10 things I know for sure

1. The expression “jumped the shark” has jumped the shark (ironic, isn’t it?)

2. There will never be real health care reform and its got nothing to do with President Obama. Its because big pharmacy is bigger than big government.

3. Children should never be prescribed drugs for behavioral issues. See number 2.

4. We are a bi-polar nation because we’ve allowed ourselves to be defined in this way. Pass the Ambien.

5. God is dead and he has been replaced by the cult of celebrity. We collectively worship at the altar of “Jersey Shore.” Amen, brother.

6. Oprah Winfrey should get up off her fat but and do the one thing that frightens her; run for political office. I’m just saying…

7. Sarah Palin is stupid and bigoted, and I’m not ashamed to say that about another woman. Let Camille Paglia fuck her if she wants, I don’t care--- she ought to be sedated. Pass the Prozac.

8. No mother should ever have to bury her child.

9. Education in the South Bronx sucks. I suspect it sucks in the rest of the four boroughs as well and for the same reason: politics trump children every time.

10. I’m real glad its not dark at 6:00 a.m. anymore.

The Vodka Party

Dear Diary:

On New Year’s Day I went to a vodka tasting party in Chelsea. Hosted by a high level executive in the insurance industry and a literary agent (mine), there were academics, artists, bankers, lawyers, editors--- gay, straight, married and otherwise. A real NYC mix of highbrow, middlebrow and even a couple of village idiots. I started off the evening with a vodka tonic and made my way over to the sushi station. While munching on raw tuna and yellow tail, I struck up a conversation with a man who is an English Professor at a well known university and also a member of the MLA (Modern Language Association).

Let’s call him Carlos. I asked Carlos about the troublesome hanging indent still required for all good bibliographies. I said--- is it true it’s about to become obsolete? Heading down the same lonely road as whom and thou and shall? In a lofty tone, he replied that he was on committees that didn’t deal with such matters. But surely I persisted this is important? He conceded that yes MLA style books are still their bread and butter, but clearly couldn’t be bothered with the fate of the hanging indent. Fair enough. Then I asked him what the MLA thought about texting--- is it changing the shape of language? Is it good or bad? More loftiness, more condescension. WTF?

I moved on. Sat next to a woman who could’ve been me, but with money. Pretty, blond, “of a certain age.” Boiled wool pants, cashmere sweater and scarf, gold jewelry, rust suede boots. Oh, a banker at JP Morgan. She lamented about how her and her colleagues were afraid to say the “B” word out in public. About how the whole industry was unfairly targeted. That it was a myth that the industry is rife with criminals. I asked if her bank received a bailout. She said, Yes, but along with other solvent banks such as Wells Fargo, they took it even though they didn’t need it. Why did you take it, I asked. Because it would’ve looked bad if we didn’t, she replied, we’ve already given the money back. When she began to complain about how friends of hers lost so much money, couldn’t send their kids to ivy league colleges, etc. etc. I bailed. That was something I just couldn’t listen to.

Besides, the main event was beginning. The vodka tasting! Waiters passed around trays containing shots of mystery vodka. We were to grade it according to clarity, bouquet, taste, and finish. Determined to remain sober and avoid a horrendous hangover, I took tiny sips in my assessment of all four vodkas. We all knew beforehand that one was made with soy, one was made with grain, and one was made with grapes. They hailed from Florida, Poland, Vienna and France. Not surprisingly, my favorite was from Poland (mother’s milk), but the over-all favorite was from France, P. Diddy’s vodka of choice, Ciroc Ultra Premium.

When the tasting was over, I switched over to a lovely pinot grigio. As I fixed my hair and my lipstick in a bathroom adorned with contrasting marble tile, a stainless steel shower and a towel warmer, I thought, I will never live like this. I will never buy a one bedroom apartment in Chelsea, buy the studio next door, knock down the walls, redo the floors and hang track lighting. Many people were interested in my career as a feminist writer, as someone who’s been produced on Broadway, Off Broadway, NPR, as a woman who writes erotica--- and at this gathering in Chelsea, on the first day of a new decade, the dividing line wasn’t class or money, but art versus commerce.

