I Want to Barf.

It's women like these that ruin it for our entire sex (and the bankers aren't so hot either).

msnowe almost doesn't want to post this, but like a train wreck, she can't look away. (Props to Christina for sending the link in all it's wretch-worthy glory!)

Even if the Science is True...

...msnowe thinks there's so much wrong with This.

Back in college, the poster boy for the young republicans club came out with an editorial piece in the college newspaper. In it, he argued that if we allowed same sex couples to marry and receive benefits because their love for each other was as legit as a straight couple's, then what about the case of a man he knew, who fell deeply in love with his goat? Why could that man-goat couple not be afforded the same martial privileges, he argued? This article was accompanied by a rather crude cartoon, and to this day, msnowe wonders if the college newspaper editors gave this story space for the sheer fact of it's hate-talk and the impending debate. Obviously, considering it was a liberal college, there was an uproar, followed by marches, gay-rights t-shirts worn on coordinated days and pro-gay gatherings, etc. The outcry was large, and although it didn't change the view of those few people who were ignorant enough to write such stories, it caused the campus community to be more aware and mindful and proactive. In a sense, the story was good because it backfired on the GOP blowhard and got more people angry and less people agreeing or complacent with the viewpoints of the piece.

So what does this have to do with msnowe's opinion of the Female Desire piece in the New York Times last week? Well, the outcry against the story above exemplifies what should happen when a group is subjected to such absolutely asinine, ignorant comparisons and conjecture. Instead, the NYT's piece has been one of the most widely read stories of the week, and people seem to be gobbling it up without analyzing what the journalist is saying about "female" desire. Let's first understand this: regardless of whether or not the science is unfounded or completely correct, the presentation of this piece is in poor taste at best, and ignorant and sexist at its worst. There's no excuse for the way that the writer of this piece, Daniel Bergner, ignorantly uses latent sexism to describe his findings. [msnowe would like to note that just because a man wrote this piece, that doesn't mean it couldn't be done perfectly well by one.] But Bergner, consciously or not, enforces the "elusive, undefinable" notion of a "female desire" that allows both men and women to become misinformed, puzzled, and mystified by something that is just as raw and attainable as the "male" kind. It may not be comparing female sex with sex with goats--but there are a few paragraphs devoted to monkeys and rapists.

Msnowe wants to deal with multiple topics, but let's look at Bergner's story in its essentials first.
As a scientific piece, the scientists themselves are important, but in general it should be the research that takes center stage, especially as the article is targeted to try and define "Female Desire" (or so it falsely advertises).

Here are some snippets that mSnowe found particularly disturbing, that Bergner wrote to describe some of the

*female* scientists/sexologists:

"While the subjects watched on a computer screen, Chivers, who favors high boots and fashionable rectangular glasses, measured their arousal in two ways, objectively and subjectively."

"A compact 51-year-old woman in a shirtdress, Meana explained the gender imbalance onstage in a way that complemented Chivers’s thinking."

"One morning in the fall, Chivers hunched over her laptop in her sparsely decorated office."

Let's see, shall we? Bergner has gone to describe the physical attributes and dress of the *lady* scientists, descriptions he decidedly left off when writing about the male sexologists. Somehow, their dress is connected with this study? Or is he just trying to picture them naked? What does this have to do with the task at hand? Perhaps someone should tell him that, OMG, women can totally excel in math and the sciences, and should be treated as equals?

The later part of the article focuses on the varied results of the multiple studies, some of the highlights being:

1. Women are aroused by rape/ravishing situations

2. Women are narcissistically desirous

3. Women are also aroused by all the clips presented on a screen, no matter what their apparent sexual orientation (of monkeys, hetero- and homosexual sex, etc.) as opposed to men, who are only aroused by the sex they prefer (straight guys get aroused watching lesbian sex and hetero sex; gay men are aroused when watching homosexual sex). This leads to the conclusion that women do not have a desirous gaze, the way a "male gaze" occurs (see Sontag photo criticism: the male gaze)

Okay, so this is a lot, but let's tackle it. First, an important distinction is made in the very beginning of the piece, and then summarily thrown out the journalistic window: "female" desire and female arousal have the capability to be diametrically separate from each other--they are not the same thing. But Bergner seems to forget this, and uses research solely on arousal for at least 3/4 of the piece to try and discover "female" desire. And it's really annoying that the NYTs had a piece two years ago that already made clear how shoddy the connection between the desire and arousal was, and made definite inroads into the idea that perhaps, maybe just perhaps, there was overlap between the sexes in terms of defining desire--that it was a concept that should not necessarily be broken out by sex. This is all part of the mysterious human psyche--not a choice between lavatories at the mall.

