Either this thing is going to regret meeting me, or I'm going to regret meeting it. Anybody know what it is? Bonus points if you know how to cook it! Who says midwesterners are boring!?
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
What's for dinner?
Either this thing is going to regret meeting me, or I'm going to regret meeting it. Anybody know what it is? Bonus points if you know how to cook it! Who says midwesterners are boring!?
Sunday, June 24, 2012
House of the Rising Sun*
There is a house in New Orleans
They call the "Rising Sun."
And it's been the ruin of many a poor girl,
And me, I know, for one.
My mother was a tailor.
She sewed my new blue jeans.
My father was a gamblin' man
Down in New Orleans.
And the only thing a gambler needs
Is a suitcase and a trunk.
The only time a gambler is satisfied
Is when he's on a drunk.
Oh mother tell your children
Not to do what I have done
Spend your lives in sin and misery
In the House of the Rising Sun
Well, I got one foot on the platform
The other foot on the train
I'm goin' back to New Orleans
To wear that ball and chain
Well, there is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And it's been the ruin of many a poor girl
And God I know I'm one.
--Traditional, though covered by a number of artists in all different ways. Also called *Rising Sun Blues.
I love this song. (And no, it's not just because of my southern adventure.) The line about having one foot on the platform and one foot on the train was borrowed for my own song, "Girl on a Platform," as it fit my song's indecisive and ambiguous nature. Regarding this particular song, no one knows exactly what the house is, or if it even existed. There are several explanations of what or where the house is, but nothing is really conclusive. Some say the house was a brothel and that the singer is a sex worker, but if you notice, there is nothing in the song that specifically mentions sex work. Some say it's a prison, since there's a line about a ball and chain, and others say it's a gambling hall. Another explanation is that the house is a facility where the sex workers were treated for STI's, and because the treatments were largely ineffective, the sex workers had to keep going back there. It's traditionally sung by women, so it could be any of the explanations. I kind of like the mysterious nature of its origins and its haunting tone. The most famous version is by the British band the Animals (with "girl" changed to "boy"), but I like Sinead O'Connor and Nina Simone's versions best. Maybe when I'm on my adventure, I'll see if I can figure out where and what the House is! Or maybe I'll find that sometimes, like Freud would say, sometimes lyrics are just lyrics.
They call the "Rising Sun."
And it's been the ruin of many a poor girl,
And me, I know, for one.
My mother was a tailor.
She sewed my new blue jeans.
My father was a gamblin' man
Down in New Orleans.
And the only thing a gambler needs
Is a suitcase and a trunk.
The only time a gambler is satisfied
Is when he's on a drunk.
Oh mother tell your children
Not to do what I have done
Spend your lives in sin and misery
In the House of the Rising Sun
Well, I got one foot on the platform
The other foot on the train
I'm goin' back to New Orleans
To wear that ball and chain
Well, there is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And it's been the ruin of many a poor girl
And God I know I'm one.
--Traditional, though covered by a number of artists in all different ways. Also called *Rising Sun Blues.
I love this song. (And no, it's not just because of my southern adventure.) The line about having one foot on the platform and one foot on the train was borrowed for my own song, "Girl on a Platform," as it fit my song's indecisive and ambiguous nature. Regarding this particular song, no one knows exactly what the house is, or if it even existed. There are several explanations of what or where the house is, but nothing is really conclusive. Some say the house was a brothel and that the singer is a sex worker, but if you notice, there is nothing in the song that specifically mentions sex work. Some say it's a prison, since there's a line about a ball and chain, and others say it's a gambling hall. Another explanation is that the house is a facility where the sex workers were treated for STI's, and because the treatments were largely ineffective, the sex workers had to keep going back there. It's traditionally sung by women, so it could be any of the explanations. I kind of like the mysterious nature of its origins and its haunting tone. The most famous version is by the British band the Animals (with "girl" changed to "boy"), but I like Sinead O'Connor and Nina Simone's versions best. Maybe when I'm on my adventure, I'll see if I can figure out where and what the House is! Or maybe I'll find that sometimes, like Freud would say, sometimes lyrics are just lyrics.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Vagina! Vagina! Vagina!