Clearly there were two camps. We admired each other. We each secretly envied each other. And I’m sure we were all glad to be going home to our own homes, and our own lives. I thought about the banker from JP Morgan who said, its entirely possible that one or two “bad” people making bad choices can bring down an entire economy and still wondered if this really could be true.

photo: SnowCrystals.com

Summer 09: No shame

You would not expect food stamps in Brooklyn Heights. You would expect million dollar co-ops, doormen, nannies, private schools --- and you would be right. All these things exist including fey little boutiques that sell Marc Jacob's T-shirts for $200 (on sale for $140!) as well as two high end real estate offices. But co-existing in this land of splendor are people like myself; artist/writers, actor/realtor's, teacher/dancers, literary agents. And, in the midst of the recession, in the belly of the economic bell curve, trapped in the the cyclone of adjustable rate mortgages and the positively Rabelaisian greed of CEO's, I found myself living on food stamps this July and August. And what's more I enjoyed it.

But first a bit of back story:

It's not 2009, it's 1962. It's not Brooklyn, its the Midwest. And, trust me, there had been no revolution, sexual or otherwise. There were no dope smoking hippies preaching love and happiness, no Mr. Natural, Age of Aquarius. No. It's a factory town, an old Indian village, a small sea of immigrants. My father was in Viet Nam, it wasn't a war yet. My mother was at home with three small children. The checks stopped coming. Mice ruled the basement. A ham bone turned to pea soup and fed us for five days. I had bacon for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But my mother resolutely turned down food stamps.

It didn't matter that the milk had exploded in the metal container on the porch. It didn't matter that her mother told her take the bus and come for dinner, to which my mother replied, I don't have the money to take the bus. And then hang up the phone in frustration. She would not apply for food stamps. That was charity. That was the tough immigrant pride of my mother. That was the pride of her daughter, too. In the past, whenever I'd see someone pay with food stamps, which in those days looked like Monopoly money, I'd think: LOSER-- as in--- you got a incontinent beer swilling husband at home and four snotty nosed kids.

Cut to the summer of 09 and I am struggling. Serious issues of morale. But happiness as well--- my niece stays with me three or four nights a week. We drink iced coffee. She talks about her day. I talk about mine. Soon we have turned Wednesday night or Thursday night into a ritual; Trader's Joes with food stamps. They look nothing like their predecessor, now--- its a sleek little credit card. Now it doesn't scream loser, now its just another form of credit. My niece and I are delirious as we wander from aisle to aisle; tomatoes, avocados, toasted almonds, arugula, pre-cooked turkey meatballs, couscous and chicken, then a stop at the free sample station for a cup of really good hot coffee, and a bite of a macaroon with ginger ice cream, or a chicken burrito, with salsa verde. Muy bien!

I'd get the cherry soy ice cream with dark chocolate, my niece would get goat cheese. I'd always pick up beef carpaccio and she'd get raisin bran cereal and milk. We always scooped up the teriyaki frozen chicken and jasmine rice, the vegetarian pizza. Our shopping cart is now full and half the time girlfriend is on her cell to her boyfriend, but I don't care. Trader Joes in August 09 is a wonderland, better than Disney world, better than Las Vegas. The employees are always friendly--- I even asked a cashier once, Is this a good job? Are you treated well? He replied, sincerely, Yes. I am.

Paying for all this with food stamps didn't feel shameful. Nobody seemed to care. My niece and I would walk out into the twilight, onto Atlantic Avenue, the streets still thick with strollers and traffic, carrying five bags of food, happy and content. Happy about filling up the fridge and cupboards when we got home. Perhaps it was a different time for my mother--- a new immigrant, still vivid memories of the war, a young wife. But I'm 1.5. I was born here. I have a Master's Degree. There are no children at home. If food stamps are a benefit I can receive while the economy is in the toilet, I'll take it. After all this is the government that allowed rapacious banks to triple my APR.

So. No shame. None at all. Instead--- a happy memory of hot summer nights, 2009. My mom would've had fun, too, with me, with her granddaughter, getting a cup of coffee then hitting the frozen food section at Trader Joes.

BTW

BTW: I only bought the dishwashing liquid. The danger with those stores is buying what you DON'T need and thus wasting money. But srsly when I got the money, and I can replace my quilt and my pillows, will definitely check that place out. Their prices got nothing on Century 21, and that's a FAQ.

