girl, she shouldn't be learning stick fighting, or certain sacred chants, and she certainly isn't qualified to become a leader of her people because of her very femaleness. But, ironically, she becomes the one person best qualified, through courage, persistance, and a deep love for her Maori heritage; she shows herself the inheritor in a long line of great chiefs back to Paikea, her namesake. Good movie, go see it. More thoughts here.