There. I said it. VAGINA! I said it again, and I am wearing my red-and-black "My vagina says slow down" shirt from the Vagina Monologues as well.
Slow down. That's one thing my vagina, and the rest of me, would love right now. Regarding those restrictions on women's reproductive rights, I would only love it if certain lawmakers slowed down in their frenzy to take away all women's reproductive rights and actually considered just how scary and dangerous their bills would make life for women. I would be more than thrilled if they slowed down just enough to think from the perspective of a woman who did need birth control or an abortion. Just for a moment. So yeah, my vagina is telling all of them to slow down.
Then I'd like them to slow down and think about just what went down in Michigan recently. A female representative gets censured for saying the word "vagina" in Congress? Really? That's what that part is called! It's a medically accurate, clinical term. And that's considered "inappropriate" or a "lack of decorum"? Really? What would they have rather had Representative Brown say? Vajayjay? (I hate that term. It sounds like a bird at best.) Hoohoo? (Sounds like something a three-year-old might say.) Pussy? (That's a slang term.) What would they rather hear her say? I don't hear anyone complaining about people who call breast cancer by its proper name, or describing what erectile dysfunction. But apparently a vagina is too shameful to discuss in public. When over half the population has one, no less!
Really, that's just ridiculous. Who do these men think they are, that they can put all these restrictions on women's healthcare and expect us not to fight back about it? Do they really think that we're OK with having our privacy invaded and our rights taken away? Do they think we appreciate being shamed and insulted if we aren't confined by pregnancy we can't even control?
Well, let me tell you something. My vagina is a part of me, and like me, it's pissed off about all the shame and restrictions. My vagina, along with the rest of me, has been to a Planned Parenthood clinic, and it thinks Planned Parenthood is all right. (Unlike those anti-choice congress members.) And my vagina is not the type to go gently into that dark night. I'm taking my vagina to the ballot box in November and helping to vote out anyone who wants to limit its (and my) freedom. While I don't live in MI and couldn't help out at the giant performance of The Vagina Monologues at the capital, that doesn't mean I can't take action in my own way! And that's a promise we can keep.
Now, this is for all you men who think it's too shameful to discuss: My vagina says SLOW DOWN and start thinking about what your laws really mean for women.
Slow down. That's one thing my vagina, and the rest of me, would love right now. Regarding those restrictions on women's reproductive rights, I would only love it if certain lawmakers slowed down in their frenzy to take away all women's reproductive rights and actually considered just how scary and dangerous their bills would make life for women. I would be more than thrilled if they slowed down just enough to think from the perspective of a woman who did need birth control or an abortion. Just for a moment. So yeah, my vagina is telling all of them to slow down.
Then I'd like them to slow down and think about just what went down in Michigan recently. A female representative gets censured for saying the word "vagina" in Congress? Really? That's what that part is called! It's a medically accurate, clinical term. And that's considered "inappropriate" or a "lack of decorum"? Really? What would they have rather had Representative Brown say? Vajayjay? (I hate that term. It sounds like a bird at best.) Hoohoo? (Sounds like something a three-year-old might say.) Pussy? (That's a slang term.) What would they rather hear her say? I don't hear anyone complaining about people who call breast cancer by its proper name, or describing what erectile dysfunction. But apparently a vagina is too shameful to discuss in public. When over half the population has one, no less!
Really, that's just ridiculous. Who do these men think they are, that they can put all these restrictions on women's healthcare and expect us not to fight back about it? Do they really think that we're OK with having our privacy invaded and our rights taken away? Do they think we appreciate being shamed and insulted if we aren't confined by pregnancy we can't even control?
Well, let me tell you something. My vagina is a part of me, and like me, it's pissed off about all the shame and restrictions. My vagina, along with the rest of me, has been to a Planned Parenthood clinic, and it thinks Planned Parenthood is all right. (Unlike those anti-choice congress members.) And my vagina is not the type to go gently into that dark night. I'm taking my vagina to the ballot box in November and helping to vote out anyone who wants to limit its (and my) freedom. While I don't live in MI and couldn't help out at the giant performance of The Vagina Monologues at the capital, that doesn't mean I can't take action in my own way! And that's a promise we can keep.
