Last week, a reader sent a link to a Slate article on the new wave of sexual judgment-mongering among Gen Y and suggested I might want to address the issue here. I wasn't sure I was the one to write this because A) I spent my college years (undergrad and grad) at schools and/or in programs that lacked the traditional qualities necessary to foster a thriving campus hook-up culture - no Greek systems, significantly unequal male/female enrollment stats, nose-to-the-grindstone academic focus, etc. and B) wherever there's a loop, I'm guaranteed to be out of it. Not that that would stop me from plunging in, obviously. But the more I read and pondered, the more muddled things got.
Advertisers are tapping into some of the most misogynistic male fantasies when they use futuristic fembots to convince men to buy their products. They are selling a fantasy of control by turning women into obedient, mute, homemaking, sex slaves.
Kick-Ass, the new R-rated movie based on the R-rated comic book, follows a few masked-and-caped citizens whose paths cross over mob dealings and misunderstandings. The Watchmen it's not, but the introduction of a pint-sized heroine who plays with butterfly knives instead of Barbies sets it apart from other superhero flicks. Watching the movie, I found that when I wasn't wincing at the violence, I was cringing at the gaping disparity of both skill and storyline between the title character--the green-wet-suit wearing Dave, aka Kick-Ass--and the foul-mouthed, truly ass-kicking, Mindy MacCready, aka Hit Girl.
Time for the third and final installment of Feminist Rapper! Watch as Jenny Hagel's feminist rapper convinces her mugger that feminists shouldn't fight feminists. (Trigger Warning: There is a mugging scene at gunpoint.)
I don't know about you all, but I am so over the "new media" notion that blogging grows in a magic orchard on pretty trees and therefore should be free of charge. Um, it's called WORK, fools. Anyone else continue to run into this problem?
Shobhaa Dé came to the Indian publishing scene in the late-1980s like a South Asian Jackie Collins and has been credited with paving the way for a new generation of female Indian writers who represent a subsection of modern India that doesn't receive enough international attention: the über elite. Dé's cheeky, Bollywood-inspired chick lit novels feature storylines set in Mumbai's high society that have captivated the imaginations of the country's newly emerging and rapidly growing middle class—male and female alike—who fantasize about being able to live like their favorite Hindi film stars. Fifteen bestselling books later, Penguin India recently announced a new addition to its roster that will start making its way into bookstores next year: Shobhaa Dé Books.
This week's installment of Adventures in Feministory goes out to a very special lady, one who broke barriers for older women in the entertainment industry like nobody's business: Estelle Getty. (And no, this post isn't just an excuse to talk about her fabulous exercise video, but yes, the video is included after the jump.)
My So-Called Life only lasted one season on ABC during the 1994-1995 season. But for a considerable number of folks in my peer group, the critical darling was a huge part of our adolescence, televisual fandom, and nascent feminism.
I never really identified with protagonist Angela Chase (Claire Danes), as she was prone to bouts of maudlin narcissism. I related more to type-A childhood friend Sharon Cherski (Devon Odessa), particularly her struggle to balance advanced course work with a myriad of extra-curricular activities. I also enjoyed Cherski's developing friendship with Deadhead Rayanne Graff (A.J. Langer), who Chase abandons Cherski for early in the series' season-long run. Like Cherski, I wasn't sure what to make of Graff the first few times I watched the show during its initial run on ABC and when MTV re-ran it a few years later. Graff's self-destructive tendencies were frightening, but her creative potential always had me rooting for her.
Although the list was released last month, the HuffPo's college arm is just now getting around to devoting linkbaity ink to Playboy's fourth annual compilation of Top Ten Party Schools. If you haven't seen it, the list is pretty much what you'd expect from Playboy- a glorification of babes, booze and a culture of hedonistic indulgence. Notable are the Honorable Mention categories in which schools that didn't make the top ten are lauded for such as qualities as Hottest Chicks or Hottest Major.