From the Teacups and Me

Good tidings of comfort and joy to you all: My real-life friends, my online friends, my strangers-yet-to-be friends, and every last person who reads these words. Thank you for reading, and may your holiday season be filled with puppies and David Bowie songs.

I'll be back from my post-dissertation and major-life-changing-again hiatus in the new year.

I love you all.

Oh, London!

"This is a Piccadilly Line Service to ... "

Cracks me up every. Single. Time. Without exception.

I filmed this today, while renewing my vow that some day I will ride the Piccadilly line all the way to Cockfosters (Cockfosters!) and have my picture taken next to the station sign. Some day!

Flâneur in the City's Theme Song

(Veruca Salt: With David Bowie)

My heart skips around
when I hear the sound.
I'm never alone cause
you're following me home.
I'm falling in love,
my walkman and me,
with David Bowie.

Oldies But Goodies 3: Comic Book Girl

Still feeling lazy, my loves, so here's another oldie-but-goodie from the vault. Did you know I used to work at a comic book store in Wilmington, NC? 

November 11, 2002
Truth, Justice and the American Way

I encounter a variety of customers working at the comic book store. The majority of them are men, the comic industry plays into the male psyche beautifully. The common hero is the underdog male, mundane in existence by day, cape wearing vigilante by night. A classic reflection of one's secret self, the longing to be something other than what one is. The second aspect played is that of approachable female. Comics are entertainment, fantasy. And given to pen, women in the comic world can perform impossible contortions while wearing the least amount of clothing and still have a personality. Even feminist icon Wonder Woman skips around in a near bikini. Obviously, your "real life" woman isn't going to fight crime and the forces of evil in high heels. The combination of underdog hero and stunning femme fatale make a delightful afternoon read.

That being said, the customers have a variety of tastes, some that would make an eyebrow raise.

Such as: The man who cleaned out our adult-only box of 75 cent porn. 75 cent porn is really just a pamphlet, the size and style like the opening of a centerfold. They are for promotional use, previews for magazines, with all the features and nudity involved. This man came in and bought $20 worth of 75 cent porn.
As I was adding up his amount, I had to clear my throat and say, "You know, we carry most of these magazines" and point him in the right direction.
But, nope. He just wanted the promos. Whatever floats your boat.

Then, there is the sweetest old man that comes in before his night shift. Apparently, just across the river is one of the largest computer-something factories in the Southeast. Mr. Work-boots starts his day at 7pm, and ends somewhere in the early morning hours. He is always polite, remembers my name, and wears the same scuffed work-boots everyday. He first came into the store on a slow Tuesday afternoon, looking at me with surprise and an exclamation of,
"Well, hello there new gal!"

I immediately smile. It's a treat to spoken to so kindly and comfortably. 
After some chatting, he asks,
"Do you go to church young lady?"

Me: "I...well, I haven't really found one I'm comfortable with here in Wilmington."
Him: "When you do, make sure it's Baptist."
Me: "Um, yes sir."
(I'm itching to ask him why, the inner religion scholar preparing to burst through, but I keep my mouth shut for once.)
Him, pointing to a truck in the parking lot: "That there is my wife. She is the finest lady in the world."
Me, smile and nod. His wife sits patiently in a pink cardigan, the image of grandmothers and baking comes to mind.

I am filled with lovely thoughts at that moment, this sweet old couple sitting in rocking chairs by pictures of grandchildren. Mr. Work-boots in the comic book store to buy the hero comics that he grew up with. A nostalgic visit to his childhood, when 10 cents would provide a world of fantasy.
I gather his comics from his box (customers list the comics of their choice and we collect them in their box -- a service that ensures the comic of choice is not sold out, and if one collects a large amount, saves time from having to search. Plus, we get to know what genre the customers like, so we can recommend others they may enjoy). I find his box to be overflowing with a large stack of comics, which I assume will be the latest Superman issues.

Much to my surprise I glance down at the cover to see an illustrated naked woman mooning me.
I am taken aback as I go through the stack at the register. Every comic was from the "bad girl" section; scantly clad women blasting aliens or grotesque monsters while still managing not to smear their lipstick. Compared to these girls, Lara Croft is a nun.

Mr. Work-boots pays, and scopes up his comics with a smile.
"Now, you remember to find yourself a nice church, ya hear?"
"Yes, sir." I reply with another smile.
As you can see, he is my favorite customer.

Whew.

Hello, dear ones. You know what? I'm a bit more burned out than anticipated. The dissertation was bound and turned in last Friday at noon, and since then just looking at the computer makes me tired. Y'all, that's been days now.  If my MacBook* could talk, it would be whining from neglect.**

"Natalie! Play with me! Natalie! Type on me! Natalie! Scream at me while you fight your dissertation word count! Natalie! Cry salty tears over my keyboard while you question your life choices and ponder if it's too late to become a potato farmer or rocket scientist or any other career that can actually generate an income!"

In short, I took a little writing break and may continue it. I'm not sure. I have a few thoughts and posts planned, but after that I may keep it light for the rest of the week. We'll see. But please know I'm not abandoning you. I love y'all too much to leave for too long!


*I always pronounce it in a faux-Scottish accent, like I'm Lady freaking Macbeth. Mach-Boook! Always with an exclamation point.

** Give it time. Talking Mach-Boooks! are just around the corner.
They'll probably use the voice of Justin Long, since he's a Mac, not a PC. (In the States, Justin Long stars in commercials as the cool embodiment of a Mach-Boook!; not too sure how far those ads reach!) But not, like, chain-smoking, Drew Barrymore-dating Justin Long; wholesome, Disney-movie Justin Long. He'll probably sound like that stoner guy I made out with in the 9th grade, the one who spoke slowly and clearly and profoundly about the shape of stars, while we both wore our baggy corduroy pants and flannel shirts. And not the cute flannel shirts that the girls are wearing now, but the baggy over-sized Kurt Cobain inspired shirts stolen from a perplexed dad's closet and that made a 14-year-old body look like that of an anorexic lumber jack, along with Converse sneakers and peace sign jewelry, because who wouldn't get all hot and bothered by red flannel and some peace sign earrings? 

Flannel today:

Adorable. 

Flannel in the '90s:

Artistic representation of yours truly.

Oldies But Goodies 2: Skinny Dipping

Since I am still working on my dissertation (due Friday!), it's Oldies But Goodies week at Flâneur in the City. Here's another wee Natty adventure, recycled from one of my old Blogger blogs. I've had various blogs on Blogger for about 9 years, and will most likely continue. Blogger is the site I have used the longest in my Internet life. Wonder what will come next?

