Nicole is in charge of music round 'here, but this is so gaggilicious you're all gonna love it...
Billboard's top ten this week consists of T.I., Britney Spears, Beyonce, Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, Kanye West, and Ne-Yo.
In "Circus", which is at spot #3 on the Billboard chart, Spears asserts, "There's two kinds of people in this world, those who entertain, and those who observe" -- well, what about those who actually have something worthwhile to say other than mediocre poetics such as, "I'm like a firecracker, I like it hot"? Congrats to the teacher who taught Spears' lyricist the power of similes. I understand she's trying to make a comeback, but donning diamonds and dancing around with pasties on her boobs while giving the camera come-hither eyes isn't exactly the pinnacle of regained dignity.
Katy Perry's "Hot N Cold" comes in at #7 where she spews out some great stereotypical piss, but hey, she's a woman and she's shooting that shit at a man, so it's cool, right? Her lyrics contain gems like "You PMS like a bitch I would know" and "You change your mind like a girl changes clothes"... yep, we're all menstruating fashionistas. Thanks, Katy, this totally tops your radical "I kissed a girl and I liked it." If she really wanted to be rebellious, the song would be "I licked a cunt and I liked it" but that totally wouldn't jive with the party-bi, preppie audience to whom she's packaged and sold.
Maybe if I heard mainstream rap hits calling guys dicks and cocks as much as I hear women being called hos and bitches I'd be more amicable toward women shaking their asses to a pop beat under the guise of art.
Gotta love the patriarchy's pop princesses; they're doing a grand job keeping us bitches in our proper place.
Sammi.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
New year, new Polly Jean
PJ Harvey is one of the best female musicians to come out of the 90s and she's already releasinig new material! White Chalk, which is haunting and lovely, just came out last year so I'm somewhat surprised that her latest endeavor, A Woman A Man Walked By, will be out March 2009 (according to pjharvey.net).
For the record, I am not at all bothered by the closeness of the releases. The album is a collaboration with John Parish who regularly works with Harvey.
As for me, as stated by Laura I'm heading to the pacific northwest in a mere twenty days, it was a sudden decision so I've spent all of my free time this semester planning that... hence no posting. But there will be lots from me in the new year! As for this month, I'm getting to work on an end of the year list so look for that.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Buy Me a Cake & I'll Have Sex With You
For the last two years I have been preoccupied with one lover or another, constantly trying to attach myself to that so-highly-prized ‘other half’. I cried myself to sleep often. I was hung up on. I dealt with women answering my boyfriends’ phones. I said “this is good-bye” often but always returned. I apologized for feeling hurt or offended, de-legitimizing my emotions. I cleaned up piss and vomit. I ditched friends to take care of these much older men whom I loved. I hated myself. I got fucked a lot. And I got fucked over more.
I finally managed to extricate myself from imprisonment, from my self-imposed patriarchy, and what did I do after that fateful “break-up” morning? I ran to the dating pool, seeking out some other form of completion. I hadn’t loved myself for two years running, but somehow I thought I was going to find what I couldn’t give myself in a complete stranger.
I’ve been on ten dates within the last two months, and this is what I learned: *
Dima called me on the phone. He sounded far more foreign than I had expected. I think I wanted to meet up with Dima because I felt nostalgic for my first lover, a Dutch law student. I told Dima, “I’ll just meet you at the restaurant” but he refused to let me drive myself anywhere. “I’ll drive you; this is the Russian way. In Russia, the men drive.”
Lesson One: Decrepit American me must have forgotten that having a vagina means I can’t navigate through traffic.
But, I was willing to sacrifice my pride to meet anyone new. He brought me flowers and a box of Driscolls strawberries. A bit much, but sweet. We had sushi and watched “Burn After Reading” after which he confessed he only laughed because other people were laughing; he had no idea what was going on in the movie. Good times. After the first date, Dima must have assumed he had some possessive power over me because I couldn’t go 24 hours without seeing him in my “Missed Calls”, nonetheless hearing his accented pleas, “Allo, Samanta, where are you? Who are you with? Why you no call me?”
Lesson Two: If a man buys you Driscolls, beware the tracking device subtext.
A month passes, and I’m so beaten down by his calls that I finally give in to having a date number two. (He’s driving, of course.) He brings a strawberry-laden cake and another big, beautiful bouquet of flowers. We have Chinese. Over shrimp and broccoli, he admits that he’s married, has two daughters, and a litter of kittens at home. But, hey, he still hates his wife, so it’s OK for him and me to be intimate.
Lesson Three: If you buy a woman enough shit, she won’t even notice your wedding ring.
My second experience was with Matt, who was a working lawyer. We had great conversation, gorged on sushi, and went back to his place to continue the conversation. We smoked a bowl on his couch, talked about art, had a glass of wine, and wham, he’s kissing me. We make out a little and then I stop him, and tell him I don’t want to go farther since we’ve just met. He says, “Ok” and then shoves his tongue down my throat again. I stop him again, and repeat my wishes. He puts his hand on my crotch and tries kissing me again. I stop him for a third time, and by this point I’m frustrated. I tell him I should probably get back home, and he gives me a good guilt trip, “I drove you all the way heeeeree…”
Lesson Four: If a man drives you all the way to his abode, he expects to get laid. A woman’s integrity = a gallon of gas. Simple economics.
Lastly, I want to mention Ryan, who ten months ago, let me sob my guts out on his bed because he had slept with me for a month under the pretext of a “connection”, a “relationship” and when I brought commitment up, he told me he had just wanted to sleep with me. When I started to cry, he told me he didn’t feel comfortable with me sleeping with him that night, and wanted me to leave. It was 2AM. I refused, popped a couple of pills, and passed out. Worst of all: I had brought a book of my favorite writings to share with him that night.