Meana, one of the scientists in this current piece even proclaims: “the variability within genders may be greater than the differences between genders.”

And the whole "women are narcissistic" argument? According to one scientist, female desire is essentially a "wanting to be desired"--a self-fulfillment from an external source, or something. To be fair to Bergner, the scientist introduces the term "narcissistic." But msnowe finds that term jarring, especially when applied only to her sex. Of course we want to be wanted--and that would probably be a universal assumption, unless, perhaps, you're a date rapist (or maybe not even). Does the woman always have to see herself as "the object?" Have we suddenly gone back to the Middle Ages, and the notions of courtly love?

And don't get msnowe started about this line of Bergner's:

"Had Freud’s question gone unanswered for nearly a century not because science had taken so long to address it but because it is unanswerable?"

One can only assume "Freud's question" has something to do with penis envy. Well, by all accounts, the studies prove it false. Also, how typical is it for some to throw up their hands in defeat when trying to solve an issue that is a) different from the determinations of the past (i.e. they FINALLY start studying female sex drive) or b) it might be more intricate of a topic than they'd like to delve into. I mean, it wouldn't be the first time a male started to try to find out the mysteries of woman's pleasure, and then just settled on discovering (or reaching the climax of) their own instead(or first, shall we say). Msnowe can tell you from experience--although she'd love the societal power that unfairly comes with that southern piece of outer equipment all you guys have, she really doesn't envy it physically.

Part two: Should desire be seen as gendered? And the "male" gaze--is that all there is? (to come...)

On "Female Desire"

NYT Link Here.

Msnowe needs some time to ruminate on this. Comments to follow shortly. . .

a better go of it?

Here's the outline of a recurring idea for a short fictional piece that keeps running (more like jogging) through msnowe's head:
A person observes a wake and funeral. They can only hear what's going on--no sight. Also, they are dead. Pretty run-of-the-mill idea, wanting to be present for your funeral and hearing what people have to say. However, in msnowe's story, the dead listener would not realize it's their funeral, at least not at first. The overheard observations and stories and shared experiences relayed about the dead person would be so divergent from what the deceased thought of herself/himself that it would be an extreme blow to realize that in point of fact--your life was completely different from what you intended, and what you thought it was. In other words, not only is mortality beyond our control, but practically everything in life is like a small representation of death's beautiful dominion--we are, essentially everything we think we are, while at the same time completely nothing--a blank slate others need to write upon. We are nothing until we are defined by everything around us. It's the same argument as our concept of the world--we have one view of what it is like to live right now, in America or wherever else, but that view dies with each of us, and so there are some collective things agreed upon, but none of it exists outside our conceptions. The world without us would assuredly be here, but it would not have a name. And it surely wouldn't care anyways.
Perhaps msnowe and others would have a better go of it if they just accepted a little more death in their lives.

Worst

So msnowe's office got downsized today. Lucky for her, she's still trucking along. But the toll taken by a 30% decrease in staff is just too much. The worst is probably that she's realized her workplace is not representative of the society that Rousseau was talking about when compared to the state of nature. Instead, office life is more like that barren and harsh nature--it is truly poor, nasty, brutish and short. You can think that doing your best, and striving to outstrip your competition will allow you to come out on top--not true--it's a numbers game more like the lottery and less like your high school gpa. You can do everything right (or alternatively, everything wrong) and still, you just don't know.

one more day of bush

Just wrap your head around that. It's been eight years.

Goodness.

*Sigh*

Msnowe, like most people, instinctively knows what she deserves. What she does not like is having people tell her what she deserves, and acting accordingly. And often, there is a discrepancy between what one is karmically owed, and what one wants--in fact, all too often, we find ourselves wishing for things that perhaps are less (or much less) than what we actually deserve, upon reflection. Luckily, the world isn't fair enough to recognize karmic debts. But not so luckily, the people around us seem to operate on the principle anyways. Sigh.

a stolen season: another quick thought

Msnowe wonders about sustenance. Not in the form of food and drink, but in the form of relationships, ways of life, etc. Sometimes, in the middle of a way of living, an attitude, a relationship, msnowe jumps up with a start and knows, just knows, that despite her best attempts of sustaining, she is living in a dying world. All is flux, and once we get the glimpse of things we'd wish to freeze-frame, it hits us more than ever. Being In Time is like that.