May 28, 2002 
Skinny Dipping

I'm a 21-year-old co-ed, living in a mixed-gender dorm at a major University, that just so happens to be on the beach. Attending classes during the summer.
This said, the worse thing I could do would be to hop naked into the ocean during a full moon, on a deserted beach.
Haven't you seen "Jaws"?
Have I learned nothing from years of horror movie openings?
The naked co-ed is the first to go.
Perfect shark bait.

This also said, what is the it that I do my second weekend at college?
Hop in the Atlantic ocean, naked as a jay bird.

My partner-in-crime and I were walking the beach in the moonlight, which in its strange perfection resembled a movie set, dream yet reality. The yellow moon was bright and beckoning; I couldn't resist her pull. She made a silver path to our feet. Calling.
There were fireworks in the distance, stars by the dozens, the Moon -- she as bright as her brother Sun.
We stood in her pull, wandering closer.
The ocean licked the hem of my sundress, and suddenly I am to my knees in tear-tasting waters.
I want more ...
"I want to go in," I say.
My partner-in-crime answers, "Will you? I'll go if you do."

We move up the beach, towards dry sand.
It only takes one swift movement to yank my sundress over my head.
My bra unsnaps, I was barefoot to begin with. Bracelets, rings fall to the sand.
Everything off?
Might as well do it right.

Naked, naked, naked I run.
The Moon is my path, lights my feet to the sea.

So cold ... 
The waves crash, an icy shock down my body.
Yet I laugh.

My partner-in-crime is a few feet away, we wave to each other, we dive, the waves overtake us both.

I taste salt, I become salt.
There no tears left in me.
They lay cast into the moon and sea.

Oldies But Goodies

This week will be filled with deep breaths, endless nights, copious amounts of tea and coffee, and a heaping sense of bravery that rests somewhere dormant in my soul. After this week, I will no longer be a student. This week, my MA dissertation will be complete, and with it, my first book. I need your good thoughts, my friends, and prayers if you have them to spare. God knows that I didn't make it this far on my own; I do get by with a little (enormous) help from my friends.  
Looking forward has made me a bit introspective, so I thought I'd dig up an oldie but goodie for tonight's post. 

June/08/2003
As it goes
Location: Wilmington, N.C.

I was fascinated by the nightly fires outside my third-floor bedroom window the first week in my new apartment. I don't know if there were no cops at that hour, or if fireworks were not considered enough of a disturbance to bother with, but at 1:00 a.m. the picnic tables by the pond sparked a popping orange. It scared me, that first night, I who claim an unease near uncontrolled fire. By Saturday I had made my peace with the firebringers, the young couple that silently appeared, and with beer bottles in hand, lit the pond. By morning there was no sign of the lighted fireworks, not even a trace of ash.

I shut the blinds and turned off the bedroom light. The pair huddled a few feet away from their pyro fantasy. It was a damp May night that I kneeled in an old men's shirt cast off to Goodwill and propped my chin on the windowsill to spy. The scheduled spontaneity of this event gave me a strange sense of comfort. This random celebration of costly fireworks wasted on a Tuesday night; the silent couples' silhouette revealing fingers intertwined in the reflection of the sparkling lights.

What private holiday was I witnessing? Was this a lovers ritual, to snap a lighter and create colored fire from tubes of packed chemicals? Was this something of the mundane, of boredom, or simply just because? The frogs paused in their cantos at the sudden sounds, the ducks long flown to quiet. I picked at the threads of my beige carpet and watched this mini-celebration, content to be a voyeur to another's joy.

Show and Tell

Two of my dear friends have started blogs. Both of them are busy bees, but they still find the time to write and post, motivating my lazy bum to get to writing.

Pink Spatula blogs over at A Cup and A Spoonful. Blending South African cuisine with UK fare, Miss Pink Spatula whips up recipes with ingredients that can be found anywhere. And, she's an excellent photographer, so expect yummy looking food photos.

Ash Cloud tackles the media over at Jimmy Jet and I's TV Set. The title is based on a Shel Silverstein poem about a child who turns into a television. Luckily, Ash Cloud protects the innocent from such a fate by watching TV for you. Ash Cloud analyzes your favorite TV shows and gives a heads-up on what's good. Hint: There is True Blood love galore at JJ's TV Set. I expect Alexander Skarsgard nude pictures over there soon. (No complaints about that!)

In other news, if you were lucky enough to see Inception this weekend, you may be interested in Matt Brunson's inspired review of the film. And if you were one of the unlucky ones (ahem, me) the review is spoiler-free, so breathe easy checking it out.

As for me? I'm working on the ol' dissertation (due next week! Whimper!) and strengthening my addiction to Marks and Spencer's Earl Grey Tea. I hope that there is a support group for Americans with insatiable British tea addictions in the States, or I'll just have to stay here forever.

(The tea bags aren't really that green. I'm just too lazy/busy to take my own photo. Thanks flickr!)

Hope and Dreams

It's a Saturday night in London. What's a hot young thing like me doing?

If you answered: YouTube, studying dissertation notes, and wishing to ditch said dissertation notes for a late screening of Inception, you are correct! (And quite possibly hiding in my room, which is creepy. Get your own room.)

For tonight, here's to hope – hope that next week is better, that we all sleep well, and hope that my dissertation will be completed without me losing my sanity.

Dream well, my dears.

 (Joan Baez, The Dream Song, via the lovely and wonderful Mr. B, who saw Inception and posted this song in response.)

Facebook Censors Call For Gender Equality In Religion

Lest we forget that being female is a horrible genetic disorder that should be shunned and condemned by God and God's representatives on earth – mighty, mighty men – Facebook has decided to remind us.

One year ago, former US President Jimmy Carter penned an excellent, thought-provoking opinion piece for Australian newspaper The Age. Titled Losing my religion for equality, Carter stated the logical argument that religion has been used as a means to oppress, rape, mutilate and torture women for centuries. All religions are guilty of this. Carter recognized that this backwards thinking and oppression is contrary to the teachings of Christ and that the cherry-picking of scripture to support oppression was indeed anti-Christian. He called for change.

STFU, Conservatives linked to it today. I read it, wept at the content, and linked to it on my Facebook wall.

Facebook flagged it as abusive content and would not allow those seeing it on my wall to follow the link. A pop-up read: "The link you are trying to visit has been reported as abusive by Facebook users."

Here's what Facebook and certain Facebook users deem abusive content:

This view that women are somehow inferior to men is not restricted to one religion or belief. Women are prevented from playing a full and equal role in many faiths. Nor, tragically, does its influence stop at the walls of the church, mosque, synagogue or temple. This discrimination, unjustifiably attributed to a Higher Authority, has provided a reason or excuse for the deprivation of women's equal rights across the world for centuries.