The dollar story

I stopped at Close Out Connection, the local discount store for poor people. Yes, I am feeling sorry for myself, but beyond that I thought, well let me see what they got. They got a lot of shit, is what they got--- but also surprisingly some good bargains. I got a tub of dishwashing liquid for $1.29 which was a real miracle, and the hair pomade I pay $7.69 at Rite Aid, cost $1.29 here. So that was pretty amazing. $4.00 for a box of 600 aspirins, generic, but who cares. A new goose down comforter, queen sized for $50.00, goose down pillows for $15.00, a gallon of Drano for $3.00.

Too bad the over-all look and feel of the store is institutional and bleak, dirty and dusty. Good name brand bras for $5.00 but filthy. So those I would never buy. I checked out the demographic; black people, white people, Spanish people, mostly women. One woman didn't speak English and wanted me to weigh in on a mattress pad for a crib. I wondered why she thought I would know what I was talking about. I did the best I could and assured her it was probably alright via sign language.

They had wine glasses, salad bowls, flash lights, umbrellas, gum, candy, chocolate, even extra virgin olive oil. I couldn't wait to get out of there. I think I am my mother's daughter. This hurt my pride, my ambition, the great plans I had about my "future." As a young child, we were dirt poor. Mom cooked batches of pea soup, wouldn't apply for food stamps and our apartment was over-run by mice. It's like I carry a little bit of that history in my heart, and it won't let go.

Life is cyclical. Sometimes, you are up. And sometimes you are down. The only certain thing is change. It's what keep me going.

The wolf at my door

Every day of my life is a delicate ballet of debt avoidance, debt strategy and debt management. Every day on my lunch I decide who to call and who to avoid, who've I've already spoken to and who I need to remember to call. Today I was on the phone with Bank of America who have decided to put me as a hardship case for a small payment of $700.00. Then I spent 45 minutes on the phone with New York State and the IRS to find out what forms I need to order tax transcripts. Now I'm basically procrastinating --- b/c I've got to download those forms and then get my bank statements in order--- all to prep for my first meeting with my lawyer. Of course I haven't figured out how I'm going to pay him, but all in good time.

This goes on and on. This is now my life. I am no longer a writer, no longer the brilliant straight A student at NYU writing her brilliant thesis on female archetypes as revisioned by feminist theory. That lofty, precious, beautiful world is now closed to me. One hopes not closed forever, but for now, kaput. Do I question the sanity of that degree? Friends, I do every day of my life. Who could guess that three months after graduation the economy would crash. Was I wrong in trying to build a better life for myself? That story has yet to be told. The irony is I will be living the same life I lived before the degree, the life I tried to get out of--- the life where I had to work four or five jobs in three different boroughs just to survive. I said to myself in 2005, I've had enough. I need to make a change, a BIG change.

One would think that with all the publications, prizes, productions, reviews, teaching experience and now a Masters, that finding a full time job would be easy. This is what I thought last May. I confidently set to work: I made an appointment with an NYU job counselor. She reviewed my resume, my cover letters. I worked with her for three weeks. I gained access to their data base. I was managing my bills with work and savings. All would be well! Week after week passed, weeks become months, and now its been a year. This could well be very humiliating if I let it, but I won't. I know how hard I've tried. I've got a stack of applications four inches thick.

I ran into a colleague of mine today who passed on my CV to a friend in a high place at another college. I had applied to the $80,000 a year job running the writing center. I had recently gotten a form letter stating: we've decided not to interview you. I asked her, what's wrong with me? Who could be better qualified. She said, all those jobs are about who you know. And she added, the problem is you're too qualified. They know you're not a bureaucrat. In a way, I'd rather be filing for bankruptcy. Honestly. Because at least its a change of venue. I'm sick of sending out job applications into the world. They've fallen on deaf ears. I do believe however that the universe rewards an honest effort.

For now I will continue my ballet--- to keep my assets safe, to keep the wolf at bay, scratch, scratch, scratch, hear him? He's at the door. But don't let him in.

This is how you rebuild your life

Earlier I was on the phone with Bank of America who is suing me. I've had to reconcile myself to the fact that I have to file for bankruptcy. I've worked so hard for a year trying to get another part-time job, full-time job, free-lance job, whatever job, but to no avail. Strangely, I do not find comfort in the fact that there are millions of people who are in the same boat. I was walking Molly today and overheard a woman say, I'm going to lose my house.

