Fuzz Therapy (Partial Guest Fuzz)

Happy Wednesday everyone. As usual, here's your dose of Fuzz therapy.

Princess is doing much better this week. In fact, she gained 1/4 lb in one week, the little chub-monster. I thought the following pic was just perfect. I've long since given up my coveted Pirates of the Caribbean fleece to my Princess. As much as I love wrapping Johnny Depp around me, Princess appreciates it, and I'm not all that stupid as to try and take it back from her. I think this has just become my new favorite picture of Princess:

(Click for bigger pic)

Then there's this picture that I stole from my mommy, which is just too darn adorable to pass up:

This is my stepdad, Ted, with his kitty, Rascal. They're smooshing faces in some adorable snorgliness. Dudes that love cats are totally cool (sure wish my fiance would get on board with that--he pretends like Princess isn't really there until I smack him and make him acknowledge her fluffy cuteness).

Rascal looks like a cuddly boy. I think I might steal him when I visit in August (yo mommy--trade you the turtle? I know you want her back).

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Happy 10th Birthday Spongebob!!!!

I can't believe it's been ten years already. This has been my favorite cartoon since it first aired (I was thirteen!). My brother and I still call each other and quote lines from episodes, and flawlessly insert them into everyday conversations.

Spongebob is adorable, but I know if he was my neighbor in real life, I'd be Squidward (though there are lots of days when I feel like I am Squidward). Plus, he's got a snail that meows, a stupid friend with whom he can act like a child, a cheap-ass boss, and a totally kick-ass lady friend. He's totally content with being great at an otherwise mediocre job. That kind of happiness is enviable.

So, Spongebob: thanks for the last ten years. Here's to many more. I hope that should I choose to have kids instead of getting the dog I really want, you'll still be there so I can watch you with them.

This is one of my favorite eps (I tried to find my favorite, That's No Lady, but the only ones were edited or had offensive titles, and that's not welcome here). There's a slight gross-out warning, but it's a great example of Spongebob's naivity, his fear of losing his job, Squidward's evilness, and Patrick's...uh, Patrickness.

Pervasiveness of rape culture and acceptance of "not-rape"

Trigger Warning
I've said before, we're soaking in a rape culture. At every turn we see examples of how women's bodies are viewed as available, constantly sexual.

I just read this post by SugarLeigh, which was a guest post for Shakesville. I read every word. And every word has been swimming around in my head all day as it made me think of the men I've been with, and even those I never had sex with. There's rape, and then there's not-rape. I'm glad to have read SugarLeigh's post, since it's finally spurred me to write something personal to share (regular readers will notice how not many of my posts are personal).

Many parts of SugharLeigh's post were so familiar to me:

That place in between, where it feels good... but it doesn't. When I'm excited and I want it... but I'm intimidated and unsure too. Should I say no? Do I want to? Surely it's too late now, at any rate. Or what about "duty sex?" Going through the motions, smile here, moan there, pulling lines from a script and spitting them out so he thinks I'm into it but I'm miles away. Doesn't feel good anymore, maybe it hurts even, but sex isn't always good, and sometimes you gotta take one for the team, right? You don't just stop when you're in the middle of things. Once your clothes are off and his hands are on your breasts, it's kind of a foregone conclusion. Once he's in, you might as well stick it out.

I never used to question why I was suddenly uncomfortable--was it the place? Was it the guilt? Yes, guilt. I've heard the nice things, and when that didn't work, when I still was unsure, I heard "Well, I hope I don't have to cheat on you." What sort of intimacy could I have with that weighing on my mind? It wasn't until I met my fiance that I realized that sex wasn't just about the man's experience, that we can both engage in it emotionally and physically. I didn't understand that I was being coerced. I didn't know about not-rape.

~ We're newly dating; we're making out. It's good. I like the way he bites me on the neck, except he does it too hard sometimes, and when I say "Easy!" he laughs, and does it again. Now he's just kissing, gently, and I'm on fire, it feels so nice. His lips brush my collarbone. For some reason I cry out. I still don't know why. A gasped "No," almost a whisper. He chuckles into my throat, "So that's how you like it."

What's more fresh in my mind in this not-rape line of thought is something that happened about three years ago while I was still in college, when a once-trusted professor crossed a line when I made a visit to his office. I had gone there many times to discuss the class, or what I was writing at the time. I looked up to him. I trusted him. Which is probably why I didn't notice how the lights were off one day when I went with him to his office--it was still light out, after all; or how I didn't think anything of the door being closed, or how he chose to sit in the chair next to me instead of professionally keeping his desk between us.

And then I remember that sudden wave of fear envelop me when he stroked my shoulder, and his face turned to something...else. He said something--complimented my writing or something, I don't remember. I didn't know what happened, how the situation had turned to this. I panicked, grabbed my backpack and made some pitiful excuse as I grappled for the door. He made no move to stop me.

I don't know what he could have been thinking. I wondered that as I rushed out of the building. I went to work early, went into the library and sat at the desk. I remember that this was a Friday because I was anticipating going home--I had told him that. I wanted to go there then, and tell my mom, but then I didn't want to tell my mom. I didn't want to tell anyone, because I was so ashamed.

While I anxiously yearned for time to pass where my shift would be over and I could be speeding home, desiring physical distance, I played around on the computer, checked my email. Not ten minutes had passed, and there was an email sitting in my inbox from that professor. Dread washed over me in fresh waves. I don't know why I clicked on it. Curiosity, I guess.

It was an apology.