At its most repugnant, the belief that women must be subjugated to the wishes of men excuses slavery, violence, forced prostitution, genital mutilation and national laws that omit rape as a crime. But it also costs many millions of girls and women control over their own bodies and lives, and continues to deny them fair access to education, health, employment and influence within their own communities.

The impact of these religious beliefs touches every aspect of our lives. They help explain why in many countries boys are educated before girls; why girls are told when and whom they must marry; and why many face enormous and unacceptable risks in pregnancy and childbirth because their basic health needs are not met.

Since learning it was blocked, I was able to post this as my status update, allowing my friends to still find the article:

"Natalie LAST NAME Facebook objects the notion women are people and blocks this link. Add www.theage.com before the following to read a really excellent opinion piece by former US President Jimmy Carter. .au//opinion/losing-my-religion-for-equality-20090714-dk0v.html?page=-1"

I have also been searching Facebook's Help and Abuse FAQ to contact those in charge and perhaps remove the block. Since it has already been reported, I am not holding onto hope that it will be changed.

But I can encourage what few readers I have to not allow Facebook censorship to hinder the promotion of an intelligent and thoughtful read. Read it. Pass it on. Keep fighting.

Here is the link:
http://www.theage.com.au//opinion/losing-my-religion-for-equality-20090714-dk0v.html?page=-1

Sleep Deprivation Day

A bout of sleeplessness means I have this opening song playing on repeat in my head and I have no idea why.

 

(In case this video does not play where you live, the vid is "Stop the Planet of the Apes I Want to Get Off!" Starring Actor Troy McClure, from The Simpsons.)

"Dr. Zaius, Dr. Zaius! Dr. Zaius, Dr. Zaius! Ooo, Dr. Zaius!"

Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones, But ...

In my London flat, my Greek flatmate has me saying, "Yasu!" and I've got her saying, "Y'all" on a daily basis. All of this said in our mingled English accents.

Take note, United Nations.

OK, well, she has me saying, "Yasu Putana!" which isn't exactly United Nations friendly, but meant in an endearing, reclaiming-the-word way. I've also learned how to say a number of dirty words in Greek, which will come in handy if I ever stub my toe in Athens.

Saying, "Yasu Putana" among friends is one of those things that make the world a little bit easier. It's taking the sting of the word away, and making it into something positive.

I was thinking about it earlier this week, when I woke up after a night of weird dreams. (No, no, keep reading –- this isn't turning into an online dream journal, I swear!) I had a dream about a guy I knew in high school; we'll call him Lawrence. 

Lawrence was a harasser. Not a bully, because that word holds a quaint innocence and nostalgia. This dude was constantly harassing those who were weak or quiet, or those who just happened to be in the same place at the same time when he felt like being a dick. Me? I was a bit of all three. Quiet, shy, and in at least two classes with this charmer. 

I hadn't thought about Lawrence in years. One of the best parts about being a grown-up –- other than having potato chips and ice cream for dinner whenever you want –- is that those annoyances from high school that were so drastically life-changing and important and "OmiGod, I'm going to die, I swear it!" fade to some distant spot on the horizon. When you happen to think about it or glance at it, it takes some squinting and eye-shielding to really see it way off from the course of your daily life. In short: It's awesome.

The last time Lawrence popped up on my radar was when I joined Facebook. Unlike MySpace, which I was addicted to (you were too, don't lie), FB had the brilliant option of allowing other users to be blocked. My blocked list is a long one, and old Lawrence is on there. But apparently my sleeping brain didn't get the message, and up pops Lawrence like some demented groundhog.

Around London Town

• I was a very good girl last night.

You'll be proud to know, dear ones, that I did not sit in front of Southbank with a sign that read "Bret Easton Ellis is an asshat!" Even though the noted asshat (and my archenemy) was there last night, an ugly blemish on the London Literature Festival's smiling face.

(UPDATE: If you are visiting from another blog (it has come to my attention that I've been linked in  this regard), please read my initial posts on Bret Easton Ellis here, and the follow-up thoughts here for background on why I would hang out in front of Southbank with a picket sign. Thank you kindly.)

Why no protest? Because I'm like Gandhi. (If Gandhi was a whiskey drinking, cursing-like-a-drunken-sailor, feminist, Bowie-lovin', gladiator-sandal-wearin' grad student.*) And Gandhi wouldn't sit in front of Southbank with a protest sign. No sir-ree. He would finish his book and work very hard and not waste his time or money skipping off to see Emo SparkleVamps at the Odeon. Well, maybe. **

• London teenagers are cute. When they aren't screaming "Woooo!" at 3 in the morning.

Today I saw two young girls walk by my kitchen window in matching "I ♥ London" jumpers, hoodies up, and sharing one iPod, the headphones cord binding them together as they walked in unison. It was pretty adorable, and kind of made me want a matching jumper set to wear with a friend. 

• Royal Rumble!

Prince Harry challenges BOWIE for the prestigious title of "Hot Man Who Looks Like A Puppy" on Flâneur in the City!

Check it:

 (When choosing a puppy-look-alike, true contenders go for the matching hair colour look.)

But! The Brits do have a well-established history of looking like puppies. 

And then there's this anthropomorphic feat:

(Awww! Puppy thinks he's an independent colony from Britain! How cute!)

Bonus points if this pup was named Prince.

But, as always, Bowie wins with this shot:

Can you dance with wolves like Bowie***, young Prince Hotness? I think not.


* He very well may have been, before, you know, peaceful enlightenment and all. Bowie is rather transcendent.

** Gandhi would not be Team Jacob.

*** Bowie is Team The Hunger.
And the only living man allowed to sparkle.

This Week

• Hey! Guess who's not getting paid? 

You!
And your mom!
And your sister!
And your aunt!
And every other woman you know in the USA!*
 
Granted, the wage gap for younger women is smaller: Women under 35 who work full time earn around 90% of what their male counterparts earn. But it drops to 75% after age 35.

90% is not good enough. It should be 100% without question or hesitation.

2010: Still not getting equal pay for equal work. 

• Remember this charmer?

This week, we learn that continuing to be a white, rich, celebrity dude means the sanest and most rational of people will decide that it's totally OK to drug and rape a 13-year-old girl and avoid any kind of jail time. Because rich artistes are above silly things like law. But only if you're a dude.

To counter this, a look back at the great rebuttals of Amanda Hess over at the Washington City Paper, an alt weekly newspaper that allows a woman write about sexism, rather than perpetuate it. (Which is the point of alternative news and progressive viewpoints. Sadly, it is a rarity.) Amanda Hess deftly outlines and counters the myriad apologists who believe that because they like Polanski's The Pianist, Polanski is thereby an alright guy and totally deserves a break. Know who deserves a break? Amanda Hess, me, and everyone who else who fights such ignorant bullshit.