Instead of panicking (which I did yesterday) I told myself that knowledge is power, and spoke to three attorneys. I also went online and researched my rights. When I had a slum landlord, I did the same thing, went to court and won. This is more complicated of course, but I look forward to the day when this weight is off my shoulders and I can start over. Meanwhile, this has been the loveliest summer in New York that I can remember.

I'm still being treated to birthday lunches and brunches. I have my health. It will get better. The economy will get better. One day soon I can treat myself to a new pair of shoes, a new blouse, a new pair of jeans, a new lipstick. This is how you rebuild your life. One small item at a time.

Escape to Mexico

Yesterday I didn't want to be here anymore--- in New York, in this life, struggling to survive in this economy. I wanted to run away to Mexico. I saw it all in my head; the way I would pack up one suitcase with just jeans and t-shirts, my laptop and my dog. I would collect my last two checks from Lehman, and not pay any bills. I'd put my books in storage and board a bus at Port Authority--- in the early morning hours, before 6:00 a.m., before dawn. So it would be dark and shadowy. I would sit in the back of the bus bound for Tennessee or Kentucky; somewhere southwest.

At my destination, I would check into a flea bag hotel and cut off all my hair, dye it dark brown. I would watch the local news, order a cheeseburger, maybe a beer. I wouldn't call anyone, I would just disappear. The next day, I would board another bus to Nevada, repeat the same process, cheap hotel, cheeseburger, beer, until I got to a pristine and golden beach in Mexico. I saw myself going off the grid once and for all--- working as a waitress, or on a fishing boat, maybe teaching English. A couple of thousand would go a long way in Mexico, I thought. Maybe I'd come back when the economy bounces back, or maybe not at all.

Today I amended the escape to South Florida, a tiny coastal town, somewhere around Sanibel or Ft. Meyers. Teach in a community college. All my life I've done things the hard way, just to prove how tough I am. Maybe now its time to give myself a break, and do things the easy way.

She's talking my talk

"I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a door mat or a prostitute". ~Rebecca West

$475 Designer Shoes Mock Author

My Taryn Rose designer shoes laugh at me every time I open my closet door. It is a low throaty chuckle, rich and resonant. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. My $475.00 Bernie Madoff moment of last spring. They laugh at me because I was arrogant and impulsive. I didn't charge them. I paid cash. Except--- it wasn't my money! Oh the hilarity, oh the insanity. And what's worse? I can't wear them. That's right. You heard me. I. Can't. Wear. Them.

Friends, they are beautiful. Elegant. Black patent Italian leather. Sexy. I couldn't wait to wear them. I was sure my life would be transformed. I would become this other woman. A woman of means, of intelligence, of beauty, erudition. After all, I had just graduated from NYU, paid for with other people's money. Oh, the irony just doesn't get any better. Still, it was spring, and I was smart, my diploma said so. I deserved these shoes. They loved me, and I loved them.

I had family in town. We traversed Canal Street, bounded up Broadway, meandered on Bleecker-- Marc Jacobs, the Magnolia Bakery, except my f---ing feet were killing me. When we got home, the muscles in my thighs were convulsing, throbbing. I called up friends, family, what can I do? I wrapped my legs in warm compresses, soaked the towels in vinegar and finally ended up in a hot bath at midnight.

So now its a year later and I am wearing a pair of black cowboy boots, an XMAS gift from my father, circa 2003. The heels are run down, the soles are thin, the leather is cracked. This is why the Taryn Rose shoes are laughing at me. The extravagance of last year has come back to mock me and haunt me. I can't wear those shoes. I can't afford another pair. The thought of spending close to five hundred dollars on footwear now seems insane.

Wouldn't you be laughing, too?

Fail, You Bastards!

I continue to watch the financial news and I continually wish that all the companies that are too big to fail would do just that--- fail. News teams are regularly uncovering all kinds of fraud in the mortgage business. I listened to a Harvard economist talk about how we've just seen the tip of the iceberg; the crash of mortgage backed securities. She said, wait till the next shoe is dropped, consumer debt on credit cards. She said that's really going to be a wild ride. The mayor of this great city said we've got to get out and start spending, and I say to him, with whose money? Yours?