Well a couple of days ago he e-mailed me saying how much he regrets it all. I challenged him, telling him I wanted to hear it face-to-face, and that I deserve it. He said he can’t see me face-to-face because he feels too vulnerable. He’s 27. I’m 19. He fucked me for a month, and then told me he wanted nothing to do with me and to go home as I sat there crying. What does he know about vulnerability?
Lesson Five: Men, you can fuck ‘em over young, if you make up for it later with a half-assed, typo-ridden e-mail. Women go crazy for that sort of thing.
And that’s not the least of it, unfortunately. I used to think “objectification” was a bogus, out-dated theme of fogey feminists from the 60s, but at this point, I’m feeling it through-and-through and I’m fed up.
I’d rather be single than be disrespected. So until a man’s reading my poetry before he’s reaching between my legs, I’m going solo.
And I’m damned happy about it.
(*Names were changed for privacy.)
I finally managed to extricate myself from imprisonment, from my self-imposed patriarchy, and what did I do after that fateful “break-up” morning? I ran to the dating pool, seeking out some other form of completion. I hadn’t loved myself for two years running, but somehow I thought I was going to find what I couldn’t give myself in a complete stranger.
I’ve been on ten dates within the last two months, and this is what I learned: *
Dima called me on the phone. He sounded far more foreign than I had expected. I think I wanted to meet up with Dima because I felt nostalgic for my first lover, a Dutch law student. I told Dima, “I’ll just meet you at the restaurant” but he refused to let me drive myself anywhere. “I’ll drive you; this is the Russian way. In Russia, the men drive.”
Lesson One: Decrepit American me must have forgotten that having a vagina means I can’t navigate through traffic.
But, I was willing to sacrifice my pride to meet anyone new. He brought me flowers and a box of Driscolls strawberries. A bit much, but sweet. We had sushi and watched “Burn After Reading” after which he confessed he only laughed because other people were laughing; he had no idea what was going on in the movie. Good times. After the first date, Dima must have assumed he had some possessive power over me because I couldn’t go 24 hours without seeing him in my “Missed Calls”, nonetheless hearing his accented pleas, “Allo, Samanta, where are you? Who are you with? Why you no call me?”
Lesson Two: If a man buys you Driscolls, beware the tracking device subtext.
A month passes, and I’m so beaten down by his calls that I finally give in to having a date number two. (He’s driving, of course.) He brings a strawberry-laden cake and another big, beautiful bouquet of flowers. We have Chinese. Over shrimp and broccoli, he admits that he’s married, has two daughters, and a litter of kittens at home. But, hey, he still hates his wife, so it’s OK for him and me to be intimate.
Lesson Three: If you buy a woman enough shit, she won’t even notice your wedding ring.
My second experience was with Matt, who was a working lawyer. We had great conversation, gorged on sushi, and went back to his place to continue the conversation. We smoked a bowl on his couch, talked about art, had a glass of wine, and wham, he’s kissing me. We make out a little and then I stop him, and tell him I don’t want to go farther since we’ve just met. He says, “Ok” and then shoves his tongue down my throat again. I stop him again, and repeat my wishes. He puts his hand on my crotch and tries kissing me again. I stop him for a third time, and by this point I’m frustrated. I tell him I should probably get back home, and he gives me a good guilt trip, “I drove you all the way heeeeree…”
Lesson Four: If a man drives you all the way to his abode, he expects to get laid. A woman’s integrity = a gallon of gas. Simple economics.
Lastly, I want to mention Ryan, who ten months ago, let me sob my guts out on his bed because he had slept with me for a month under the pretext of a “connection”, a “relationship” and when I brought commitment up, he told me he had just wanted to sleep with me. When I started to cry, he told me he didn’t feel comfortable with me sleeping with him that night, and wanted me to leave. It was 2AM. I refused, popped a couple of pills, and passed out. Worst of all: I had brought a book of my favorite writings to share with him that night.
Well a couple of days ago he e-mailed me saying how much he regrets it all. I challenged him, telling him I wanted to hear it face-to-face, and that I deserve it. He said he can’t see me face-to-face because he feels too vulnerable. He’s 27. I’m 19. He fucked me for a month, and then told me he wanted nothing to do with me and to go home as I sat there crying. What does he know about vulnerability?
Lesson Five: Men, you can fuck ‘em over young, if you make up for it later with a half-assed, typo-ridden e-mail. Women go crazy for that sort of thing.
And that’s not the least of it, unfortunately. I used to think “objectification” was a bogus, out-dated theme of fogey feminists from the 60s, but at this point, I’m feeling it through-and-through and I’m fed up.
I’d rather be single than be disrespected. So until a man’s reading my poetry before he’s reaching between my legs, I’m going solo.
And I’m damned happy about it.
(*Names were changed for privacy.)
RiGIDcast: Now four grrrls strong!
I am thrilled to welcome our newest contributor, Samantha, to the RiGID family. You may remember her from earlier this year as my cohost on RiGIDcast's podcast on pornography and masturbation. The founder of Baltimore's Liberal Literati book club and the co-creater of the performance duo OVA, Samantha lends her unique perspective on relationships, sex and feminism to our already fabulously diverse blog.
Another note: soon RiGID will be a presence on both coasts! Our resident music expert, Nicole, is shipping out to Olympia, Washington this month. We will miss her here on the east coast, but secretly can't wait to hear about the music she encounters at the alma mater of the Riot Grrrls!
Stay tuned for RiGIDcast episode two sometime within the next month or so.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
