I don't mean to get stuck on Sarah Palin, honestly. She pops up on the media's radar, however, for a whole host of reasons:
* She gives meatier, off-the-cuff remarks than most anyone, including Joe Biden
* She is something other than a white guy in a stuffed suit
* She looks like she's gunning to run for President in 2012
* She has sex appeal
This last point isn't my own assessment—I'm just saying I think mainstream media thinks she has sex appeal. Either from what she radiates in the way of sinewy forearm muscles (see Wednesday's blog post), or because the media is premised at least a little bit on a sexist framework, when there are articles about Ms. Palin, there often is a focus on something other than her policy stances. So I wasn't exactly shocked to read this headline on Thursday morning—Sarah Palin (DD-Alaska)?—from the Boston Herald. [More]
This past week, sports-wise, we had a bit of a truth crisis.
We had Manny Ramirez's 50-game suspension for testing positive for a banned substance—about which he had previously lied. We had the release of a book on Alex Rodriguez—who also previously lied about his steroid use. The book was written by a woman who, while not a liar, plays dangerous games with what's true.
Coming onto the German hipster scene just one year ago, Missy Magazine looks at pop culture, fashion, art, sex, and music through a feminist lens. (Hmmm… sounds like a US-based feminist magazine I know. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.)
One of the great things about the intersection of new media and feminism is that we (consumers and creators of media) are able to learn more about the efforts to improve women's lives and have unprecedented accessibility AND ability to assist organizations in need. As the holiday season continues, let your spirit of giving continue to support initiatives like the New Orleans Women's Health Clinic.
The New York Times Book Review has never exactly embraced passionate advocacy—unless it was promoting Pynchon’s and DeLillo’s place in the postmodernist canon. Even worse, it has become the place where serious feminist books come to die— or more accurately, to be dismissed with the flick of a well-manicured postfeminist wrist.