I am thinking about all the things I no longer spend money on:

1. Mac Make-up. My go to brand for almost 15 years. Now I buy Rimmel out of London. It's about 50% cheaper.
2. Molly. I do not pay people to wash her. I wipe down her paws on rainy days, clip the hair out of her face and cut her toenails myself. I do not have 100 bucks to drop on a day of beauty for her.
3. My favorite Japanese restaurant. It's four blocks from my home. It has the best teriyaki chicken in the world. I would order the obenzai, appetizer of the day, drink two glasses of a white Rioja, and read the paper. But no more. The bill is $40.00 for this and it ain't happening.
4. Ann Taylor on Montague Street. I was a regular--- buying up white shirts, khaki trousers, flip flops, T-shirts. A great place for basics. I don't have the money for basics anymore.
5. Wee Wee Pads for Molly. She pees on the New York Post. What? Something wrong with that?
6. No. More. Cabs.
7. No more pay per view movies on Time Warner. If there's a movie I like on Sundance, I watch it. If not, I am now watching crap reality TV on Bravo. It's like crack cocaine and now I'm addicted. Whatever. If it lowers my IQ, so be it.
8. Shoes. I've been wearing the same pair of black cowboy boots since December. If I'm lucky I'll have enough money to buy a pair of spring sandals at PayLess. Rock on Sista!
9. I cook my own food and eat it even when it tastes like crap.
10. I do not go to restaurants. I do not go to the movies.

Mayor Bloomberg, if you want me to start spending money, please help me find a fourth job. Otherwise shut your patrician mouth.

Amen.

The Monsters of Finance Are Going to Eat YOU

The monsters of finance are going to get you and eat you. Next month AIG will extort another 30 billion dollars, the month after that GM will extort 50 billion. Aaaaah. Eeeee. Kapow! Who can stop these monsters from devouring our lovely, over-extended capitalistic empire? Call in the super heroes, stock up on beer, eggs and potato chips, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

photo by: Marc Travanti

An Obsession

Lately I've been obsessed with this book. As a New Yorker who watched the Twin Towers burn and collapse from the Brooklyn Promenade, I am sensitive and critical about the use of it in fiction. To my ear, many attempts fall flat, including my own. I was one of the writers commissioned by Brave New World to write a short piece for the first anniversary of 9/11. It premiered with many others at Town Hall in 2002. I sat in the audience, driven insane by anxiety, surrounded by hundreds of people, as the curtain rose. I was so sure I had gotten the right amount of anguish, of humor. But I didn't. The plays that were the most successful dealt tangentally with the tragedy. Those that dealt directly sounded melodramatic. There just wasn't enough distance.

Cut to six years later and Ms. Messud's story of five New Yorkers rings true and poignant, funny and profound. The narrative swirls around a well known journalist and his coterie of daughter, wife, friend and nephew. The time is late spring, early summer 2001. The characters are drawn sharply, incisively. This is Sex and the City, but with a vengeance. I know these people or variations of them. They are confident, ridiculous, and insecure. They are ambitious, brilliant conversationalists, and well educated. The town is its usual chaotic, gorgeous hot stinking mess. The characters are almost adolescent in their desire for renown, to have fun, to make their mark on the world, have great sex.

I've read this book five times in the last year (it was published in 2007), and I've finally figured out why---in the specificity of the characters' transformation after 9/11, Messud brilliantly illuminates the universal. Before and after: irreducible, trite, cliched, yet nonetheless, powerful. It's hard to put into words. It's very easy to map the singularity of my own neurosis from the days that immediately followed; the nightmares--- I dreamt that people were standing outside my bedroom window, discussing how they were going to poison the water supply. Or, simply, a plane crashing into my building. I wasn't the only person dreaming these dreams.

What wasn't so easy to catalogue or articulate was the inchoate sense that nothing would ever be the same again. That we, as individuals, would never be the same again. That New York City would never be the same again. And every time a film or a book would attempt to parse this, put it into words, it fell flat, sounded forced. Until I read The Emperor's Children. I know that people in other cities, other towns, other states were horrified and saddened. But this was outside my bedroom window. This was my backyard. Messud translates this and its mysterious repercussions into a story that is neither exploitative or mawkish, just very, very true and very, very wise.

