Sympathy For The Director

Alright. So, when did I wake up into a world where the rape of anyone was okay, much less of a drugged thirteen year-old? As a feminist, I've come to terms with the fact that my stance on gender issues is not shared by most, but I still thought that raping a child was universally viewed as a bad thing. No matter how tragic the rapist's personal life might be, or how good his movies are.

Yes, I'm talking about the Roman Polanski mess. Everyone is, and most of them make me angry when they do. Surviving the Holocaust only to see your wife and unborn child slaughtered seems almost too cruel to be true. But that sympathy doesn't preclude from believing that rape is wrong and that he should serve a sentence. Or from thinking that a cushy life in France and an Oscar are not a substitute for jail time.

I know his judge was a nut, but that doesn't mean he wasn't guilty of a crime. The Holocaust and the Manson murders are mitigating factors. But unless he couldn't tell the difference between right and wrong at the time of the offence - and no evidence seems to indicate that - that doesn't mean he's innocent.

But here are some things that do mean something. The victim was below the age of consent, which means she could not give it. That makes it rape. She was drugged, which means she could not give consent. That's rape. And she said no. That's rape too. Any way you look at it, any definition or test you can come up with, you get the same result. And a host of other crimes or tragedies one has suffered doesn't mean it can all just go away.

Further reading: What Scorsese And All The Rest Know About Roman Polanski That Maybe You Don't - Allison Benedikt
Common Polanski Defenses, Refuted- Amanda Hess

Plant Killah

I think it's time to accept the fact that my orchid plant is dead. First I over-watered it, then I under-watered it and then I decided at the 11th hour to have a regular watering schedule and try and tend the thing.

Unfortunately the top part looks suspiciously like a Tim Burton film (curled and choppy) and the bottom isn't looking too hot either. Rest in peace, brave orchid, and at least you fared better than the Indian Rubber Plant I used to dump my orange juice into. Fermentation is only a good thing in wine and beer, people.

Anyway, I'm beginning to wonder if my inability to keep houseplants alive is a sign of some pathological inability to settle down. I've been in this apartment since July and some of the rooms still look as if I haven't fully moved in yet. I bought a curtain rod at Ikea two or three weeks ago I still haven't got around to putting up. It just sits there, mocking me with its industrious Helvetica font and easy mounting system.

But I've decided not to worry about it and buy the only solution: an aloe vera plant. Those things are nigh impossible to kill.

The WASPiest Thing Ever

Those of you who know me outside of this blog know that, in spite of being half-Ukrainian, I have one of the WASPiest names on record. My name is the mayonnaise of names. The country club. The black watch plaid blanket, etc.

So, with my pedigree, I'm sure you can imagine why the following appealed to me in a bizarre way:

Oh. My. God. Let's look at the way in which each of its WASPy qualities nest, one inside the other, to create the ultimate garment for when you're picking up cider at the local orchard.
1. It's from LL Bean
2. It's a cardigan from LL Bean
3. It's a fair isle cardigan from LL Bean
4. It's a fair isle cardigan from LL Bean with pointer dogs patterned on the yoke.

This thing makes me crave roast like none other. I would order it (and demand to be called "Betty" from then on) but it's sold out. Damn it!

I Love You, Canada

Okay, I have a maple-flavored confession: I'm kind of excited for the Battle of the Blades. Why? Let's see. I like cheesy dance competitions. I was forced to like figure skating by my Mom, although lingering bitterness towards Elvis Stojko remains. I often tolerate hockey. Combine these things and CBC's low production values and sense of earnestness, and you get something I'll definitely sit in front of when I'm eating dinner from a can.

Of course, with my luck in picking CBC shows, it will become a ratings bomb and die an unmourned death. Just like my beloved MVP: The Secret Lives of Hockey Wives. Why must Canada suffer through Little Mosque On The Prairie when that little slice of delicious cheesecake is gone from our lives forever? Sigh.

Anyway, I'm pulling for anyone but Domi and Christine Hough-Sweeney. By the way, this song is the one I've mentally choreographed an entire figure skating routine to. Oh, the dramatic hand gestures I do in my mind...

P.S. I know, for official competition it would have to be a wordless version. God.

Damn Woman Troubles: Jennifer's Body

Megan Fox: expression by Sissy Spacek, dress by David's Bridal 2009 Prom Collection

Don't go and see Jennifer's Body if you want to be scared. It's not a horror movie. Sure, it sounds like one, with half-eaten corpses and a good girl named Needy who suspects that something's gone wrong with her best friend Jennifer. Yes, Needy, she's "not just high school evil" or, to paraphase a line from Ginger Snaps, another movie full of girls gone bloodthirsty and feminist goodies, there's something wrong with Jennifer. More than her just being... female.

Yes, once again the female body is used to juice up a horror movie, to give it some edge and a veneer of social commentary. Just like a typical chiller, there's a satanic ritual that leads to the lovely Jennifer getting all chewy on some boys. But atypically, there's very little tension or gore. If you're a hardcore horror fan, you can guess when every scare is being set up.