I cried when I told my parents and brother. I cried when I told my boyfriend (now fiance) on the phone. I expected everyone to blame me--why should I think any different? I was so ashamed--ashamed, like it was my fault. And what really stung was that I would miss out on my favorite class of the semester because I knew that I couldn't face him ever again.

When I went back to school, I skipped his class. Shortly after the class supposedly ended, I received another email. This time he was urging me to return to class, apologizing again and stating that he hoped that his actions would interfere with my education. Yeah, thanks.

My family and fiance were supportive. I went to another professor, and with his aid we went to the VP of student affairs. I was grateful, because otherwise I wouldn't have been able to report it. The VP was...less than understanding. He upset me more because it was like I wasn't worth his time. He asked questions that were of no consequence--why I had gone to the office, was that the first time I had gone to his office, how was I doing in the class? What did any of that have to do with anything? I was taken advantage of. What if I hadn't fled when I had the chance? What if he had tried to stop me from getting to the door?

I could have gotten the professor fired, but I didn't. The only thing that happened was that the incident went on his record. I didn't want anyone to know. It was a small campus--people talk.

I just wanted to forget it ever happened.

What has happened to me was not rape. But it was a culmination of attitudes and words and actions, and it was nurtured by family, friends, peers, teachers, media, a society at large in which I was not given an atmosphere that supported me standing up for myself. Why should I? Anyone else standing up for me was few and far between (I have some good friends too, but they can't make up for EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD I'VE BEEN IN CONTACT WITH). And it's not like you can point the lack of support out to them, because they will just respond that I should stand up for myself; what am I, a weakling? And then when I did stand up, I was a whiner, complaining, overreacting, overemotional, and the slut who asked for it. So if I'm always wrong anyway, why bother? And I stopped bothering. And I was ripe for the picking. And it's a color that so many men know how to see, and for which so few can resist reaching once they see it.

While my family and fiance were supportive, I didn't think other people would be if I made a fuss. The VP of fucking student affairs wasn't, why should my peers? I didn't want other people thinking I led him on, or I asked for it, or whatever else people assume when they engage in victim-blaming and slut-shaming. And it's a real fear that women face daily when they're victimized, even if it doesn't involve actual rape. It's inevitable, because of the pervasiveness of our rape culture.

Public Enemies: Race and male aggression

Spoiler Alert and Trigger Warning: While I do not give a full plot summary, parts of this post may reveal key plot points. Also, this is a violent and graphic movie, which I will discuss also, and may be triggering to some readers.

I would like to start this post by saying I'm glad I saw this movie (I got to pick this time, and thankfully it was not the train wreck that the last movie was--which the fiance picked). It was exciting, and I got to stare at Johnny Depp for 2+ hours.

I went into it fully aware that it was high on the masculinity scale (it's generally a safe bet that any movie with men and guns is going to be masculine, what with all the phallic imagery and aggression going on). I enjoyed it immensely, since Johnny Depp is my favorite actor, and he plays "bad" characters very well. As in Secret Window, Depp's performance in Public Enemies put me in the situation that I am torn between wanting his character to die because of the atrocities he's committed to other characters, while simultaneously rooting for him to get away and be free.

Other characters were not painted in so romantic a light as Dillinger: the cops came off as buffoons, who more than once let Dillinger walk away--even when he strolled into the Dillinger crime office and took a peek at all the neat stuff they collected on him. Those silly cops were more interested in listening to the game! The other gangsters seemed to defer to Dillinger, and Baby Face Nelson was moronically trigger-happy to the point where even Dillinger was frightened of him, and was adamant to break ties with him.

Still, I wish there had been more of the women. Sheriff Lillian Holley could have been a complex character--she was a sheriff in a male-dominated profession, and seemed to have had to face reminders of that consistently, yet she got very little attention in this movie (though she does facilitate the rescue of Billie from the asshole cop). And the prostitute Anna, who sets Dillinger up at the end, is no more complex than a woman who risks deportation, when she was certainly more than that. She was Dillinger's trusted friend, and the decision to have to choose staying in the country over him could not have been so two-dimensional. Plus I'm certain there was more to her than her over-riding identity as a whore. Billie was important to Dillinger, but I don't think we saw enough of her to really understand this connection. They met, he said she was his girl, and boom! Deep relationship happens.

I was worried for Billie's safety as well. When Dillinger goes to claim her at her job, he assaults the impatient man demanding his coat, then in a weird way becomes a knight in shining armor to Billie, rescuing her from her horrible poor-girl life. What the hell? I spent the rest of the movie in an "oh god" mode, waiting for Dillinger's anger and aggression to manifest itself on Billie's body (he never hit her, thankfully). But Billie is later assaulted by the cop who was supposed to be surveillancing her; his assault of her is his revenge for making him look like an inadequate cop. After her arrest, he "interrogates" her, and brutally attacks her when she taunts him that he can't catch Dillinger.

That being said, I did find it interesting that the cops were just as dark and vicious as the gangsters they were trying to capture (or kill, whichever happened first). The first instance we meet Bale's character, Purvis, he's hunted down and killed Pretty Boy Floyd. The cops and gangsters are all killers, but only one side has the law, and the other is uplifted into romantic idolatry.

I'm not sure what to think of Purvis. He's gunned down his share of criminals, and he allows an injured criminal to be tortured by another cop by denying medical care to the man, as well as inflicting more pain on him. Yet he comes in just before the asshole cop can hit Billie again, and carries her out like a hero. He's bent on capturing Dillinger, yet seems saddened when Dillinger's ultimately gunned down at the end.