• Mel Gibson hates everyone. 

That, the rich bigwigs of Hollywood have decided, is one step too far. Oh! they lament, if only he could have stuck to hating women! Like Charlie Sheen! And that lovable Mike Tyson! We could still make money off of him! But no. He goes and hates on actual people, on different races, who would have totally paid good money to see him in Lethal Weapon 17 and Braveheart 2: Braveheartier!

Y'all. It's only Tuesday.

I'm going to have to start Googling "Cute Puppies!" like mad.

* Don't know any women in the States? Well, don't worry. It's not just America. You and your mom aren't getting paid all over the world for your hard work.

Also: Hi. I'm Natalie. It's very nice to meet you. I'm from the States, and I owe the States an exorbitant amount of money because of grad school. These may be just words on your screen, but you and I? We are acquainted. In fact: you, dear reader, are very important to me. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Make Me Jump Into The Air

A sample of my Writing Playlist:

1. Rainy Night in Georgia  Otis Redding
2. America  Simon & Garfunkel   
3. Lovefool  The Cardigans  
4. Wish You Were Here  Incubus
5. Adiemus  Adiemus   
6. What It Is About Men  Amy Winehouse 
7. Moonage Daydream  David Bowie  
8. So Happy I Could Die  Lady GaGa   
9. Between The Lines  Sara Bareilles   
10. Circle in the Sand  Belinda Carlisle  
11. Olsen Olsen  Sigur Ros   

"Circle in the Sand" and "Moonage Daydream" are two of my favorite songs for any occasion.

And Otis Redding? His voice brings the swoon.

What do you listen to when you write? Silence? Sounds? Favorite tunes?

Saturn's Return

 (Pride Week on Saturn! Whoo-hoo!)

The Saturn Return. It's new to me.

At 29.5, an astrological destiny declares the threshold to adulthood open and tumultuous* changes occur. Not 18, so stfu, teenagers. 29.5. Which, despite celebrating my 21st birthday for years now, means right around, oh (glance at non-existence watch on arm), right the fuck now.

I think I've already done this. 27 seemed to be my year of upheaval, of quarter-life crisis, of panic and pain. I've got the worry-induced wrinkles and pre-mature grey hair to prove it. Now I just feel peaceful. Even when faced with the uncertainties of the future, of where I will live, and how I will survive and where I will work, I feel a calm sense that it will all work out for the best.**

So come on, Saturn.*** I'm ready. Hit me with your best shot. I got this.

* Tumultuous. I love that word. It's a say-out-loud word. Tumultuous. It sounds delicious.

** Even for my dissertation, which is due in 19 days and counting. 

*** Saturn is a planet.
Like Mars.
Mars, you say? Why, yes, I will use this opportunity to post gratuitous shots of Ziggy Stardust, front man of the Spiders of Mars. And puppies. Is this going to be a trend? I don't know.

I do know that BOWIE and puppies that look like BOWIE make me happy.

And, lest we think I'm biased, a kitty:

See what just happened there? My brain found a way to tie everything back to DAVID BOWIE. If only I could do that in my real life.

Things I Have Been Doing Instead Of Blogging

 - Wimbledon!

At which, I saw the freakin' Queen of England emerge on a balcony like some elderly and sensibly dressed Evita.

 ("Wimbledon welcomes Her Majesty The Queen." Like they were going to turn her away.)

Sadly, I have yet to see Harry or William.

But, I did take a nap in Green Park, adjacent to Buckingham Palace, which is close enough to say I slept next to Harry and Will. Contain your jealousy.

- Elephants!

(Bye-bye, Ellies. I'll miss you.)

The elephant artwork is leaving London. I've been snapping pics like crazy. Y'all wanna see them? Tell me. I'll post. I can't say no to y'all.

- Covent Garden!

 (Covent Garden had a birthday! The banners read: 1830 - 2010) 

 Oysters! Tea! Toy shop! Completely distracting and wonderful!

- Dissertation!

(Actually, don't ask. I'm so tired of thinking about it.)

Oh, yeah. That.
It's due in a month.
Yeah.
You'll forgive me for using my writing time on it instead of bloggin', right, my loves? After all, it's summer. You shouldn't be in front of the computer. Go frolic in the sun. Chase butterflies. Drink booze. I give you permission. We don't always have to be responsible adults. Sometimes, we just need to frolic.

To make up for neglecting my blogging duties, here are some pictures of puppies and DAVID BOWIE. I still love each and every one of you, dear readers. I swear it. No one can be mad at someone who gives them puppies and BOWIE, can they?

BONUS: Puppies that LOOK like BOWIE. Yeah. I said it.

You're welcome.*

 * Sad thing is? I didn't have to look more than 5 minutes for these. I have that many BOWIE and puppy pictures stored on my computer that finding pictures of BOWIE looking like a puppy was the easiest thing I have done all week. And I brush my teeth and scratch my butt** everyday. This was easier.

** No, I don't. But I do brush my teeth everyday. So if my dentist is reading: Told ya so! The Internet now says it's true. And the Internet never lies. Unless the Internet is insulting DAVID BOWIE. Then the Internet is a damned, dirty liar.

Won't Somebody Please Think of the Dudes?

This is my hometown, Charlotte, North Carolina.

(Independence Boulevard, holla!)

It has just been named America's Manliest City, by the makers of pretzels and artificial cheese snacks.

And so, my sweetly named hometown will now host DudeFest, because dudes are not represented enough in today's society.

After all, when was the last time you saw dudes earn more money than women, a dude star in and be represented by a movie, a dude write a book about dudes, or a dude having any kind of power in the US? Clearly, the time is now for a DudeFest.

True Story: Pick-ups

Real life pick-up lines I have experienced:

Carolina Beach, Age 16

Random teen dude in parking lot by beach: “Hey, girl. I think you’re fat. Hot and Tempting!”

Me: “You mean Phat? Pretty, Hot, And Tempting?”

RTD: “Um. Yeah. Wanna go out?”

Wilmington Bar, Age 21

Random dude on barstool: “I bet you have a beautiful pussy.”

Me: “Yeah, and you’re not seeing it.”

I Couldn't Help But Wonder...

This here bloggity-blog is called Flâneur in the City. As it is called "Something" in the City, that must mean I am a high-heeled wearing, Carrie Bradshaw wanna-be, typing my little heart out on my laptop whilst running through life on impossibly expensive, teeter-totter shoes.

(Pictured: Not me. My laptop is too small for this shot.) 

 

Not so much.

The name comes from Sharon Mesmer, who read one of my stories, and wrote in the margin in sprawling blue ink, "You're the flâneur in the city." And if Sharon Mesmer gives you an awesome fucking moniker like that, you not only name your blog after it, but consider laminating it, framing it, and buying a mantel to hang it over. 