Now, this is for all you men who think it's too shameful to discuss: My vagina says SLOW DOWN and start thinking about what your laws really mean for women.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Everyone wants to go back to that time
I love the comic strip "Non Sequitur." Wiley Miller is quite insightful, while he makes his audience laugh at the same time. For those of you who aren't familiar with the strip, there are numerous sets of characters whose lives and views offer commentary on social issues.
One of my favorite strips includes a character named Offshore Flo, an opinionated diner owner who lives in Maine. Flo is serving a man in a suit at her diner, and the suited man tells her that vintage diners like hers are all the rage nowadays and that she should capitalize on the opportunity to offer her guests the nostalgia of a mid-twentieth century small-town diner. To make his point, he exclaims, "Everyone wants to go back to that time!" Flo gives him a walleyed look and repeats, "Everyone?" He repeats that everyone wants to go back to the mid-twentieth century, and Flo answers, "Well, let's start with the vintage sign to hang in the window," showing him a sign that makes him jump ten feet in the air. The sign is revealed to say WHITES ONLY, and the suited man says, "Well, maybe not everyone."
I think that's a good look at the nature of nostalgia. While it's one thing to point out the good that may have happened at a particular time, it's quite another to idolize that time and wish it were back. In particular, I've seen more and more folks commenting that the mid-twentieth century was "a simpler time" or worse, act as though it would be better to go back to it.
I'm always curious, though. For whom would it be better?
Certainly, they don't mean for people of color, as during that time, segregation was legal and widespread. If they have any friends of color, they might be in for a shock that they couldn't hang out together anymore.
Certainly, they don't mean for LGBTQ people, as coming out could have dangerous and violent results from individuals who didn't accept same-sex relationships.
Certainly, they don't mean for women, as many women who had worked during World War II were now forced back into domesticity as the men returned. Worse, domestic violence and marital rape were not yet considered crimes, and countless incidents of abuse occurred behind closed doors. There were no women's shelters or rape crisis centers. For the woman facing an unplanned pregnancy, there was secrecy and lots of money separating her from the infamous back alley.
Certainly, they didn't mean for the war vets returning home with new physical and psychological struggles that the medical community did not have the tools to treat. Or the family of those vets, who were now left with no way of understanding it.
Who were these times better for?
One of my favorite strips includes a character named Offshore Flo, an opinionated diner owner who lives in Maine. Flo is serving a man in a suit at her diner, and the suited man tells her that vintage diners like hers are all the rage nowadays and that she should capitalize on the opportunity to offer her guests the nostalgia of a mid-twentieth century small-town diner. To make his point, he exclaims, "Everyone wants to go back to that time!" Flo gives him a walleyed look and repeats, "Everyone?" He repeats that everyone wants to go back to the mid-twentieth century, and Flo answers, "Well, let's start with the vintage sign to hang in the window," showing him a sign that makes him jump ten feet in the air. The sign is revealed to say WHITES ONLY, and the suited man says, "Well, maybe not everyone."
I think that's a good look at the nature of nostalgia. While it's one thing to point out the good that may have happened at a particular time, it's quite another to idolize that time and wish it were back. In particular, I've seen more and more folks commenting that the mid-twentieth century was "a simpler time" or worse, act as though it would be better to go back to it.
I'm always curious, though. For whom would it be better?
Certainly, they don't mean for people of color, as during that time, segregation was legal and widespread. If they have any friends of color, they might be in for a shock that they couldn't hang out together anymore.
Certainly, they don't mean for LGBTQ people, as coming out could have dangerous and violent results from individuals who didn't accept same-sex relationships.
Certainly, they don't mean for women, as many women who had worked during World War II were now forced back into domesticity as the men returned. Worse, domestic violence and marital rape were not yet considered crimes, and countless incidents of abuse occurred behind closed doors. There were no women's shelters or rape crisis centers. For the woman facing an unplanned pregnancy, there was secrecy and lots of money separating her from the infamous back alley.
Certainly, they didn't mean for the war vets returning home with new physical and psychological struggles that the medical community did not have the tools to treat. Or the family of those vets, who were now left with no way of understanding it.
Who were these times better for?
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