Then there's race. Billie is French and Native American. She mentions growing up on the reservations "and nothing happens" and then she goes to Chicago. When she first tells Dillinger of her Native American heritage, she is almost spiteful of it, telling him that most people don't like it. But then that is the end of it.

And Herbert Youngblood is treated almost negligently in the film, as one of only two black men in the film. It is with Youngblood's help that Dillinger escapes prison the second time in the film, and later appears to have joined up with Dillinger. Then he disappears and I only find out he's dead when Dillinger walks into the police station and sees the pictures of his friends stamped "deceased." When the hell did that happen?? So this seemingly important character who seemed to have a connection with Dillinger (since he helped him escape and all) dies mysteriously after very little attention in the film. Well, who knows. Maybe he's got a deleted scene somewhere that they're saving for the DVD release--but either way, that we don't know what happens to him in the actual film illustrates that his (black) character was expendable.

While I was watching it, I thought of movies depicting gangsters, and how we see the white ones as valiant (Dillinger was historically viewed as Robin Hood, though he did not give any of the money he stole to the poor) and wondered does this differ from how we see non-white gangsters? Are the white bad guys romantic figures, while non-white bad guys are really bad? I think American Gangster did a decent job of portraying a black gangster romantically, but I feel like if it's a white guy doing it (or a guy passing for white), it gets more of a following. Think of Heath Ledger's psychotic Joker--how many people have posters of him hanging in their dorms? How many people have Denzel Washington's Frank Lucas posters? Are there even posters for his character?

As I write this last bit, I'm thinking of Macon D's post about piracy, where it's romanticized heroism when whites are engaged in it, but when POC engage in it, suddenly it's an evil threat. Go read it. Johnny Depp's discussed there as well.

Delta red dress double-fail

I just came across this article, which is about Delta's failure to provide larger sizes of their signature red dress for the flight attendants to wear. I would like to point out that the article itself is fail, with the title "Some NWA flight attendants want to wear red dress." By "some" I assume you mean the ones that can't squeeze into the sizes offered. It's discrimination and this dress is being denied to them because they're apparently too big.

The union that represents flight attendants who worked for Northwest Airlines before it was bought by Delta Air Lines is crying foul over Delta's failure to offer bigger sizes for its signature red dress uniform designed by Richard Tyler.

When he was hired to create his uniform collection, Tyler said he wanted them to "look sexy and great."

The Northwest chapter of the Association of Flight Attendants-CWA has filed a grievance with the world's largest airline operator, asking it to offer the red dress up to size 28. The union hopes the grievance will go to mediation in August.

The red dress currently is only offered up to size 18, though a Delta spokeswoman said the airline offers a range of outfits in other colors and styles up to size 28 that flight attendants can wear.

Patricia Reller, who handles grievances for the union's executive committee, said Friday that even if there was only one flight attendant who wore a size over 18, that person should be able to wear the stylish red dress.

"I think red is an eye-popping color and it's not subtle, and to me by not offering it in a size over 18, Delta is saying, 'We don't want you wearing that if you are over size 18,'" Reller said. "But the job isn't about being sexy. It's about safety."

So, first the dress is designed to be eye-poppingly sexy. And is clearly only about women looking sexy, because I have a feeling if a man decided to wear the dress Delta would have a fit. There's another quote by Patricia Reller in this article is particularly spot-on:

“Red is a color that attracts attention and someone, somewhere has made a decision that they don’t want to attract attention to someone in a dress that’s larger than a size 18,” said Patricia Reller, vice chairwoman of the grievance committee at the flight attendants union’s executive council at Northwest. “I’m very offended by it.”

This dress is made to make the flight attendants look sexy and appealing, yet the fact that it isn't offered above a size 18 certainly says that anyone over that size doesn't get to wear the sexy dress, leaving one with the implication that fat people are disgusting and decidedly unsexy. Oh, but it's okay, because there are other colors the uniform comes in for the fatties, so if you were unaware of your fatitude, you get to wear a different color from your sexier co-workers as a sort of color-coded shame. Fucking. Lovely.

Then there's this issue of sexiness being important to a job that is about maintaining the safety of the passengers: uh, why? This sexiness is clearly being played to the male fantasy of the sexy flight attendant, which removes any semblance of professionalism from these women. Their job is to be hot and available.

So there you have it: a double-fail. If this wasn't about reducing women to their bodies then they'd offer their uniform for women of all sizes. And it wouldn't be about their damn looks either. I'm surprised Delta hasn't gone and said "Fatties need not apply." Well, yet, anyway.

In a "post-racial" world, black kids kicked out of a pool club

Hopefully you've already heard this, but even so, it bears repeating.

"I heard this lady, she was like, 'Uh, what are all these black kids doing here?' She's like, 'I'm scared they might do something to my child,'" said camper Dymire Baylor. The Creative Steps Day Camp paid more than $1900 to The Valley Swim Club. The Valley Swim Club is a private club that advertises open membership. But the campers' first visit to the pool suggested otherwise.

"When the minority children got in the pool all of the Caucasian children immediately exited the pool," Horace Gibson, parent of a day camp child, wrote in an email. "The pool attendants came and told the black children that they did not allow minorities in the club and needed the children to leave immediately."

The next day the club told the camp director that the camp's membership was being suspended and their money would be refunded.

Oh, but discrimination is okay as long as white people get their fancy private clubs that can exclude minorities.