And then you'll wait, and wait, because Karyn Kusama's just a beat off when it comes to the jump tactics. At one point, Needy suddenly sees a bloody and wild-looking Jennifer crossing the road. Then she disappears, and Needy desperately scans to the left and the right, barely giving herself time to look right in front of her. Of course you know that's just where will be. Jennifer suddenly appears on the windshield, but not before Needy looks a few more times at each side. It's hard to jump when you're checking your watch.

But should you go and see it if you're looking for something feminist to chase down your popcorn? Maybe yes, maybe no. I can see readings that work both ways. This movie doesn't shame female sexuality like most horror movies, and particularly slashers, do. But Needy's eager and awkward sex is framed completely differently than Jennifer's carnivorous lust. The consensus on female sexuality in this movie seems to be that it's just fine, as long as it's with a boy who's as quirky as you. Things go wrong when you play the field, or when you finally let the textual lesbian relationship in the open in a somewhat porny scene.

And that still doesn't get into how your enjoyment of the movie will depend on your personal thoughts on Diablo Cody: screenwriter, celebrity and lover of all things leopard print. The script definitely sounds like one of hers, sometimes funny, often annoying. If hearing "What's up, Monistat?" doesn't make you twitch, you like your feminism taken lite and you don't need to be scared, it's worth a trip to the cinema.

Happy Birthday To Me

Yesterday was my 22nd birthday. It was just me and the parents because I'm back in Guelph and lord knows where most of my OG (the G stands for Guelph) friends are now. Plus, I'm reaching that age where birthdays are a day of mourning, melancholia, and bitterness. And at my folks' house, I don't have to pay for the booze, so that gets a lot cheaper and easier.

But, that being said, it was quite a nice birthday. There was plenty of food, lots of cake- as you can see above- and two whole days off work to be slothful. Or at least, as slothful as one can be when you're knitting a baby blanket on a deadline.

But more on that later. Right now, a shout out to any readers I might have: I'm getting my Google Reader back in action, so if you have a blog, or the name of any blogs I simply *must* read, let me know in the comments.

To Guelph!

I'm off to the hometown tomorrow. I'm sure Proustian reveries set off by farmer's market bacon, or at least beer illicitly drank in the basement, are not far off.

At least I usually get some decent thrift store finds.

Until then, don't give into whatever secret Twilight lusts you've been harboring and see Little Ashes. Unless if you have an ass of STEEL because this thing is long. I would give it a longer autopsy (hero worship of Garcia Lorca? episodic nature? NOT ENOUGH NAKED PATTINSON?!?) but I think I already spent long enough on the movie.

Remember folks, just say no to the pretty.

Ideals + Sloth= Mediocrity

Between temporarily turning into one of those house-proud loons over the weekend (every big thrift store AND Ikea- my feet were ground into nubs) and my current flaking out on a movie, I'm wondering if I'm turning into one of those people. You know who they are. The ones who always say they want to go out more, but never do because they have a date with an Allen wrench and a Pflüg. Or because they're making something from the new Bon Appetit. Or because they're part of a couple and need to do boring couple-y things together. No howler monkey sex allowed.

But the truth is, I'm rather enjoying cocooning myself in blankets with only the cat for company for the moment. Well, on a physical level. Mentally, I'm all aboard the guilt train. What should I be doing with my time instead? Oh, I have so many ideas.

Proactive Urge: Go see Sorority Row! See friends!
Lazy Consciousness: Buh. Brain tired. Movie looks silly. Can watch old Black Christmas at home. Original The House On Sorority Row too if feeling more appropriate/masochistic.
Compromise: Watch first half of most recent Mad Men episode before the streaming video causes my computer to crash.

Proactive Urge: Find out about world! Read important-sounding article in the Times with headline "U.N. Finds Signs of War Crimes on Both Sides in Gaza."
Lazy Consciousness: Ugh. Depressing. Nobody wins, everybody loses, etc.
Compromise: Read "Habitats: Meow Spoken Here" and take notes.

Proactive Urge: Read Lost Girls
Lazy Consciousness: Ugh, Alan Moore so talky. Melinda Gebbie's art so pencil-y. Lesbian sex...
Compromise: Read about lesbian sex? Sure thing!

Proactive Urge: Get angry about Tucker Max's upcoming movie and his current legion of asshat fans. Find a way to stop this movie without somehow giving it more publicity.
Lazy Consciousness: Fighting losing battle. White, soulless straight dudes will always win. Especially when they have little people conventions to write about/ have sex at. Donate all posessions and earnings to NOW before moving to shack in the Arctic.
Compromise: Mentioning it on this blog.

3 Day Novel Fail Pt. 2

As a continuation of my 3-Day Novel Fail, I've collected some of my most misanthropic lines so you can share in the gloom.

Something I forgot to say yesterday was that, after I realized my novel was going South, South 'til it had gone all the way around and was going North, North, I made one addition. Inspired by my recent Penguin Gothic Reds kick, where the story is often presented as some kind of found manuscript within the plot, I wrote in a prologue and an epilogue that had a team of adventurers discovering the work in a Chevy Cabriolet in the backwoods and then going mad. I think I might be the only one who'll read it and get the joke though.