Oh Bernie What Have You Done?

Oh Bernie. Bernie, Bernie. I'm sorry but he's a likable guy. I've been reading lots of profiles including one today in New York Magazine, and he's our very own version of P. T. Barnum. Smoke and mirrors. Dancing Girls. Grand gestures. He sold and we bought. He's the emblematic patron saint of all the base and greedy instincts in all of us. I have a designer bag on a credit card that now has a 25% APR. He's the macrocosm and I'm the microcosm. As above, so below.

Honestly, it's funny.

I support the President. I helped elect him into office. And the moment I heard the words bail out --- I knew it was fait accompli. Even though instinct told me that we were letting white collar criminals run the show and get away with murder. Part of me, would like to see the whole thing crash. From a strictly theoretical point of view, it would be interesting, no, fascinating, to watch how the "free market" would recreate itself. I bet even Allen Greenspan would learn a few things.

I fear that we have merely put an old financial model on life support. The other analogy that comes to mind is a kind of economic cannibalism--- taxpayers support failing businesses and banks so that taxpayers can reap the benefits (employment, annuities, real estate 401K's, etc.) of said institutions. Am I the only person in the room who thinks this is crazy? CEO's, CFO's and their ilk fucked up and fucked us. Bernie is just the show dog in a performance of major hitters. Bernie will probably go to jail, but there are many who won't.

Instead we are giving them money.

This is why I like Bernie. This is why, when I am feeling cynical and tough, I laugh with him and at him.

Illustration by Darrow for New York Magazine

Stories I'd Never Tell You

A friend of mine, CC, a woman, who wrote the original screenplay for Debbie Does Dallas--- agreed to let me interview her for a story. I thought it would make a great one. At the time, she was a young, Black, professional single mother, working at an ivy league university. A woman who hung with Nikki Giovanni, and other luminaries of the Black Arts Movement.

She was a nascent feminist who had gone to some of the meetings and marched in some of the marches. She had promised herself that one day she would tell her story. She would write about what it was like to have participated in the cultural pornographic zeitgeist of one of the highest grossing films ever. But thus far, 31 years later, she hasn't.

So I interviewed her and framed the narrative around the larger cultural issues of the day. One of the most significant is the democratization of pornography. Before the 1970's, porno existed in the shadows as stag films, and "French postcards." But movies like Deep Throat, DDD, Behind the Green Door, created porn for public consumption for the first time. Nothing has ever been the same. In addition, the 70's saw the first wave of feminism. Ironic, huh? Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan and bra burning paved the way for ---- well, I think we're still arguing that. But yes improvements have been made.

Within that cultural historical framework, in 1978, CC not only wrote the screenplay but also served as AD on the set which included City Island and Pratt University. The shoot took place on the five day 4th of July weekend. I wrote this up and submitted it to Nerve.com. I thought it would be a perfect home for the story. Initially, the editor said, we like it, but--- could you reframe it, our readers already know the political and cultural backstory. Still though I was elated. It's a great online publication, sophisticated, sexy and literate. I lusted after publication.

CC didn't share my feelings. She has never really revealed her "secret." She knew I was liberal, after all an image of my bare ass is in the permanent collection of MOMA. She knew that I've written extensively and frankly about my own sexuality. I am unabashed when it comes to this. But for her--- 31 years later, she still carries a great deal of shame about her participation in DDD. The depth of this shame came crashing in on her. She changed her mind and pulled her rights. Told me that I couldn't publish a story I'd been working on for almost a year. It was a sticky situation.

On the one hand, I feel that women have far too many "secrets" regarding their sexual history and I include myself in that category. I think its time that we step out of the shadows and start telling these stories. The shame is acculturated. It's not real. It's an illusion. But we won't change this by keeping our mouths shut. On the other hand, the fear in her eyes was real. And morally I couldn't ignore that. It's a great disappointment to me. It would've been a great story. I had to tell a very prominent editor, sorry, I can't do this. I watched a pay check float away.

We had a face to face today. It was not pleasant. It's tough to go up against another woman. I felt partly that I was betraying the "sisterhood." She was brutally honest about her feelings. And I was brutally honest. I hope our friendship is able to endure despite this. As far as the story goes, I envision a book called Stories I'd Never Tell You. And it would be a collection of women finally letting go of their secrets. I doubt that CC would participate, but surely other women would.