Renee over at "Womanist Musings" states:

Gee…what if all that scary Blackness rubs off? What if the white children should learn that all of the privilege that the world is intent on offering them based in the constructed idea that Blacks are inferior, is a steaming pile of bullshit? The world certainly could not survive children learning from one another and sharing experiences; that might lead to equality and we cannot possibly have that.

The club has yet to offer an apology though they have refunded the money spent by The Creative Steps Day Camp. Even if they were to apologize to the parents and the children; they could never undo the harm that their racist actions have caused. Actions like this are exactly why children of color learn to see Whiteness as good and Blackness as bad. This can have lifelong effects, and is extremely emotionally damaging.

Macon D at the blog "stuff white people do" illustrates how this recent bigotry is rooted in our racist history:

During the U.S. Civil Rights Movement, a key site of struggle for desegregation of separate-but-obviously-unequal spaces was the public swimming pool. As the Movement gained undeniable credibility with most white Americans, one particular mode of racial interaction took white Americans an extra-long time to get used to -- getting in the water with black people, and especially letting one's kids get in the water with black kids.

In many places, white-controlled pools remained segregated longer than other nearby public facilities. Private swimming pools typically stayed that way for even longer.

By now, in our supposedly "postracial" times, you might think that white discomfort with swimming alongside black people would be long gone. But if you do think that, you'd best think again.

The interviews with these kids are just heartbreaking. It's disgusting how people justify denying these children the same fun that white children get to participate in, and then sit there and marvel at our lovely post-racial world.

Fuzz Therapy (Guest Fuzz)

This submission is from Intransigentia, which couldn't have come at a better time, since my Princess is recovering. Rather than risk the medicine dropper, she's chosen to hide under the bed, which is wedged into our bedroom in such a way that it's impossible to move without moving all the other furniture. Thus, I've been unable to get new pics of my kitty. Oh well.

Says sender-inner:

This is Lilith. She is a bit of a mean kitty. She is a master of the trick where she lures you in with her fuzzy belly, and then when you let down your guard she reminds you why cats get five attacks per round. I think she has borderline personality disorder, because one minute she's all "love me, love me, love me" and then without warning she switches to "I hate you, die! die! die!". In our ten years together, I've learned to read her well enough to be mostly safe, but pretty much everybody else is scared of her.

In the attached picture, she's not actually belly-baiting. She was having a snooze in the sunbeam, totally splayed out on her back, but the camera beep woke her up.

Soooo cute! It's almost unbearable how adorable and tempting a kitty's belly can be. Of course it's all a trap, since you end up having to bandage something, but we can't help it. The desire to snorgle a fuzzy kitty belly/neck/tummy/etc. is the deadly people-equivalent of moth-to-flame/deer-in-headlights.

Sounds like Lilith and Princess could be best friends if I didn't think they'd both sit in opposite corners of the room hissing at one another.

I encourage everyone else to submit your pets to Fuzz Therapy. Princess doesn't really need so much attention; she thinks she's special enough. See the Submission Guidelines for details!

Broadview Security protects the ladies from teh evil dudes

What the hell is going on with the Brinks/Broadview commercials lately? (or not so lately; this probably dates back pretty far). In the last seven months alone these types of commercials have been uploaded onto Youtube, and have been played on our t.v.'s. Each time one of them comes on I watch them with confusion, and disgust. It didn't take me long to figure out what all these scenarios have in common.







In case you can't view the videos, here's the run-down:

Mom and daughter (or just single lady) are/is alone in their / her big ass house.
There are no men in the house, illustrating a vulnerability on the part of the woman / women.
Scary man in hoodie / knit cap / rain soaked flannel shirt kicks / elbows in door.
Scary man looks scary.
Scary man is scared off by alarm after sending a threatening look at the woman / women.
Phone rings.
Woman runs and hides. Answers phone.
Mark / Tom / Rick is on the other end to ask if you / everything are / is okay/secure.
Mark / Tom / Rick sends cops.
All is well.

What they've painted here is the supposed vulnerability of women being alone in a house (a freakin nice house at that), sometimes with a daughter (note, not a son--that would ruin the vulnerability they're trying to convince the viewers of having). Then you have the predatory men. They're uber-aggressive. They break doors down with seemingly little effort. Despite this, however, it's the sound of the alarm that chases them off.

But they're not trying to be anti-man. In fact, they're elevating masculinity in an obviously familiar way. Men are supposed to provide for and protect their families, which is assumed to be his female partner and their children. There is no husband around to protect the mothers. The boyfriend has just left his girlfriend's house. They're all vulnerable. But not to fear! This security system is THE MAN when others are absent. And they will protect the precious womens from other men!

I think what makes me most uncomfortable in these ads is the sense of intrusion--these men are forcing themselves into the women's homes. The looks they shoot at the women just before they bolt are particularly frightening since it sort of hints not only of almost-theft, but almost-rape (which is also theft). But the women were safe all along. Not only do they have a blaring alarm system, there's always going to be a Mark, Tom, or Rick to call and reassure them of their safety, as well as sending the police (guess what? More men!).

Oh yeah, and they're all white women. Clearly these are the only women worth protecting (POC and other white men don't need alarms, apparently). I have a feeling that if Broadview attempts to diversify their ads, the would-be aggressive thief will be the token person of color. I challenge Broadview to prove me wrong.

