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.