True, I was in New York City at the time of the naming, tromping about in the rain in brown leather boots that reminded me of a storm trooper, with my requisite skinny jeans and lugging around my much-loved, beaten-up, red faux-leather tote from Target that still serves as my book bag. I even stomped down to Magnolia Bakery on a lazy Sunday, but the queue was too long to stand in and I opted for a bakery on Bleecker Street instead. But all that? That's not Carrie Bradshaw. I don't think Carrie even owned a pair of boots.

It's not to say I don't like Sex and the City. I do. I was barely 17 when it first came on, and caught episodes on my parents HBO without them knowing. It had little hype or grandeur then. I told the "Christian" guy that I mistakenly on-again, off-again dated during high school about this new show I liked and he told me I shouldn't watch it, because it was porn. I'm sure he went home to pray for my soul, while I went home and watched Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha, and Miranda banter out the details of anal sex.

In Which I May Have Gained an Archnemesis

Consider this an update on last week's post on Bret Easton Ellis, noted for such accomplishments as wearing his ass for a hat, being a run-of-the-mill misogynist and he-so-dumb-he-stares-at-the-orange-juice-bottle-cause-it-says-concentrate*.

I've had one of those crazy busy weeks, but in the midst of the havoc I looked up the schedule for the London Literature Festival, hoping to budget my time and money to visit a few events.
(Books excite me. Authors excite me. My nerdiness has long been established.)

Guess who's speaking at the Festival in July?

None other than Bret Easton Ellis.

Bret. Easton. Ellis. I shake my fist at you!

Dude's becoming the Joker to my Batman! Or, well, maybe he's the Batman to my Joker. Because he's the rich white dude who's all about the status quo, and I'm the one screaming for change and upheaval in society for it to be inclusive for everyone**, not just the rich white dudes.

And case in point, I couldn't think of a single woman superhero to compare this to, since Hollywood doesn't make movies about female superheroes. ("But ... who would they save? They can't save men. That's what women are for. And they can't save other ladies. That's gay. Unless they're hot co-ed ladies. Then it's OK as long as men are watching.") The last superhero movie I can think of starring a woman (not in an ensemble, X-Men fans) is Catwoman. Catwoman sucked***. It didn't suck because it starred a woman, it sucked because it starred a CGI version of Halle Berry, and when it called for non-CGI (actors, I think they're called), the people in charge figured all it needed was Halle Berry looking hot with that-guy-Julia-Roberts-used-to-date, and there was no need for a plot. Like, not even a cameo by a plot.

When I told Mr. B that Bret Easton Ellis (I say his name like a curse word now) was coming to the Festival, he said I should print out my blog post and have Ellis autograph it.

A moment later, he changed his mind.

"You'd be pissed off for a week if you did that and couldn't say anything to him," Mr. B wisely noted.

True. And I do have a little dissertation to finish. I can't really afford a week of mind-numbing rage.

Though it would be interesting to ask him a few questions, particularly about his flawed understanding of the male gaze, there's no way I'm paying £10 (and the price of my sanity) to do it.



* That's a dusty one! Pulled it out of 1988, gave it a shine, wiped off the insulting "Yo Mama" off the beginning and voila! A joke that was popular when Bret Easton Ellis, noted this-joke-is-played, was relevant!

** Everyone. And I mean everyone. Every gender, race and sexuality.

Speaking of, the sad part about all this is that Bret Easton Ellis may very well be actively trying avoid being part of marginalized society himself by bashing women (in his speech and to pieces in his books). According to Wikipedia, Ellis has stated that he had a lover for six years, Michael Wade Kaplan, who passed away in 2004. Ellis does not claim to be bisexual, hetero, or homosexual, but instead says that he was not "interested in the [gay] lifestyle."

This is problematic, because there really isn't a gay "lifestyle" any more than there is a heterosexual one. Being gay isn't a choice. Calling it a lifestyle is much like calling gang life a lifestyle, or a drug user's life a lifestyle: It opens the door for those who believe being gay is a choice to come in and "correct" that lifestyle. You can get off drugs. You can be removed from a gang. But you can never stop being gay.

Whether or not Ellis comes out is not as issue for me either – heterosexual people never have to come out and say that they are straight. If he wants to keep that private, he has every right. But it is a missed opportunity to speak up for those who are not privileged, who are oppressed, and may never have the means nor opportunity to be who they are. Possibly to continue to be widely read by mainstream audiences, who enjoy misogyny, in an increasingly troubled book market. By sticking to the status quo, Ellis changes nothing, for men or women. He writes words about men who hack up women. There is nothing special or edgy or literary about that.

*** Catwoman sucked.
This is the second movie review ever run on Flâneur in the City. (The first was here.)
For real reviews, read Matt Brunson's Rotten Tomatoes page, linked on the side. For feminism and flâneuring and David Bowie, read me.

In Which I Save You Money

I’m about to save you, oh say, around $10.20, or £4.16.

I may even save you £0.01, the cost of a Bret Easton Ellis paperback on Amazon UK.

Because the subtitle of this post is: In Which Bret Easton Ellis is an asshole.

I'm a little late with this. Last week, MovieLine published an interview with noted prick Bret Easton Ellis, and dude decided to bring up the male gaze. Since I had recently written about the male gaze, I decided to give it a once-over. After all, a current writing on the male gaze is a perfect follow-up to my previous post.

Dear reader, you’re smart. Obviously. We’ll take that as a given. And your Natalie? Well, she can be a smart cookie herself. For example, I’m smart enough to know that as a writer, it would not be in my best interest to speak ill of a fellow scribe. After all, what if on some future day I sit down in front of said author’s agent, or editor, or his assistant editor's best friend, and show my book? They may be interested in buying it, sure, but would they really trust the girl who took to her little blog and wrote terrible things about one of their other clients? Probably not. That's business. That's the way it's done.

But, with this dude? With Bret Easton Ellis, his pompous name causing my fingers to curl away from the keyboard, his dreadful writing and blatant ignorance dancing across my computer monitor? I’ll take the risk. I need to be represented, but I doubt anyone who thinks this guy is a walking moral standard would be someone I’d want to work with anyway.

Or maybe it’s not even a risk. Because this dude has done me a favor. I won't have to ever read or buy his books. And as Shakesville pointed out, his misogyny isn’t original, unique or even note worthy. It’s fairly dull, even. Yawn worthy.

With all that in mind, today is a beautiful day. Because, really, I needn't say anything at all. Thanks to the bounty of the Internet, giving witty expressions of rage and pity, my commentary can focus on the male gaze, while the charming voices of the Internet point out exactly why Bret Easton Ellis, noted bonehead, missed the mark so completely.