Princess' pain in the ass

In case anyone is interested in updates on Fuzz Therapy's feature, Princess, she went to the vet today. Last night I had a panic attack when I discovered her licking blood from her bottom. I immediately went into my freak-out mode while my doctor-to-be fiance took a look at her and tried to calm me down. After we cleaned her up we were able to see it was coming from what appeared to be a cut (which made me feel a little better since it meant it wasn't in her stool--I had also checked the litter box). My fiance thought it might be an abscess, but he's more accustomed to looking at people butts, not kitty butts--and especially not one so fluffy as Princess'.

After my shift at work today, I came home and took Princess to the vet. She gets very scared when she's out of her house (yes, her) and while I had her up on the table she crouched near me, growling (I warned everyone previously that she's been known to bite) as the vet inspected her behind. Which is understandable--she is a princess after all, and having someone peer up your ass is just a little undignified. But we've all been there...

The vet said her scent glands had filled with infection, and she burst the one last night. So they took her to the back, shaved her ass, and drained them both. I admit, in my relief that it wasn't more serious, I was giggling in that waiting room. I mean, the idea of my prissy little princess getting her ass shaved--this same little fluffy cat that for the last sixteen years has strutted about my house/dorm room/apartment with an air of pride that would suggest she's always been very much aware of her beauty and status as my cat--was just too hilarious.

I am very relieved though. I didn't sleep at all last night, fearing for my precious kitty. She does have an infection, and she'll have to go back next Monday to get them drained again, and I've got to force antibiotics and painkillers down her throat till then (and probably after). It's true that my bank account is dry until next payday, but this is a cat who has never had any serious health problems before now, and I certainly think she's worth that much to me. In truth, she's worth much more. Some people don't understand this desire to spend money on ensuring the health of my pet (I once took my dying rat to the vet in an effort to save his life; the vet bill far outweighed the actual cost of acquiring him, but I couldn't not try). But then, they're probably also the people that don't know the satisfaction of owning and loving a

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Oh, while I was waiting for them to bring Princess back, I noticed a poster on the wall that read "Cats are angels with fur." I laughed and text messaged this to my mom, with the addition "Whose cat?" Princess is no angel, but I love her anyway.

Happy Fourth of July Everyone!

I hope everyone is having a great holiday (for those of us in the U.S. anyway). I currently have no plans since all my family are back in Michigan, or in Florida, and I'm sort of stuck out here in Wisconsin.

Anyway, I'm going to make this short and sweet, so have a great day, eat some good food, and enjoy the fireworks. I think I'm going to get drunk in my backyard and light sparklers with my fiance.

Slim that turkey neck with a strangely phallic product!

I would like to just say, "Really??????"

As if women don't have enough to be shamed into buying. We're constantly bombarded with images that tell us we're too flabby, or our boobs are too small or not perky enough. Hell, we're even told to remodel our vaginas. We're told that the natural aging process is something to cause disgust, and so we must combat wrinkles (no matter how futile).

Not to mention how products for women are easily identifiable by the pink packaging, as if that's the only color that causes a click-I-want-to-buy-that-now moment in our weak feminine skulls.

There are ads for making our fucking eyelashes perfect (I know, right? I mean, do those even fucking matter?????).

Now we have to have skinny necks too?? Why didn't anyone tell me?

My favorite part in the actual television commercial is how they have some skinny-necked woman demonstrating it. Oh, and it's being sold to me by a man (a man uses it, but only for like 1 second at the very end of the commercial--so yeah, for ladies).

This is not to mention the simple absurdity of the whole thing, since it's just skin--tightening the neck muscles doesn't affect the skin. But in a way it's still giggle-inducing to watch these people exercising their necks by pressing down on this slightly phallic device. Oh no, wait--that makes it worse.

Not only are we shaming women into an idealized body-type where skin doing its natural hangy-thing is a no-no, but we're disciplining it with something that mimics fellatio.

Dear asshole,

You know who you are. You're that guy at my work wishing the media would "shut up already" about Michael Jackson's death. You're that woman who never listened to his music anyway, so his loss is not your loss. You're of the privileged group that thinks it's up to you to decide what should and shouldn't be talked about; you are apparently so privileged that you think you can tell me how I should mourn (or shouldn't mourn).

Newsflash asshole: the whole world is mourning him, and you have the fucking nerve to tell everyone to "get over it already"?

His life and incomparable contributions to music may not mean anything to a douchebag like you, but that doesn't give you the fucking right to tell the rest of us to suck it up. No, I am not going to shut up about Michael Jackson, because I loved that man, and still cannot believe that his death is real. Mourning is coming to terms with that reality.

You do not get to tell me what I can or cannot cry about. You don't get to decide who matters and who doesn't. So kindly shut the fuck up. You know, since I'm feeling so generous today, here's something you should know: no one knows you're an asshole until you open your damn mouth.

Sincerely,
FilthyGrandeur

Book Covers: fragmented women?

I don't know what this book is about, and I have never read one word written by James Patterson, or the co-author of this book, Maxine Paetro, but having viewed the cover...I dunno--I'm a little, uh, bothered?

The title is Swimsuit, so why not just have a pic of a swimsuit; why does it have to be a woman in it, a woman missing much of her arms and legs, and especially her head? (This is not a criticism of James Patterson, since I have no idea if he was involved with this book cover, but I do know that the book is centered on the death of a model.) Here's a quick synopsis:

Syd, a breathtakingly beautiful supermodel on a photo shoot in Hawaii, disappears. Fearing the worst, her parents travel to Hawaii to investigate for themselves, never expecting the horror that awaits them.