The Female Body+The Feminine Gaze

photo credit: Marc Travanti

This is a woman's definition of a woman's body. The photographer is a man, but the vision is female. This is my body, ten years ago. This is erotic, not pornographic. This is not demeaning. I am subject, not object. This is still sexual. I chose the stockings. I like the slightly fetishist image this creates. I chose to keep my face hidden. This is my portrait of my body. I chose what to conceal and what to reveal. This is my representation.

It's possible to build a new vocabulary that adheres more closely to the female narrative--- a lexicon that includes words, images and myths and fairy-tales that affirm the power of women, their sexuality, their beauty. A lexicon that includes the love of men, without the male gaze. A vision that is inclusive, not exclusive. I offer this image as proof positive that it can be done.

Please Don't Take My Porn Away

Please don't take my porn away just because I'm a feminist. Please don't take my porn away just because I am smart, beautiful and educated. A woman with a strong voice and an even stronger presence. I've been reading various feminist blogs on this topic and apparently there's a huge amount of dissent. A view that all porn is damaging to women. That's not 100% true anymore. Women like Jenna Jamison are not trampled upon. They are not drug addicts. They are not beaten or abused. They are in perfect control of their commodity, their sexuality, and nobody feels sorry for them.

I know Marilyn Chambers was trampled upon. I know she said she was raped. And this is a terrible thing. I am not downplaying the women who were raped, coerced or otherwise abused. Women with track marks and bad skin. But today is a new day. More and more, women are taking charge of their pornographic lives. Women like Candida Royalle. I'm a big fan of her films. There is an appreciable difference between porn created with the male gaze. And porn created from the female gaze.

There is more foreplay. LOTS more foreplay. There is dialogue. Tenderness. Mise en scene. It doesn't get too anatomical. Cum flies and pussies are penetrated. It's still hot. It's still about sex and getting off. But the women aren't objects, they are subjects. It is their story. Their illicit romances, their fantasies. There is nothing degrading about this. I've grown into this POV. I used to be far more hard core. I used to read Andrea Dworkin. That was 1980. In 1998, my friends bought me a slinky nightgown, a porno produced by Ms. Royalle, called Eyes of Desire (see photo above), and a vibrator. So I could take myself out on a date. Which I did, and often. Today, I like to think of myself as a sex positive feminist. I believe I can have my cake and eat it, too. BTW: here's a link to a post I wrote for the Bitch Blog. I responded to an open prompt: What influences you in feminism now?

Don't Call Me a Cougar

Don't call me a cougar or I'll kill you. Srsly. I don't know who cooked up this word--- but I hate it. It is a hatred that has flowered, grown, matured like a really fine wine. Cougar. MEEOW. I tried to own it, but secretly I didn't like it--- even though most of my lovers were at least ten years younger. Yet, little by little, the word gained momentum in popular culture.

Think of Samantha's character in Sex and the City. Oh you go girl, fucking all those young guys. Then, suddenly the cougar movement became a tsunami. People called me a cougar. I laughed uneasily. I know it was meant as a compliment. But it didn't feel that way. Here's what I now believe about it;

On the Surface, It's All Good
It signifies: I'm sexy, I'm older. I'm smart. See above. Furthermore, I'm autonomous. I don't need a man to complete me or pay my rent. I can buy my own diamonds, thank you. It means that I am schooled in all things erotic--- give a mean blowjob, perform a strip show, buy a vibrator, all without blushing.

But Many Things Lurk Beneath the Surface:
The subtext is offensive. The original meaning is a large powerful cat. They are hunters. They are carnivorous. They prowl, they corner, they pounce. They are dangerous. They have sharp teeth and claws. Hell they might even kill you. So now I'm a pussy with teeth?

Context: Complimentary

Subtext: Offensive

Don't Take My Word For It

From Urban Dictionary, I proffer their definition:

"The cougar can frequently be seen in a padded bra, cleavage exposed, watching, waiting..."