But first, some background.

Blogging On Blogging

(Tricksy little thing, ain't it?) 

Hey, gang. How goes it?

So, have you followed me on your RSS feed yet? What's that, you ask? Oh, my darlings, hell if I can explain it. It's one of those magic Internet-y things that makes this online life I lead so much easier. But it works something like this: Hit the magic little button next to the website's URL in your search bar.
Subscribe to this blog.
And in the mornings, when you settle down with your coffee in cubicle land, or at night, when you stretch out after a hard day's work for some quality Facebook and mindless surf time, you will see my little box in your bookmark toolbar or feed or whatever other device you choose to apply it to, and you will move your little arrow over it. It will show you if there is a new blog post from your friend Natalie. You'll see the title of the post and decide whether or not you need to read another post about David Bowie or feminism (Face it: You do. You know you do!) and then? You read. Or not. Either way, it's there.
(My tech savvy friends *CoughSharstaCough* are laughing to death over this explanation. I know, I know. I'm hopeless. But if I'm hopeless, someone else may be too. I can't be the last hopeless one, can I? Anyway, for you technical types, I've added the Share/Save button. Do with that what you will.)

If you have your own Blogger account, you can follow me there as well. On your Dashboard, scroll down to your Reading List. Click Add. And put in your favorite flâneur. (And if I'm not your favorite flâneur, well, lie to me and add me anyway.) 

You may have noticed I've been a bad blogger this week. Not a word since Friday! Bad Natty! Sadly, I don't get paid to blog. It's not 2008 anymore; the days when I got paid to help make a newspaper pretty and blog about pop culture and nerdy things have passed.  I will sometimes have to skip blogging for a few days so I can be off in the world flâneuring and working and learning. But please come and check up on Flâneur in the City, because you never know when or what will be posted. And remember what I said before: I'm not going anywhere. This is the place to be.

Now, here's DAVID BOWIE looking hot and somewhat amused by my antics. You're welcome.

Flâneur in London: Nature Edition, Part Two

My darlings, you know how I usually wax poetic or make witty little comments when I post my flâneuring pictures on this here blog? And you know how I usually alter the pictures to make them shiny and artsy and manage to hide my face since I'm still not 100% down with the whole put-your-face-on-the-Internet-for-all-the-world-to-see thing? Well, today, my dears, we're posting as is. Flâneuring without make-up, if you will. Because a recent jaunt to Richmond Park was so lovely, no amount of camera lomo-ish altering could shine-up these wild city pics.

Walking Richmond Park in order to experience it – with no purpose, no agenda – the flâneur is off the streets and in the wild. Well, kinda wild.

Council Houses and deer share space on a beautiful Spring afternoon.
(Click on any pic to make it bigger.) 

Bowie Doesn't Do Mornings Either

 (Well, hello there, DAVID BOWIE.)

I am not a morning person. I'm more of mid-afternoon, early evening person.

This week, I'm proud to report that I've been getting up early to work and attend the International Literary Journalism Conference. That's right: Awake and charming before 11 AM. Because I am a nerdy, nerdy girl and get excited about things like literary journalism.

(Fittingly, one of the topics presented this week is on the American Flâneur. I couldn't help but point to it and whisper, "That's me!" every single time I saw it in the program.)

 But before I am charming and awake and an attentive attendee and volunteer, my poor addicted brain needs copious amounts of caffeine. In the early morning hours of Thursday, I was attempting to function without a coffee in hand, and that is never a good time for me to try to write a text message. I managed to type one to Ash, pre-caffeine. 
Previous attempts at texting before caffeine were just variations of: "amdbpej nakigrnw ojal." Thursday's message? "It is early and I hate early."
Not bad for 7 AM.

That is why, when I hold my first (soon to be annual) International David Bowie Is Awesome conference – complete with seminars and lectures in the following topics: "Naming your cat Ziggy Stardust: Sweet homage or cruel insult?"; "10 Reasons Why David Bowie Should Allow Me to Live in His House"; "It's Not Obsession, it's Devotion: A Fan Retrospective" and of course, the open mic night, "Bowetry: Poetry Inspired By Bowie" – it will be sponsored by Starbucks and/or Bacardi and begin somewhere around noon. Or 2. Possibly 2:30, nap included.

Flâneur in London: Nature Edition, Part One

London is not all concrete jungle and elephants, my fellow flâneurs.

Roehampton University, my home away from home, hosts a beautiful campus full of wilder animals than the students.

So, some flâneuring for your Wednesday! A different kind of flâneuring. This natural life is in city limits, so come take a nature walk with me.

The Canada geese are peaceful here, but they start their honking as soon as the sun rises. So, roughly around 4:30 in the morning, right around the time the drunken "Whooos!" have died down.

Some Blog Notes

Hello my dears!

I've gotten a lot of hits lately, and all I can say is: Thank you! This little flânuese loves you. If you like what you see, well, to put it in my native tongue, "Y'all come back now, ya hear?" (OK, maybe not so much my native tongue as '60s Hollywood's idea of my native tongue, but the offer still stands!)

If you wish to follow me on your blogger account, please do so. I don't have the little sidebar box up for followers, simply because I don't really have any. But if I get some, I will certainly add it to the sidebar.

Also, I've added Contact Info to the bottom of the sidebar, as well as the Share/Save button under each post. Because both of those things could be done while drinking tea and eating Kinder Chocolate Surprise Eggs and not doing my dissertation. Your free entertainment is my excuse for procrastination. We both win!

But really: Thank you for reading. You. Are. Awesome.

A Nun’s Story

 (St. Francis, from K. Beaton's Hark! A Vagrant)

When little Natalie was but a glasses-wearing, frizzy-haired 14-year-old, I had a thing for Franco Zeffirelli. Zeffirelli directed 1968’s Romeo and Juliet, which would play on Turner Classic Movies, and wee me would watch with wide-eyed excitement. Nerdy child that I was, it gave me a mix of intellectual envy, and a strange sense of excitement when the Romeo actor, Leonard Whiting, climbed from Juilet’s bed, bare naked, giving the camera a full shot of his ass in the sunlight. Sheltered me fell a little bit in love, and grabbed the next video on the shelf of Movie Mania that featured Franco Zeffirelli as director.

The only other film was 1972’s Brother Sun, Sister Moon.
 

Do you know it? Zeffirelli’s telling of the life of St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals and the first to receive the stigmata.
 

I was raised Baptist. I had never heard of St. Francis. The only saint I knew was jolly old Saint Nicholas. And he had a strange penchant for cookies and coal, which never made its way into the Bible.