As a femiladyist, it is expected of you to roll with the punches, and come back with a cleverly placed and effective right hook. And msnowe is often depressed by those poor saps who refuse to understand the constant, insane dialectic, but more often forgets that sometimes she tries to be a fix'd mark upon it, too.

Just a very small thought

msnowe used to be surprised by all the things she would observe while simply walking down a street in the city. Half-naked people, people pushing catering carts full of food, people talking on the phone the same way she imagines they would while in private, etc. Then today it finally hit her, while she saw, in 30-degree-weather, a cater pushing his cart of coffee urns down the sidewalk, deftly avoiding small patches of ice spattered across the pavement as if second-nature:

People in the city treat sidewalks like hallways, or enclosed spaces--there is a vanishing sense of being in public.

And this is easy to understand, perhaps. As the concrete buildings block out the natural light, and the crowds of people make you feel anonymous, there is no sense of guarded privacy, and the businesses and amenities don't make it feel like you could possibly be outside, unless some strongly adverse weather condition is constantly reminding you (i.e. pounding rain or howling winds).

Perhaps that is why, sometimes when msnowe shuts the door on the inside of her apartment after her trek home at night, she might feel glad to be out of the cold, but she doesn't feel like she's really come in from the outside. . .

Anticipation

It only lasts until there's nothing left to anticipate.

Pissed off and Pissed on

{msnowe never made a comment about baseball and softball being stricken from the Olympic record after this year. So let's take a moment to think about this now.}

Olympics, by and large, really aren't that great. They're more a showcase of brute country strength (OMG medal count!) than they are of individual talent (Phelps aside, of course). Americans (and to some extent international folks) recognize pro athletes from the US teams more than they ever will Olympic athletes. And that makes sense--pros play hundred of games, and have major endorsements, and live lavish lifestyles we're obsessed with chronicling. But the Olympics offer a chance for relative unknowns to show off their abilities (hopefully gained naturally, and not by juicing), and gain a little renown while promoting sport and competition. Also, they can propel a sport's popularity (Think: American women's soccer right after the US Women's world cup final; though we won't mention how women's pro soccer is now defunct in the US).

But to get back on track--the Olympic committee, in their ignorance disguised as wisdom, scratched baseball and softball from the sports roster for the next summer games. Whatever you think about this decision, right or wrong--it is more of a blow to women's softball than it will ever be to baseball--and the idea that if you cut one sport you have to cut the other, well that's just plain sexist.

Why? --Baseball will not suffer. The dream of making the big leagues will still be there. But with softball? There are no big leagues. There was only the shot at special tournaments, and the Olympics. Not many people may know of Dot Richardson, or Lisa Fernandez, but if you played little league softball 10 years ago, these were your idols (especially Richardson, who's a kick-ass player and orthopedic surgeon--how many Yankees or Dodgers do you know with a doctorate?). They earned their status by winning the Olympics, and yes msnowe did consider trying to have the nickname of "Dot" catch on, to no avail.

This is why it pains msnowe to hear about the "parity" of cutting both sports from the Olmypics. At least kick-ass Dot is still fighting the good fight.

Poetry--Again

In case you couldn't read the black-screen format, I've changed the look of my new poetry blog so it's easier on the eyes.

Cheers!

Too Much Store?

