On my way to the office I saw an honest-to-God hummingbird darting around a Northeast Portland front yard. In early November! It was all-too-apropos for this week's Bitchtapes playlist, which features ten songs about our fine feathered friends. Tracklist after the jump!
As always, it's been a pleasure blogging here at Bitch, but my time entertaining you with excessively wordy opinions on feminism and television has come to an end. There are some ways in which the end of this gig will mean an increase in my quality of life. Being a TV nerd, even being paid to be a TV nerd, has its personal costs: the cable bill, abnormally high wear-and-tear on the couch and one's sweatpants, the wiggling out of social encounters because you "really have to keep up with" Teen Mom. The endless watching of all the crappy new shows in hopes one of them will provide fodder for a blog post.
(For example: I'm never getting back the time I spent on Running Wilde or Outlaw, or pondering how to spin the Demi Lovato rehab story into a commentary on television. Those posts will just have to remain unwritten.)
Today's entry is the first in the series to focus on the work of a female director. In the coming weeks, we'll discuss contributions from filmmakers like Jane Campion, Catherine Breillat, Deepa Mehta, Rachel Raimist, G.B. Jones, Lynne Ramsay, Julie Dash, and Courtney Hunt, among others. But Argentinian writer-director Lucrecia Martel more than deserves her place in that list of auspicious talent, as she demonstrates with 2008's haunting La mujer sin cabeza.
A record number of women—262, in all—ran campaigns for the House in the 2010 midterm elections. Despite this wave of women, fewer will be in the House once the 112th Congress begins than were in the 111th. 75 women will take their seats in the voting body, many of them for the first time. Here is a look at several first-year Representatives. On the Senate side, 36 women ran campaigns—also a record—and four were elected, keeping the total for women in the Senate at 17. There will be, notably, no African-American Senators when the new Congress begins in January. What issues will the newest female members of Congress bring with them and what might it mean for feminist political strategists and women?
A few months ago, I read a lovely post on country music by Garland Grey over at Tiger Beatdown, and I was quite enjoying myself until he included Johnny Cash as a "toxic model for masculinity" and I hit the roof internally*.
Because Johnny Cash may be the only model for masculinity I turn to. (Well, aside from Springsteen, about whom more later!)
And now again, as the U.S. writhes under the weight of its own myths, I go back to Cash as well.
It's Dia de los Douches here at Bitch HQ, and Clint McCance, anti-gay bigot and former school board member in Arkansas, is our Master of Ceremonies this afternoon. McCance posted the following on his facebook page in response to Spirit Day at the end of October (TRIGGER warning- warped thinking AND warped grammar)...
My life has been unusually stressful lately, for a variety of reasons, and my personal strategy to get through such times has always been to devour certain television shows as though they were comfort food. The advent of the show-on-DVD has been a great comfort to me in that respect, because when I'm down and needing to spend some quality time with my cat and my couch, I can get lost in these stories for days. I am one of those people who is sad that movies are only two hours long: I like my narratives long and intricate, nineteenth-century style, which that explains why I'm such a nerd for any show best viewed as a DVD box set. (And, umm, the completely sad amount of money I've spent on acquiring them.)
All of that by way of saying I've been watching a lot of Six Feet Under, lately. Sometimes television snobs laugh at me when I tell them that Six Feet Under is by far my favorite of the high-end cable shows of the last few years. Though the show was always critically acclaimed in its own way, of course, it somehow never got the kind of artistic street cred that either The Wire or The Sopranos did. I have my theories about this, many of which are related to ideas I also have about people's evaluations of worth in literature.
On election day I was cheerily envisioning a future beyond hate and war with Robyn and Janelle Monae. Yesterday and today I woke up and the future looked impossibly angry and male and white, surging up from the past, all grudge-guns firing.
As a big fan of the strange short work by writers like Gary Lutz and Lydia Davis, I was drawn to Lindsay Hunter's new book, Daddy's, nestled next to an anticipated Lutz rerelease in the small press section of Powell's Books. Many of the writers in this section are faithful upholders of the short story, a form that can be hard to market and is often thought of by more commercial writers and publishers as practice on the way to a novel. But the writers I love, the ones who choose the short story as their primary form, use carefully chosen words to place their characters in unexpected, sometimes disturbing situations. Then they leave you to make your own conclusions about what you've encountered. I hoped that this was the kind of thing I'd find in Hunter's Daddy's, and the jacket blurbs bolstered my hope. Kyle Minor wrote, "Lindsay Hunter won't be caught lie-telling in the name of nice. The miniature stories in Daddy's are fierce and unapologetic." I'm happy to report that Hunter's book did not disappoint.