Today, Oprah will be airing an interview with Mackenzie Phillips. Who is that, you say? She is a former child actress who also, coincidentally, happens to be one of the many children of the late John Phillips of The Mamas and Papas. Like most former child actresses, her personal life has been a slow-moving disaster of epic proportions - just last year, at 48, she was busted for cocaine possession. At an airport. This being more or less par for the course in former child actress terms, one might wonder why she is getting the entire hour of Oprah to herself. Wonder no more; E!Online is reporting that Phillips will reveal that she was raped by her father at 19. Phillips also calls the relationship "consensual" at some point, which Anna North at Jezebel neatly deconstructs here.
I'm not so much interested in the horrific details of what happened to Phillips, personally - I wish her excellent therapy and hopefully some peace since justice for these things isjust a word and not a realistically attainable goal. But I am filled with seething anger that these traumatic events are being turned into yet another ratings/YouTube bonanza for Oprah. Oprah thrives on this stuff, of course, even though nowadays her show lies somewhere in a no-woman's land between 20/20 and infomercials. It's the big confessional interviews, though, that are her particular specialty. She just got done with that huge Whitney Houston bonanza, and is currently "interested in" Jaycee Dugard (cringe). She gets them because she's Oprah and she milks them because she's Oprah and good goddamn it annoys me.
Like many feminist blog readers and pop-culture junkies, Kelsey and I have been following the hype on Jennifer's Body , starring Megan Fox as a cheerleader-turned-flesh-eating-demon and Amanda Seyfried as her loyal but mousier (Hollywood mousier) BFF, since we watched the preview way back in July. We finally got a chance to see it this Monday, and while hate is a strong word, there was one too many WTF? moments ("867-5309"?!) for us to get a feminist buzz off this flick (especially after being surprisingly touched by Whip It preview). So like the vlogging pioneers we strive to be (did you know we have a video page?) we sat down moments after the credits rolled to give our impressions, which include a primer on Diablo Cody's latest vernacular additions (:30), why we were disappointed (1:13), and of course its redeeming qualities (What? Unlike some people--JENNIFER!--we're not all filled with black bile and bloodlust. 4:19)! Check 'er out and share your own spoiler-filled thoughts on the movie! Transcript after the jump.
How do you listen to Canadian music?
With your ears, eh? Silly…
Sorry, must have been the feminist jokes post from earlier today that inspired that one.
Anyways, we are indeed heading to the Far North for today's B-sides as we rock out with Nova Scotian and lady tune-weaver Leslie Feist.
Performing as Feist, the woman who made counting fun again ("1,2,3,4"…) has been on hiatus since her last album, "The Reminder" came out in May 2007. Come back!? Please?!
The reader response to "Rear Ended by Porn" was big and vocal, and frankly, pretty awesome, with plenty of you bitches bringing up aspects of the debate that I didn't write about in the original post. There was hateration, too, but I chalk that up to the fact that when you encourage women to take a critical look at their sexual behavior, they're going to resist. Our society feeds us a constant diet of shame and negative messages about sex, so a lot of women automatically default to feeling judged as soon as you suggest that their sexuality might be influenced by something other than their own very special personal free will. But I loved (nearly all) of the responses that I got, especially the one from our righteous feminist sister Amanda Marcotte at Pandagon. Read on...
Oh hey! You there, the hungry-looking feminist! Do you have plans THIS THURSDAY NIGHT? You don't? Perfect! Because your pals at Bitch are teaming up with your pals at Voodoo Doughnut for our CONSUMED ISSUE RELEASE PARTY! Oh, you heard right. Peep this awesome flyer if you don't believe us:
If this awesomeness still isn't enough for you, guess what? We are hosting a DOUGHNUT-EATING CONTEST and the winner gets $50 TO POPINA SWIMWEAR!
Bitch Consumed Issue Release Party. Thursday, September 24. 7:00 pm. 1501 NE Davis (Voodoo Doughnut Too). You. Us. Feminism. Doughnuts. Be there.
Thanks so much to everyone who participated in our feminist joke contest earlier this month! After much careful consideration, we have chosen our top five. Because we don't have addresses and contact info for the people who comment on this site (you know, because we aren't creeps), if you are one of the winners you'll need to contact Kelsey (that's me) with your info so that she (I) can send you your prize: A copy of A Map of Home by Randa Jarrar!
THE WINNERS (in no particular order):
Q: (you, the awesome woman telling this joke, hold up pointer and middle fingers together) Why can't you masturbate with these two fingers?
A: (you, as the awesome woman telling this joke, have to say this) Because they're mine!
From Joe Wilson to that death panel lady, everyone has healthcare on the brain lately (or at least we think they do – who can afford a CAT scan these days?). This includes the folks at Funny or Die, who put this video together. Jon Hamm, Linda Cardellini, AND public healthcare? We'll take it.
Like speed metal and banda music, jazz is one of those musical genres
where the presence and contributions of female artists never quite
mitigates the overall sense that it's a dude's world. For Toshiko
Akiyoshi, crashing the sausage party as an Asian woman was extra
challenging. Nevertheless, the award-winning jazz pianist and big-band
leader was the first woman in the form's long history to compose and
arrange an entire library of music.
Because I live in Brooklyn and I like books, it's been hard to escape the name Jonathan Ames, but I haven't, admittedly, read him. His popularity among a certain set of people has triggered the contrarian in me and I gracefully skirt his work in bookstores and magazines alike. You see, Ames is the kind of person who, the Village Voice tells me, does delightfully irreverent New York things like attend charity events of which he can say, "It's to raise money for Chihuahuas." He names his protagonists after himself. If you've caught my drift, this is the kind of writer who I worry is so well-regarded because he represents a certain kind of trendy New York existence in which everyone nurtures a delightful hip Zooey-Deschanel-esque quirk so that they may safely inhabit a world without regard to responsibility or the dreary business of doing things that are true or meaningful. Or, um, wage-earning.
Someday I shall have to test this prejudice of mine out by reading his books, obviously. For now, HBO has obliged me in delivering a version of Jonathan Ames (penned by Jonathan Ames and called, of course, Jonathan Ames) in thirty-minute morsels (called Bored to Death) to confirm my prejudices. While I've only watched the one episode - which aired last night on HBO but which you can get from OnDemand or, I believe, as a free podcast on iTunes - thus far it has done nothing to alleviate my concern.