Here they are, the 3-Day Novel Greatest Misses

On health:
"After all, there were only so many yoga classes Allison could take before veganism and spandex blends began to seem like a reasonable lifestyle." p. 6
"Allison wondered if it counted as justified vacation if she had to go home because her feet had fallen off, and she was dragging bloody stumps along the floor to deliver Snapping Taco Dippers." p. 33


Pillow talk:
“What you’re going to need to do is cut off all the bad parts, throw ‘em in the trash, and throw all of the good parts in this sterilized bucket.” p. 14
“Oh, fuck you. You fucking cunt. You are so hung over.” p. 23
“A buddy of mine bought a condo with his harpy wife. They offered me the basement pretty cheap so they could have some help with the mortgage. But it’s still a pretty broke-ass place. I’ve got my own entrance though." p. 38

Sexy time:
"Since then, Caroline had said “cunt,” “cottage cheese cum” and “anal tearing,” but Allison had stopped caring." p. 20
"Was Caroline speaking in full sentences? Were they discussing puppet erotomania? And worse, was that going to be the note on which they were going to fuck? " p. 21
"He was, on most levels, repulsive. Allison had seen him at work once take a hand mirror and gouge out an ingrown hair on his chin. In the middle of the kitchen." p. 27
"They would fuck right against the dishwasher. No, better yet in the walk-in refrigerator. Or perhaps that would be too cold. Allison sighed. The actual logistics could be ironed out later." p. 32

On work:
"But until then, she had to get this family its food and get them out to the CN tower, the Eaton’s Center, or wherever else they were planning to buy a t-shirt." p. 17
“Unemployed freelancers. It was sort of like holding a mirror up to a mirror and seeing a small cheque in the middle.” p. 58

Deep moments:
"But his eyes seemed kind under the flashing neon sign, and he gripped her shoulder with something like tenderness. He looked her in the eye. Allison knew he was about to speak. He opened his mouth. She looked at him. And then he hurled into the gutter." p. 22
"They were genetically predisposed to failure, she supposed." p. 64

Oh, The Punnery:
"Was this how her quest would end, not with a bang but a night manager?" p. 30

Clearly, my sense of how humorous the pathetic is remains intact no matter what my intentions. Although the appreciation for terrible puns is new, and possibly porn-related.

3 Day Novel Fail

So, the novel is finished... but at what cost? I started out thinking I was writing an offbeat but endearing love story about two misfits. Instead, when I went to review my finished draft Sunday night, I realized I had instead written 76-odd pages of unrelenting misery, starring two people too miserable to be with anyone but each other.

I was finishing it up with some of my co-workers, and I would read out choice cuts of misanthropy- the hero's ingrown hair, romantic chitchat about rancid chicken, thoughts on being a freelancer- and swear that I gave them souls at some point in the story. But at page 63, I realized it was just never going to happen.

Furthermore, I had a few technical complaints about my work. It was disillusioning to see every one of the quirks of people who write but shouldn't be writers. Awkward shifts between dialogue and description, pedestrian and purple pose, telling but not showing and worse, worse my complete abuse of the word "apparently." Apparently, I trust nothing as a writer, especially not the thoughts of my own characters.

I wouldn't say this had put me off writing completely. But I am taking some time off before finishing one of my other projects. If it's also a textbook on depression and hateful people, maybe it's time to finally look into a banking jobs.

Still, I wrote 76 double-spaced pages in 3 days and packed in a breakfast at Dusty's. And all it cost me was a trip into the dark, dank and moldy reaches of my soul... bitches.

3 Day Novel Contest

In a fit of insanity I signed up for the 3-Day Novel Contest. Which means I'll be finding a state somewhere past insanity over the next few days. Post-modern insanity. Po-mosanity if you will. I will let you know how it all went on Monday. Until then, go go writing fingers.

The Generation Gap

A couple of weeks ago, I went to see Adam with my ex-roommate Iris. It was her choice. I'm generally wary of movies that try to cuddle up psychological conditions of any kind. I don't want to stigmatize them, but I also think there's a certain type of movie that beautifies them to the point where a burden is placed on real-life sufferers to be brilliant, life-changing and affirming smurflets who fart out mathematical theorems and platitudes all the time. And judging from the trailer, it was that kind of movie. But I was willing to give it a shot.

Iris, who's worked with Aspies, was loving it. I wasn't hating it, although there were a few parts, like the Magical Black Man, that made me groan. But near the end, lovable Aspie Adam has grown, as has his norm lover. And as he opens a package from her, a song wells up about how "when you were young and everything you needed done was done for you" And even Iris was like, "This is a little much," because now he's more independent, you see. And I was like "I feel like I'm in a Starbucks."

So a few days later, my Dad came up and dropped off a few CDs, probably to get me off my terrible 80s pop kick. And one of them was by a band called The Weepies. And then a co-worker was singing along to them too. Since my Dad is cooler than me, as is the coworker frankly, I decided it was really time for me to give it a listen. So I pop it in the computer and what's the first song that starts playing?

THE STARBUCKS SONG FROM ADAM.

Dad, we need to talk. And far away from venti soy cappuchinos.