Back in the day (a.k.a. the early 1800s), when m.snowe's favorite authors had a pulse and were actually writing and/or publishing their fiction and poetry, they were the romantic/victorian equivalents of today's celebrities. [This goes mostly for European countries, anyway.] Today, we still have literary celebs, but on nowhere near the same scale. The followers of today's literary stars are more like cult fans--underground and often unnoticed. A few days ago, m.snowe was talking to a friend about a small, cheap diner in Brooklyn, and the friend explained how she knew of the diner, and that a certain editor of The New Yorker frequented the joint (and note, this editor's name is probably only mildly recognized in most literary circles). Upon hearing this, m.snowe asked: "But how did you know what he looked like?" Apparently, this editor had paneled as a judge during a short fiction contest that m.snowe's friend attended--otherwise she would have never known the guy next to her eating plantains was anybody of literary repute.
In comparison--back in the day, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone who didn't at least have a vague idea of what Byron looked like, or Wordsworth, or Blake. Yes, these were major literary figures, but m.snowe also knows that practically no one could pick out our current poet laureate out of a line-up. Or even if the common folk living at the time of these figures didn't recognize them, at the very least, their poems were part of the canon--the popular ideology of the day. Literature used to be a bigger part of everyone's lives--now its cordoned off into niches and groups of artists themselves, and scant appreciators. Or literature is converted into movies, adapted for TV shows, or otherwise ground up into some fine powder and sprinkled on top of our pop-culture ice cream, so no one notices they're being spoon-fed. Some current fiction writers have even claimed that writing has suffered because the audience is all fiction writers, therefore making all fiction about fiction, and using stylistic and other devices to impress the obsessively learned, instead of writing to please a larger general audience (which is essentially what the writers of 2 centuries ago were doing--Dickens was a tabloid serial writer, a literary soap opera writer of sorts--not that that should diminish his stature now).
The sad part is, despite the shift in our culture to mass adoration of movie stars and reality TV, many writers still seek to gain that renown which has not truly existed much past the 1960s, in terms of the culture (in the US) being saturated with poetry or fiction. (m.snowe realizes her views are tainted by her love of older literature, but, oh well). It makes her sad to see so many strive, so many who are talented, knowing that there isn't enough room for most of them, especially in today's economy. But m.snowe also thinks that writers, unless doing it for a living, need to focus less on celebrity and exposure. She says this, all the while acknowledging writers need more credit than they get. But on second thought, perhaps its better that writers aren't as celebrated as Byron--making love to that many ladies (and lords) just isn't advisable nowadays, and would be down-right hard to live up to.

Poetry!

M.Snowe realizes poetry is not everyone's bag. But if it is, here's a new site: http://msnowe.wordpress.com/
Hopefully it will be updated at least four or five times a week.

Cheers and Happy New Year.

simple pleasures post--awkward carpool edition

There are few things more thought-provoking than an awkward carpool with a random, slight acquaintance who is bordering on being mostly a stranger. Not only is it cost-productive and energy efficient, hitching a ride from upstate to NYC is like performance theatre--you're given a shot to not only learn some new and foreign take on the world--but you're asked to participate and create your own as well. The best situation is with someone you have a slight memory of in your past, who has some personal/relational connections (so you're not silent the entire 3-hour trip), but is distant enough that you will probably not see or hear from them for another few years (making it easier to conscience a fib or two on your end).

With the onslaught of voyeuristic--scratch that, M.Snowe means--social networking sites, it's become more and more easy to set up these impromptu car-ride visitations. Such an acquaintance (we'll call him "John") made this very transportation-proposition to M.Snowe a day before she was scheduled to head back to NYC, on what promised to be a very noisy, uncomfortable train ride back, once more, into the concrete trenches. M.Snowe quickly agreed--she loves new adventures into the unknown lifestyle reaches of old grade-school classmates.

After exhausting all talk of other people we mutually knew (ex. "Did you hear she got pregnant straight out of high school?" or "My grandma knows your mum from getting her prescriptions filled at the Rite Aid on Eastern."), it was time for John to turn down the ACDC and actually make reference to himself, and vice-versa.

It should be said that John had come across our path before--randomly at a social occasion in Boston, dressed as a movie character on Halloween. At that point, the situation was assessed and we realized, while we wouldn't ever be "besties," John was decent and friendly, despite a slight, what you might call "post-frat sheen," (which has something to do with too many beers and a style of talking that is usually heard on Friday nights at the local college campus). But the kind spirit was enough to secure M.Snowe's calm acceptance of a ride back to the city. M.Snowe isn't always looking for comfort or like-mindedness. Sometimes she just wants to observe, and be entertained.

One observation from these random car-ride glimpses into other peoples' lives is this: Our lives are a lot more diverse, and weirder than we actually think they are. In other words, because we live with our situations everyday, they become normalized to us, even just through repetition or reinforcement. For instance: John relayed to me his apartment situation. In his apartment, he lives with his girlfriend. Normal enough. But also living in his apartment: his younger sister, and her boyfriend. Fine, but weird.