But St. Francis? St. Francis was Dr. Doolittle, Native American Shaman, Luke Skywalker, John Lennon and Gandhi combined. No elves, no sled, no stockings. St. Francis was rebel and peacemaker and revolutionary. He turned his back on riches, talked to animals, and created the first nativity scene. He convinced wolves not to eat people, so possibly he was part Werewolf tamer. He was, quite frankly, awesome. I was smitten.
 

Francesco woke up one day in the 13^th century equivalent of the Trump tower penthouse of Assisi and realized that Jesus – you know, the Jesus, the Jesus that the population of 13^th Century Italy spent a lot of time talking about – wouldn’t be too cool with the whole Richie-Rich and booze lifestyle old Frank was living. Francis remembered that Jesus lived a peasant lifestyle, preached about giving to the poor, caring for the sick, loving his neighbors and healing those who suffered. (Take note – this part comes up again later.) So Francis? Opened up his closet and gave all his clothes away. Shaved his head. Started a new church in which the followers took in lepers and preached to peasants and birds.

Francis asked, “What would Jesus Do?” And actually did it.
 

Naturally, since I was an awkward and pissed-off teenager (is there any other kind?), who felt righteous anger over the myriad suffering in the world which none of the adults seemed to take seriously and to which I had only recently been made aware of myself thanks to my budding adolescence and teenage idealism (“Oh my God, you guys, did you know the rainforest is dying? How come no one ever told me this before?!”), I was absolutely certain that St. Francis was the greatest thing since Bring-A-Friend-For-Free night at the Roller Rink.
 

I grabbed any book on Saints I could get my hands on. Young whippersnappers reading this may not remember, but there was a time before the Internet. I had no where to look but books and friends who were Catholic, and therefore one step closer than I was to all the knowledge about my dear St. Francis. I read. I asked questions. I watched Brother Sun, Sister Moon on repeat.

I was a teenager. My parents expected rebellion. Dreams of overthrowing organized religion and eventual sainthood? Not so much.

St. Francis was my hero. And in many, many ways, he still is. Environmental, vegetarian and volunteering Natalie owes a great deal to the teachings of St. Francis. World-traveling Natalie was ecstatic over living in Italy, in part, because of Zeffirelli’s sweeping scenes involving St. Francis running through the Tuscan countryside. I outright wept, when I was able to travel Assisi and visit his tomb. But my weeping? Wasn’t for the fact I stood at his grave, after admiring St. Francis during my young formative years. No, it was where he was laid to rest that sparked my tears.

See, St. Francis never did quite break away from the Catholic Church. Brother Sun, Sister Moon has a moving end scene of Francis going to meet the Pope to explain to him that his band of brothers and followers were not heretics, but simple followers of Jesus. Francis is barefoot and dirty and the Pope is swathed in silk in a gold palace. And it breaks dear Francis’ heart to see him. Zeffirelli does it well; the close-up on Francis’ eyes, the gilded, rusty, ancient cage of the papacy, sympathetic to the men in it who perhaps entered into holy lives with pure hearts and genuine love, but were forever overshadowed and corrupted by the greed and hated and lust of power in men. Francis couldn’t save them. Nothing could save a beast that eats itself from within.

At the end of his life, Francis was peaceful. Dust to dust. Legend or fancy, it was said he wanted to be embraced by the earth. This was a man who declared the Sun his brother, the animals his fellow spirits. His life was one of poverty, his monastery was simple, his love of nature and peace would be his final prayer.

So what happens?

In Which, there is a Tube Story, the Male Gaze, and Dinosaurs

In Earl’s Court Tube Station, a piping hot grande Chai tea latte in hand, a creepy older man spent the 10 minutes I waited for the Edgware District line train leering at me.

It’s a frustrating wait anyway, Earl’s Court. The District line was running late, the Piccadilly line was closed since a train had derailed, and the place was packed. The usual wait is annoying enough, since it often involves leaving one District line train for another, watching for the light-up arrow to appear next to the name of the place you are headed on an ancient  board above the platform. (Taking bets on which train will come next passes the time. C’mon Wimbledon!) But a creepy dude unabashedly staring does not add any type of pleasantness to the experience.

I moved away from him, walked down and away to the other side of the platform, but like creepy dudes are wont to do, he followed.

Well, fuck. Really? Fine.

I shifted my weight to one leg. In his vision, I bent my right leg. Then I kneed the air. It’s a swift movement. Practice.

He turned away. Good. The arrow lit for Edgware. Better.

I loosened the lid of my Starbucks cup, just in case. I love my Starbucks, but I would not weep to throw it in anyone’s face. Dug in my purse for my Oyster (London’s rail and bus pass). Checked the map I keep in my Oyster holder to make sure of my route. All correct. I decided to leave my holder out, since I’d need it anyway, and put it my mouth to zip my bag.

It is at that moment, when my mouth was occupied, the creepy dude came over to get in my face and declare, “You’re lovely, beautiful!”

I jumped back and dude turned and ran off. My train pulled up. I hightailed it into the carriage, scanned the seats for a woman to sit next to, and plopped down.

No big deal, right? A small incident. Normal. He didn't even say anything bad. No need to react. No need to feel creeped out all day. No need to keep glancing over my shoulder every step.

Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe not.

It’s only normal because we let it be.

So, today, my fellow flâneurs and feminists, let’s talk about the male gaze.

Click the Read More link, following this lovely dino comic.

In Which I Am, Perhaps, a Little Lazy

Natalie, talking with Mr. B on GChat:
Yawn and stretch!
Whew! That took forever!

But! I flâneured! I blogged! I'm not lazy!

Mr. B: I'm reading about Gordon Brown stepping down. Wow.

Natalie: I...was making elephant jokes on Facebook and didn't know that.

Moral of this post: Pay attention, Natalie!

More on Brown stepping down here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/election_2010/8672859.stm

Flâneur in London: 32 Elephants Edition

The wind in the city will die down, the lost roads cover with dirt and mulch, the Spring pass way into Summer, and then?
Come, London. Let's dance.

Today we have more baby elephants than you can shake a stick at! But don't. Because shaking sticks at baby elephants is wrong. Didn't you see Dumbo as a child? Baby elephants need lots of love or else they'll drink champagne and wake up in a tree with crows of questionable and jaw-dropping stereotypical origins. (The head crow was named Jim Crow. Yeah.)
Also? Hallucinations of pink elephants. But! You needn't drink champagne, you lucky Flâneur reader, because I've your pink elephants right here! Racism-free elephants to boot! (Flâneur in the City: 100% less racist than Disney.)

The Elephant Parade of London is a charity art installation of 260 life-sized baby elephants hand-painted by famous artists, designers and Londoners.