LA Times reporter Ben Hawkins is conducting his own research into the case, hoping to help the victim and get an idea for his next bestseller. With no leads and no closer to uncovering the kidnapper's identity than when he stepped off the plane, Ben gets a shocking visit that pushes him into an impossible-to-resist deal with the devil.

A heart-pounding story of fear and desire, SWIMSUIT transports readers to a chilling new territory where the collision of beauty and murder transforms paradise into a hell of unspeakable horrors.

So...the novel is about the disappearance of a woman (suggestive of violence) and is centered around a male journalist, and the cover depicts a woman missing vital body parts...I'm a little worried about the safety of this character...

Fragmenting the female form creates an object out of what should be a person--her facelessness creates anonymity of the object which is her body. The arch of this object also suggests a sexuality, and again, it's linked to violence with the tag line "It's to die for," which I assume is meant to refer to the swimsuit, but again, we see the fragmented body of a woman--the bikini she's wearing is an afterthought.

Images where the body of a woman is fragmented are problematic because they're suggestive of objectivity, as well as violence (I guess that last is appropriate for this particular novel, but I can still find fault with it seeing as how that intention does not negate that it's sexist).

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Update: CC has written a post of her own on this book cover, which takes this post a little further, including how fragmenting female bodies is rampant throughout art history. I strongly recommend that you check it out.

Follow-up Transformers

As a sort of response to my previous Transformers post, I wanted to share a funny one I stumbled across this morning outlining the film's various plot holes, written by Matt McDaniel. It had me giggling, and these are all things I noticed as well, so I thought I'd share them with you. You can view the (whole) original post here. I've included all of the plot holes (but there's an intro I didn't include).

1. In "Transformers," there was this giant battle in the middle of downtown Los Angeles -- excuse me, Mission City -- that was witnessed by thousands of people at the very least. But somehow the government was able to cover up the whole thing, and now the existence of alien robots is just an internet rumor? How did they do it? Pay off everyone who was there and quickly fix millions of dollars in damage? Also, didn't Keller (Jon Voight) go on TV and tell everyone we were being attacked by "a technological civilization far superior to our own"? How did they spin that?

2. There are two pieces of the Allspark cube left: the military has one under lock and key, and Sam discovers another. The Decepticons steal one and bring Megatron back to life. But when Sam (Shia LaBeouf) wants to bring back Optimus, he has to find the Matrix of Leadership on the other side of the globe. Why not use the other piece? Mikaela (Megan Fox) has it in her backpack the whole time. It brought his kitchen appliances to life, why can't it do the same for Optimus?

3. Speaking of Megatron's rebirth, when the Decepticons venture deep into the ocean to revive him, the Navy crew tracking them reads five contacts. When they get down there, they tear apart one of the robots for parts to rebuild Megatron. Then as they rise to the surface, the same Navy guys say they spot six contacts. The little "Doctor" robot popped out down there, but he's about a third of the size of a person. Would he have shown up on sonar?

4. That reminds me: even if I were to forgive the Doctor's German accent -- and director Michael Bay is asking me to forgive a lot of ridiculous accents -- why would a robot need glasses? He has little lenses that flip in front of his mechanical eyes. Couldn't he just get his eyes adjusted? You'd think with all the laser guns, someone could perform a Lasik procedure.

5. Apparently, Transformers can look like people now. How? And how is it that even though the robo-girl (Isabel Lucas) is made of metal, she can still straddle Sam without crushing him. And if Bumblebee knows something's wrong with her, why does he spit antifreeze at her instead of telling Sam? Yes, his voicebox is broken, but wasn't it fixed at the end of the last movie?

6. The Fallen is the last of the Primes, since they all sacrificed themselves to stop him from destroying the sun. But then he says that Optimus is a descendant of the Primes. First, Transformers have kids? And second, how could he descend from them if they were all dead? And if the Fallen could only be destroyed by a Prime, why didn't the originals just gang up on him back in the day? And what makes Optimus so special, anyway? Megatron beat him earlier, but all it takes is a few spare parts from creaky old Jetfire for him to take out the Fallen?

7. Sam, Mikaela, and Simmons (John Turturro) go to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in Washington D.C. to find Jetfire. Then they walk out the back onto a wide open field with old planes and mountains in the distance. When did the National Mall start to look so much like to Tucson, AZ (where they really filmed that scene)?

8. The geography is just as bad when they go to Egypt. The stone city of Petra in Jordan is over 250 miles away, over mountainous terrain, with few paved roads and the Israeli border between them, so how can they drive from one to the other in a couple of hours. And the Pyramids are said to be shooting distance from the Mediterranean, but they are actually well over 80 miles inland. Even if the Navy ship had a secret rail gun, and even if the captain would take an order to fire from a former agent of a government branch that no longer exists (over a walkie-talkie that inexplicably starts working again), how could it hit a moving target from that distance?

9. Sam briefly dies and goes to Robot Heaven. Robot Heaven?!?!

10. Where does Sam's bandage come from? What about his extra sock? Why does Sam's roommate not contribute anything at all? What was the Fallen doing for those thousands of years Megatron was frozen in ice? How does one satellite receive transmissions from everywhere on the planet? Why does Wheelie hump Mikaela's leg? Why do we have to see John Turturro's thong? Why are robots who join together to become Devastator also seen fighting the Army at the same time? Why does the government want only our military fighting Decepticons when our weapons seem unable to make so much as a dent on any of them? Why did the ancient Egyptians build a pyramid around the sun-destroying machines instead of just breaking it? Why is the Matrix of Leadership bigger in the Fallen's hand than in Sam's? And how do Mikaela's pants stay so clean?