After this strange bit of information, John decided to call all his buddies in preparation for the big party he was attending later. One of his friends was named Cookie. This was a male lacrosse player, by the way. He referred to Cookie, while acknowledging the strangeness of the name, but never explained its origin. M.Snowe has to assume that Cookie isn't actually his real name, but was frustrated to have no back-story. She imagines that perhaps he has strange moles that resemble chocolate chips, or has unfortunate, doughy skin. Hopefully it's not just due to an affinity for the baked good. Perhaps it's better to live in the mystery. At least she knows that this name actually has traction in the real-world of this old classmate, outside her wildest comedic dreams.

The best part of the ride came as we approached the city, and were getting ever-nearer to the George Washington Bridge. The afternoon had faded from a partial sunlight to a completely clouded and eerily foggy mess--the cars zoomed in and out of sight, and the trees ahead were barely visible through the thick clouds of condensed air. John turned to me and said "have you ever seen the movie The Mist?" Surely, M.Snowe hadn't. He went on to recreate the story, complete with spoiler ending: The Mist was the sign that evil animal creatures would overtake you and eat you alive. The very end of the story follows a car of four people--a father, son, the father's lady-friend, and another random girl. The mists are about to overtake the car as it has run out of gas, and the father has a gun with only three bullets. Instead of seeing his son and the women eaten alive, he uses the three bullets to kill them, and then awaits his own death at the hands of the creatures in the mist. Only after the apparent euthanizing does the father realize it was not the creatures approaching, but the help they had been so sorely seeking throughout their journey away from the monsters--the father had killed all three unnecessarily. Given the morbid and hilarious nature of such a tale, M.Snowe found it relevant, if not to this car ride, then to the experience of carpools and similar possibly-uncomfortable situations as a whole. We are quick to kill things before we can even see the dangers. Foresight is one thing, blind fear of the unknown is quite another. So do yourself a favor and allow the foggy memories of a past time to take the wheel once and a while, literally or figuratively speaking. You never know what you might discover. Also, sometimes the terror is just plain funny.

The Ocular Renaissance

This weekend, M.Snowe found herself at her other apt. overlooking the park (yeah, right!): the Met. (Note: M.Snowe isn't trying for pretension here, but merely suggests that given the amount of time she's there, the docents could justifiably start charging rent). Like any reasonable perspective tenant, M.Snowe surveyed the newly renovated space, which this month consisted of an exhibit, "Art and Love in Renaissance Italy." What first struck M.Snowe was the deep, rich color of the walls that housed this new installment, and sadly or otherwise, the depth of the walls was almost as impressive as the first few rooms's art, which was largely marriage goods (such as plates and jars). While some of the jugs and starter plates looked like recent acquisitions from a Medici-themed Pottery Barn, the dark cobalt blues of the wall washed over the art. The red of the next room was that of creamy indulgence--an intense red with brown undertones, a color similar to the tint of someone's blood as it has just begun to dry. The high ceilings made the rooms impossibly enveloping, and for the first time in a gallery, M.Snowe realized the empty walls are just as much of a canvas.

As the exhibit progressed, the walls got drabber, or at least unnoticeable--but the paintings increased in number and intensity. The paintings increased in a way directly proportional to the number of naked women on display, which isn't entirely unexpected in Renaissance art. M.Snowe takes great satisfaction in the idea of people in the "dark ages" and the Renasissance that came afterwards appreciating realistically portrayed women's bodies, if nothing else (because to be a woman in the Renaissance, like most ages, was a bum deal). This isn't to say the women weren't idealized--but somehow the definition of beauty seemed a bit more broad than today's version.