Context: Offensive

Subtext: Still offensive

In Conclusion:
Words are powerful. Let's make sure we, women, write our own definitions for our own damn selves. Nobody said a word when Picasso fathered a child at 95. Nobody called him a cougar. Men have been dating younger women since the beginning of time. We have yet to coin a term for this phenomenon. But when women do it --- and it enters the zeitgeist, it becomes, in its subtext, a term of derision.

I've said it; and I'm not sorry

I haven't seen these movies but I'm going to complain about them anyway--- first up: He's Just Not That Into You. Dear God, could anything be more sexist beside the term cougar? Spawned from a supercilious comment, which mushroomed into a totally unecessary book, and now an embarrssing film--- I have to ask, what is going on with smart women anyway? Why did we embrace The Rules a decade ago?

Why did I have to watch beautiful, smart, accomplished women eat up this slop like caviar? "Oh, no. He totally has to call me first." And now this movie. The trailer of Drew Barrymore is horrifying. She is appears to be one of the smartest, richest, most powerful woman in Hollywood, yet her character is a retro-clingy, ditsy , insecure girl.

And then the travesty of Bride Wars starring yet another smart, talented, classy actress, Anne Hathaway. Her performance in Rachel Getting Married is off the charts. I know, I know --- I haven't seen Bride Wars, but I've read the reviews, and seen the PR. I don't need to see it. I already know the story. Two girls duking it out. Catfight. I love it when women are portrayed as one dimensional shrieking harridans. This is yet another stereotype that I'd like to see smacked into the stratosphere.

Apparently, we (society) still have a compelling need to infantalize women. But I wish we would get over it. I wish women would stop inflating their breasts like bicycle tires I wish we would stop publishing books that perpetuate a worn out, out-dated image of us. I wish we could think of a better alternative to Playboy than Playgirl. I wish we would work harder on creating a new narrative of what it means to be women in the 21st century.

There, I've said it. And I'm not sorry.

Have 8 Kids, Get a Reality Show!

Yesterday's Daily News ran a story by Patrick Huguenin about the woman who just gave birth to octuplets. That's eight babies. Nadya Suleman, 33, from California, is according to the author, a woman with "with an irrational, seemingly pathological, need to conceive." That's putting it mildly--- she already has six children.

It might be medical miracle and God(dess) bless all the little babies, but the ethical implications are staggering. Nadya's mother said that all the babies have the same sperm donor. Uh. I think the proper term here is father. Father and mother now have 14 children.

I thought that families that size went the way of Bakelite telephones, pantyhose, Catholicism, corporal punishment, and frosted hair. Maybe the parents assume they will get a reality television show and make millions--- in other words, ka-ching! These children will start work immediately, skip the innocence, and go straight into the glare of world wide media attention.

I can't imagine how much fun that must be for a three year old! Mark my words, readers--- they will get a reality television show. They will make millions in endorsement deals. The mother has recently filed for bankruptcy, and the father who is listed as a sperm donor, will never have to work again. Excellent.

Why impregnate a woman with eight embryos? Because we can? She had already proven her fertility by giving birth to six other babies. It doesn't make sense. It's disturbing. We are producing children with no clear provenance. What will that do to them down the road? They'll be like the children who are "created" by another's women's egg but brought to term in another's women's womb.

Will we as a society begin to coin new terms to differentiate the children who are conceived naturally and the children who are created in test tubes? Will that create a hierarchy of natural born children versus unnatural born?

People who donate sperm and who donate their eggs are anonymously disseminating their DNA throughout the population. They assume they are anonymous, but they are not. I watched documentary about children who grow up and go looking for their test tube mommies and daddies. They may not be able to find them but they do find their siblings. It won't be long until a young woman who in her 20's made $8,000 for her eggs, hears a knock at the door 18 years later. Believe it.

I read NEVER LET ME GO by Kazuo Ishiguro--- about children, people who are cloned. Ultimately they are "harvested" for surgeries. It's got to be one of the most poignant books ever written. I couldn't read it again. It broke my heart. They really believed they were real, human, flesh and blood. They fell in love. They dreamed dreams. They planned for the future. They had likes and dislikes, passions and pathos. Just like us. Except--- not.

The woman in California with eight brand spanking new babies is a signifier of a much larger issue. Have we all forgotten Aldous Huxley's Brave New World? Should everyone read this book again? Do we really have to be reminded of the perils of playing God?