(Emphasis is all mine--just wanted to point out my very favorite parts!).

My very favorite one is the robot heaven thing. I mean, I'm not even sure of the existence of a people heaven, let alone one for robots to lurk around all...roboty....

This movie sure sucks. I upset my male boss today by saying how bad it was. He hasn't seen it yet. He seems like the kind of dude that will love it (especially since the burning question he had was "How did Megan Fox look?" This from a man who thinks Batman is weak. Whatevs dude).

Fuzz Therapy

Last week Princess found a new sleeping space, which, according to the rules of kitties, we are not allowed to tamper with (hope the fiance doesn't need those shoes for a while...or any of those medical books and binders--ha!). I am always amazed that kitties (especially my Princess) will find coziness in any corner of the house, even the junk-covered ones.


At one point my fiance callously tossed a binder in her exact spot, and not even that deterred her--she just squeezed in around it. She slept there anyway with the corner of the binder pressing into her neck and back (after the following was taken).

Add this to the never-ending list of why I wish I was a kitty.

Don't forget: you can submit pictures for your own Fuzz Therapy. Click here for the submission guidelines.

Ad watch for "o filthy grandeur!"

I'm calling on my readers to police the new ads on my site. While I don't object to ads being posted here, I am concerned that they may not be appropriate for this site (I can totally envision the damn ads promoting some weight-loss shit in response to an article on body image, which is not okay). For this reason I am calling on my readers to bring any inappropriate ads to my attention (I will do my very best to maintain the integrity of the site, but I'm new to this, so it may take me a while to get the ads the way I want, so please bear with me).

If anyone sees anything in the ads that goes against this site as a safe womanist/feminist space that is a friendly and respectful community to/for women, people of all sexualities, races, and genders, etc., please let me know immediately via email (see sidebar).

Thanks for your help!
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Update: Having gotten frustrated with the ads, I removed them. I doubt I'll put them back, since there was no way for me to pick and choose, since they were automatically generated. Fuck that. I'll have my space clean and free of junk!

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen: resurrection of the Dumbo crows and women as props

Spoiler alert

I just got back from this movie (fully aware that it is not getting good reviews from critics--I fully place blame on my fiance for this one). I think I might start rating movies on a scale of eye-rolls, where I tally how many times I find myself rolling my eyes during the course of the movie, and the more it gets the worse it is.

There was just so much wrong with this movie. So before I get to what this post is really about, here are a few complaints:

• Optimus Prime is essentially dead for 3/4 of the movie before being reanimated or whatever you want to call it, and then the final battle is over in like 2 seconds. I mean, he's like the One, so why was he so under-used?
• The lady autobots are motorcycles, tiny dainty motorcycles. And I think they only get one line before they're blown apart by a missile. Rather than give them any face time, the filmmakers decided to give it to the two twins, but I'll address them later.
• I know since Shia LeBeouf was in a car accident that injured his hand, the filmmakers sort of had to work around that and that's fine; but come on--are we to seriously believe that the group just happened to have gauze with them when they suddenly found themselves in this dangerous situation? Wouldn't it have been more believable to use a shirt or something?
  
• As much as I love that John Turturro is still getting work, did he (or anyone for that matter) really have to point out that those two wrecking balls that happened to be dangling between the Devastator's legs were "scrotum"? Haha, dick and ball jokes...
• Bumblebee (before the audience is even made aware that Alice is a Decepticon) attempts to prevent Sam from cheating by playing suggestive music, and when that fails he resorts to making Alice bash her face against the dashboard and then squirting her with some liquid. But assault and humiliation are okay (and hilarious) when the girl's a slut, right? I mean, yeah, that bitch totally had it coming...

Now onto my main points.

I see no difference between this:


and this*:

I couldn't laugh at Mudflap and Skids;** all I kept thinking about is what sort of statement is their presence making in the movie where they are essentially charicatures of black wanna-be gangstas, embodiements of racist stereotypes in fucking robot form. The first we see of them, they are an icecream truck which has graffitti on the side which states "Suck my popsicle." So, we know they're sexual (though I wasn't aware that robots really had a sexuality) and they're gendered, thanks to that invoked popsicle imagery. The big ears and grill (on the one), the fact that they can't read (and make a joke of it) and are prone to violence (especially among themselves) all further illustrate the obvious play on racist stereotypes. I found my jaw dropping any time either of them said anything. I'm not exactly sure what contribution they made to the film except as walking talking racist jokes.

Now, as for Megan Fox's heroine roll: even though it seems like she's an ass-kicking heroine to LeBeouf's hero, she's essentially just another prop--a sexy prop, who we first glimpse ass-first in the movie as she's displayed for our viewing on a motorcycle, detailing it at a highly impractical angle. Yeah, she's the love interest, but she's also a fuckable object (like every other woman in the movie--including Sam's mom, who receives a lovely ass-slap from her loving husband, and also including Alice, and the girls in class (who are also sexualized in their interaction with the dirty professor--tee hee, sexual harassment is a compliment!)).

Megan Fox's character, Mikaela, is treated as a prop throughout the movie. While she does help by capturing Wheelie, it's her job to tame him, winning him over by being femininely sweet.