The Telegraph had this to say:

The highly collectable artworks will pop up at a host of London landmarks including Buckingham Palace, Parliament Square and the South Bank over the next few months, before being auctioned off to raise £2 million for charity.
The money will help The Elephant Family charity and more than 15 UK conservation charities working in Asia.

Our dear London is crawling with beautiful baby elephants! And your favorite flâneur hoofed it all over our fair city with a pair of mates to capture some on film.

We walked from Waterloo Station to South Bank, South Bank to Parliament Square, down pass all the hung Parliament news crews and cameras and protesters (the UK is seeing its first hung Parliament since 1974 -- and here comes Natalie right in the thick of it, taking pictures of the news crews and bobbies), down to Trafalgar Square, looped around to Piccadilly Circus, swung down to Hamleys Toy Shop, backtracked to Regent Street, and ended up in Green Park by Buckingham Palace. All that walking and we only saw about 30 of the 260 elephants!

(The elephants were everywhere!)   

Ready for elephant overload? Continue on!

Speaking of ...

Seen on and around Putney High Street this week:


* This puppy. Named Sapphire. Who crawled into my lap without hesitation. My face is right in the middle of a mixed "Awww" and "Snuggle-wuggle-puppy-wuppy!" I was corrected by the pup's owner when I mistakenly called her a "he." I guess I'm just used to males trying to lick my face.

* Seen on the High Street: Dude that totally could double for a young Captain Jack Sparrow.

Since I lost my Johnny Depp lady-boner when I learned he was a Roman Polanski supporter, it's nice to know that there are still avenues for my physical attraction to his facial features by gawking at random street dudes. I don't find Johnny attractive anymore. But a non-child rapist supporter with his features? We can talk.

Speaking of Johnny Depp ...

* The unique and authentic London experience of shopping at the Kate Moss-influenced Topshop is negated when the salesgirls are all American.

(Kate Moss and Johnny Depp used to date. And there's your celebrity gossip for the early 1990s.)

* I saw a priest and a rabbi on High Street. Sadly, no punch line occurred. (They could have at least gone into a bar or something.)

* There comes a point where in a girl's life, say, the late 20s, perhaps, that one knee sock falling down ceases to be cute and crosses the border to annoying. There are 6-year-olds more put together than I am.

* Speaking of ... I am ready for hot weather, please. Thanks, London. As cute as my knee socks and sneakers are, I'm ready for sandals and sundresses.

* Life would be exponentially more awesome on a bicycle.

In Which I Am Found

About a week or so ago, I wrote a post titled, “Another Post Not About Flaneuring,” one of those short and sweet ramblings I put up when I get busy or distracted or there is a cute, half-naked man on my bed. (Some things never change.) As I do with my infrequent, sporadic postings, I left a link on my Facebook page letting my friends know that I actually wrote, along with the blurb, “One day, I'll write a blog post that actually relates to the title of my blog. Today is not that day. Today it's all Golden Girls and Cher.”

My wise friend Jamie C. commented on my Facebook wall:
“Perhaps it would be easier to change the name of the blog ...?”

To which I replied:
“Hmmm...true point...but then it would be called, ‘Feminism! Kitties! Procrastination! Whoo-hoo!’”

And it would. Seriously. Feminism! Kitties! Procrastination! Whoo-hoo!.blogspot.com has a ring to it. Maybe F!K!P!Whoo-hoo! would be better?

Wise Jamie C. reminded me of some lingering thoughts left on the back burner. What am I trying to do in this space? If the title were literal, I would be a photographer collecting images and sights of London. But many, many blogs already do that, and do it well. Better than I ever could. I like my flâneuring and I do want to keep it up. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?

There are times when I want to be found.

Here at FitC, I write my funny thoughts, share my view of our beautiful, fragile, scarred world, and post pictures of my dear kitty. My picture is brazenly displayed at your right hand; smiling, tangled-hair girl in front of one the world’s most iconic landmarks. My name is plastered on these pages: Natalie, simply Natalie, no hiding behind a nom de plume, just Natalie and sometimes a surname too, if you look hard enough. My life is laid bare on the Internet in careful words and photos, and open, completely open, for all the risks and privileges that entails.
I run the risk of plagiarism, of exposure, of every troll and asshole on the Internet finding me, taking my image, my words, my pictures and distorting them. I leave myself stripped bare of armor to mockery and hate, the default mode of Internet anonymity.

There are days when I don’t want to be found, at all, when I want to hide, delete, and censor my life to a limit of controls and passes which only I can dole out or deem appropriate.
But that’s no way to live, is it?

So I have my little page, and I can be found. For better or worse, I can be found. And there are people that I wish to find me, people I have lost and people I have never met.
Find me. Come on.
For instance, you ask?
David Bowie. Please. Find me. You’ve reached me already; my life ever altered and changed by your song. I’ll make you laugh in return. Employers – come find me. I’ve searched and searched for you. Publishers. Literary agents. Read this. These words? They barely scratch the surface. I’ll entertain you.
And readers. These promises I make? They are ten-fold for you.

A few things are certain.

1.) I will not abandon this without warning again. If I don’t post for a few days, or a week, it’s not because I’ve changed my mind. It’s because I’m in grad school and have work to do and a life to try and lead. Or I decided to use my free time that night to shave my legs. Either/or. But I’m here.
Sometimes all I can manage may be a Golden Girl quote, but I’m here.

2.) Flâneur in the City stays the title, but the URL may change. It’s a long-ass URL, I know. Flâneur-in-the-city takes some time to write. Hopefully you will bookmark this and decide to return and never need to know the site URL again. But Flâneur-in-the-city.blogspot is a mouthful when I try to tell people about the blog. This may change.

3.) When it comes to the blog: this is it. This is the place. I’m a writer. Remember that. First and foremost: I am a writer.
I’m also a former editor. It’s against years of training for me to post something that will not amuse, entertain, move or inform. The copy will be clean (or else I lay awake at night and worry over it – like, should I have used “whom” instead of “who” in a previous post? Damn.) And you will not growl in frustration with mistakes like “your” for “you’re” on a daily basis.

The city is wherever I am, be it Charlotte or New York or London or Amsterdam or Timbuktu. I wander and observe, I snap pictures and collect thoughts, I am the flâneur, and the city is ever under my feet.

That city can be a bit metaphorical, my dears.

There are many paths yet to walk. I write about politics, because it affects us daily. I write about feminism, because it affects the world daily. I write about pop culture and my cat and David Bowie because it is my life and only I can live it. And because we need humor and laughter too, lest the world become unbearable. We need the beauty, the scars, and we desperately need to laugh.

So all this becomes the path we walk, and you become flâneur with me. You may be my friend. You may be a stranger. You may know me only from Facebook, or an Internet forum, or a link from somewhere else. But you’re here.

Let’s see where this takes us, shall we?