Browsing the paintings and their respective titles and artist names, M.Snowe was faced with a very general observation--the Met, or more likely whoever comes up with the titles of pictures, are just a little bit sexist, or at least a bit unbalanced. Not talking specifically of this exhibit, M.Snowe understands that curators often give names to paintings that are otherwise untitled by simply describing the major factors of the painting, for example: "Portrait of a Man,"or "A Bouquet of Flowers in a Crystal Vase." Many, many pictures, especially in the European paintings rooms of the Met, were the simple "Portrait of a Woman"--many more than the men. Why are the men more accurately labeled? Was it due to some lack of records on the female paintings, because they were females and Renaissance painters didn't feel the need to give names? Perhaps they were more fictional women, making naming unnecessary? Unless at least minor nobility, the "real" women often remain unnamed, and though men in portraits also were sometimes unidentified, the anonymous women outnumbered them sizeably. M.Snowe wasn't shocked or surprised, as the same situation happens in literature, etc., but what struck her most this time was the way that some unidentified women were described. For instance, M.Snowe came upon a captivating portrait of an anonymous youthful woman with a pale face, and fresh eyes, in the Renaissance exhibit. Her eyes seemed to leap out at you--they were alive. But looking at the caption, it said: "Young Woman in a Green Dress, Holding a Box." M.Snowe had to look again--and sure as the label, she was wearing a green dress (at least you could see the emerald neckline) and she held up a small metal casket, very Portia-esque. But the fact was M.Snowe had noticed neither of these attributes. The woman had been measured by her accoutrements--as if she was a vase or tapestry. It was nearly impossible to find any male portraits that described them "in blue suits" or "wearing pointy hats," etc.

M.Snowe is most definitely over-analyzing, but she can't help it--given a person's way of viewing art is often how they view beauty, and that translates into desire, which further develops and speaks to everything we are and do--it is blatantly Darwinian. The Renaissance artists valued the human form, the eyes, the pose of lustful anticipation--and they were less concerned with the outer shell of insignificance--more concerned with the emotional connection formed between art and art-viewer. Are we more worried about dressing up or analyzing what is already naturally beautiful? Have we lost focus?

PART 2 : Ocular Communion
Renaissance (and to some extent Medieval) artists believed that art was a form of transcendence for the viewer--that paintings were not a one-sided transaction, but a mutual communication that allowed the viewer to be inwardly effected by the external triggers engineered with the piece of art. Scoff if you will, but the concept still exists in a lesser form today--most believe that art has some emotional, philosophical, or other-mental effect on the viewer. But Renaissance thought held that when viewing an erotic portrait, the viewer could literally enter into raptures. Talk about hard-core porn. And funnily enough--the same raptures were said to take place when viewing religious iconography. In today's world, we are so used to, bombarded, and gorged with images that they no longer take any effect. They are commonplace--completely unspecial. These paintings were singular and unique to the Renaissance viewers, they held power and sway over the audience unlike most things could do today. In a sense, this kind of art has become the marijuana of our generation--it gets us hungry but we've moved onto much harder drugs sometimes just for shock-value (which also explains the deterioration of good taste). M.Snowe thinks the test of good art and good life is when something, or someone, is able to force a rapture by the simplicity of ocular communication--eye to eye consumption. Who would've thought just looking could be so sexy?

The Definition (and Necessity) of True Hate

(M.Snowe doesn't have a good handle on the nature of love--but she does know a thing or two about hate.)

The most common misconception when people form their definition of hate is this: it is the opposite of love, and the opposite of love can be defined as an anguished ire at a person, place, or thing. The opposite of love engenders ill-will and anger; it eats away at our good natures.

While all these things may very well be hate (as we commonly use the word), or at least hatred--this definition is not true hate, and certainly does not make up the opposite of love.

The opposite of love, or the concept of true hate, is smothered up and suffocated by one simple word: apathy. No matter what your definition of love, indifference would be its counter. Because no matter what, when you love, some emotions must be involved. When you truly hate, you are stoically separate--completely cut off, and often at peace with the notion that you have no reactions and no concern. True hate is like an inner death, an oblivion. True hate is a part of all of us. For instance, when those outside our circle of concern suffer, and we feel no worry and express no sense of alarm or wish to help--that is true hate; and the worst form at that. We all are truly haters in the larger scheme of this strangely plotted world, whether we admit it or not--it would be impossible to care about everything.

Reading As You Like It, it is clear Orlando despises his brother Oliver, and rightly so. But his hate is tested to the extreme: walk away into the forest, and his brother surely dies by the teeth of the lioness. Stay and fight the creature, and he lives. Some might say the opposite of love is to seek out and murder, the destruction of life. M.Snowe says it would be to stand by, unaffected, watching a murder--and feeling nothing at the destruction of a life. Had Orlando simply kept on walking, both siblings would have been damned, Orlando truly expressing the ultimate opposite of love. Orlando's decision to save Oliver may not have been out of love, but out of something baser, and something that allows us to pity. It was a good thing.