She has actions done to her rather than acting herself, like when Wheelie humps her leg (I guess it's supposed to be endearing, or some shit), or when Jetfire lands them in the desert, and she has apparently landed on Leo's crotch, sprawled in a suggestive manner. She's nothing more than a prop used for the (male) viewer's enjoyment. Even Wheelie says she's hot (a statement I can't make sense of, since I wasn't aware that these robots were sexual, or even had the capacity to judge the attractiveness of a creature not of their species).

After having addressed the above, I would like to ask the following to filmmakers:

This may be difficult to understand, since it goes beyond your prescribed movie-making formula, but women enjoy action flicks involving epic battles and explosions just as much as guys do, so why are you still relying on the same tired ass sexist dialogues that basically portray women as available and fuckable instead of giving them complex characterizations like you're so willing to bestow to the men?

I doubt they have an answer for me, but still--I would love to see an action movie not cater to dudes. I seriously felt like an interloper while I was watching the movie.

I give this movie 8 eye-rolls.***

Most of these due to poor dialogue (like where Optimus says "Punk-ass Decepticon" or when one of the twins calls someone else a "pussy," as well as almost every other uttered line--seriously, who the fuck wrote this???), but of course I factored in racism and sexism.

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*Certainly there are other examples of this in other recent movies--still doesn't make it okay.
**Skids is apparently voiced by Tom Kenny, the dude that voices Spongebob, and is white. Draw your own conclusions.
***Out of a possible ten. I decided it shouldn't be arbitrary (well, not completely), and since I can't say for sure how many times I rolled my eyes during this movie, I'll just make it on a scale of 1-10, ten being the most intolerable thing I've ever been forced to view, and would've left if it weren't for the exorbitant ticket price.

Mourning the King of Pop

I'm still very upset about Michael Jackson's passing. I've been on every thread imaginable seeking out closure for this. I have never been so upset about the death of a celebrity, and this unfamiliar territory of adulthood simultaneously frightens me, and leaves me with an emptiness I never knew existed.

Closure is quite the elusive creature. On every thread there are people mourning the loss of a great talent. And there are people saying good riddance to a freak show and pedophile. And then there are people like me that mourn his death twice, and are knotted up inside because we need to mourn to move on, yet we also mourn that he may have victimized children.

It is for these reasons that I cannot seem to get over this, that I'm constantly trying to keep from crying. That I'm trying desperately to keep from snapping at some kind person pointing out that I didn't know him personally so it shouldn't affect me.

But it does.

I'm upset because he was so troubled. I'm upset that he clearly crossed boundaries with children, whether or not he actually molested them. I'm upset that he was verbally and physically abused as a child. I'm upset that he may have engaged in the cycle of abuse himself. And I'm upset that such a worldly infamous icon has succumbed to a tragic death, and at the same time I hope that, if he has victimized children, that they now find solace in his passing. I also hope that he has found peace that he simply did not have in life.

And I hope that the media avoids the victim-blaming once the cause of death is made public (though I don't have much hope in that, since there's already speculation of drug abuse, followed by the, "well he didn't take very good care of himself" crap--oh you think? Too bad we were all too busy finger-pointing and making a spectacle of his freakishness to step in and offer help. This society is plagued with a desire to see the greats fall, to illustrate that they're human too, and in that we are all guilty because we "other" them, ostracize them for their abuses and mental issues, and then are shocked when they tragically die. I'm fucking sick of this. We're all human, but rather than help each other we blame them and cause more damage and say it's all their fault anyway for being addicts or being crazy or being fat or having identity issues or whatever else we can point and laugh at, and then marveling when they're dead).

It simply cannot be ignored that Michael Jackson brought joy to millions of people around the world. He was an entertainer, and he was a great one. His influence in pop music is still evident in the genre. No other artist has compared to his success thus far. And to say that I am anything less than devastated by his death would be an understatement.

Michael Jackson dies at 50

I waited to post this since my only source so far was fucking TMZ, but now there's confirmation of Jackson's death.

This has been a bad week. First we lost Ed McMahon. Earlier today we lost the beautiful Farrah Fawcett. And, even more recently today, Michael Jackson has passed. All I can say is "Damn."

He arrived at UCLA in a coma, and has just recently died.

I am shocked, and my heart goes out to Jackson's relatives for this sudden loss. My heart also goes out to McMahon's and Fawcett's relatives. I just cannot believe it.

Michael Jackson was the first singer I truly liked as a kid. I remember coming up with dance routines to all of his songs as a kid, and loved listening to those songs over and over and over.

I wish I had more to say, but I don't.



He will certainly be missed...

Fuzz Therapy (Guest Fuzz)

I apologize for my lateness on your weekly fuzz; I completely lost track of the days, and well, better late than never, so shut it and enjoy.

Since Princess has decided to hide from the heat all week, here's a guest fuzz therapy featuring my mommy's pets.

Dat's her boy Rascal trying to capture Precious' tail (and she doesn't look too happy about it). Rascal is the newest addition to their cache of petty goodness, and true to cat form he's already claimed much of the house as his territory (everyone else is apparently lucky enough to be in his presence--hmm...just like my Princess).

I particularly enjoy the utter laziness of this one. I'll avoid the obvious weenies and pussy joke (especially since the genders are reversed in both cases--or does that make it okay? I don't know) and just say how much I miss Precious and her fatty plumpness. Hannah's okay, too, but she only likes napping with Ted, whereas Precious loves to play. I haven't met Rascal yet, but soon.

And just so everyone's aware, I'll be out of town this weekend on a camping trip with my fiance, so don't expect a post. Hope everyone has a great weekend.