While M.Snowe thinks true hate should be used sparingly and with good counsel (and never when a life is in jeopardy), she can't help but think also that perhaps, in some cases, true hate is a gift to human nature that we should utilize. Disregard is a powerful weapon that is hard to establish and execute, but can be absolutely beneficial.

Apathy can, in some circumstances, be something to aspire to.

Problems with English.

M.Snowe used to think bocce ball was “babci” ball, named after people like her grandmother, a Polish “Babci” who was faintly perfumed with pickled herring and shuffled around lightly in quilt-patterned slippers until two in the afternoon. It was always satisfyingly ironic to think that the goal of bocce was to get your colored balls close as possible to the main ball, whereas Babci made no effort to get close to her grandchildren, as if the idea of intimacy was in any way a game-winning aspiration.

Sometimes spelling things and forming concepts of words is difficult when you're young. If you pronounce something wrong the first time you come across it and continue to do so for a while, then for the rest of your life, while you know the “correct” spelling and pronunciation, you may be condemned to remember your misinterpretation every time you see or hear the word. For the longest time during childhood, M.Snowe thought “approximate” meant exact—for no other reason than the word sounded official, and had the thrust of judicial finality, like a word you might find in a legal dictionary. But we are all in a state of nolo contendere against Webster’s 5^th. But the effect has been that now, whenever someone "approximates," M.Snowe gets the sneaking suspicion they know more concrete facts than they’re letting on.

Defense Against Fear-Mongering Women into Submission.

here.

A Modest, Concerted Proposal

Last night, M.Snowe was at a concert for one of her new favorite bands, who will probably turn out to be a one-CD-wonder (which is all the more reason to go and see them now when they're at the probable apex of their career). The music was good, the crowd was large and loud, and there was a fair mix of people of all ages, sexes, etc. (although naturally, it was a pretty white crowd, given the performers were skinny punk dudes from the UWS influenced by an eclectic mix of ska, African, and classical music). But what really grinds M.Snowe's gears was this: after the concert, while approaching the coat-check, a group of young men, without any pretense, yelled "Sex!" right in my friend's, and my own face, and preceded to stare us down like we were a steak they ordered at the chophouse. And some other dudes definitely tried to feel us up in the horde of people approaching the exits. Whatever, all these guys were obviously assholes, or at the very best just drunk, but either way, it got M.Snowe thinking about how some men assert themselves in such stupid, yet completely power-affirming ways.
M.Snowe could decide to try and bitch out these jerks (and all jerks who do similar things), but in the larger scheme of things, all that does is acknowledge an inability to counteract it--it makes me a hard-done-by victim--and these guys probably get their jollies from seeing feisty girls "act all defensive and shit." Isn't her anger adorable? Or super hot?
The real problem is, no matter how M.Snowe responds, guys like this will inevitably interpret the response in ways that cannot escape the fact that yes, she is female. So what's a femiladyist to do?
Here's one suggestion: give it right back to them. Women should do exactly as men do. Yes, this might sound first-wave-feminist crazy, but just think about it--it's like a form of social disobedience. M.Snowe doesn't suggest anything too despicable, but she modestly proposes that women need to think more with their own sexual organs, and their respective needs, instead of some dude's. Women should not blush at the idea of yelling out requests for sexual favors, or even giving a friendly pinch once and a while. If everyone did this, then it would no longer be seen as the determinant of whether a woman is a floozy (because let's face it--there's a huge double-standard where, in sexual situations, outgoing men are super cool but women are just whores). Once the playing field is level, everyone will see the utter ridiculousness of continuing such pursuits. And perhaps that's why women aren't as ridiculously/publicly sexually assertive in most cases--because some men make out-of-bounds sexual comments and act disrespectfully, and women immediately recognized the stupidity of it all, and abstained from such behavior. Hopefully, if those abusive dudes begin to feel the sting of their own harassment, they would get wise. Unfortunately, it would take awhile, given that these guys would treat it as a new game. But soon enough they'll feel like pieces of meat. And hey, M.Snowe isn't asking you to eat your young--she's just modestly proposing a social counter-revolution. Enjoy the concert.