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So Hot Right Now

Dear Chaps, syringe

 

It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.  Come to that, gynecologist
it’s been a while since your trowel last tilled my lady-garden. But, discussion of my area, or “Ground Zero” as it is known to my therapist, is for another, more private time.  For the moment, we’re going to talk about you.

More honestly, we’re going to talk about me; or, we’re going to talk about my gender as it relates to yours.  No. Don’t worry.  There will be no whiny “You Go Girl” drivel about A Woman’s Right to Shoes.  I hate that shit.

 

In fact, there’s a lot of stuff about perky women that makes me long to grow a penis.  I don’t like their fascination with handbags and cupcakes.  I don’t like the way they keep scrapbooks. I don’t like it when they say “women are really good at multitasking” and demonstrate this through buying kitten-heels, scrapbooking and ramming cupcakes in their pie-holes all at once. I mean, if you’re so good at multitasking, stop buying things, shut the hell up and become an urban planner.  Don’t waste your neurological gifts whining “blah blah blah women are so much smarter than men” but doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to bear this out in civic life. Our foremothers did not throw themselves in front of horses so you could buy the Gossip Girl boxed-set, you self-centred, over-spending bint.  Shut up and measure housing density and re-route the traffic; I’ve had it with your moaning.

But, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

There is a critical thing you should know about women which is rarely discussed. To wit: they have an aching need to be told that they’re hideous. I know this seems odd. Given the dollars and energy women expend in bra and diet technology and the horseshit they produce like “All women want to be thought of as beautiful”, you might reasonably think that all women want to be thought of as beautiful.  Not so.  From about the age of fourteen, nearly all women will do whatever they can to get you to call them ugly or, even better, fat.

This strange feminie urge is universal and generally proceeds something like,

Helen: “What do you think of this new chemise?”

Man: “I want to fly my love-plane into Ground Zero this very minute! You look really hot and curvy! ”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

 

Or,

Man: “Wow.  Your arse looks great in those jeans.”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

Or,

Man: “I believe public response to the proposed Carbon Tax has been negative and extreme.”

Helen: “Yes. Excise could be an effective way of cutting emissions and showing leadership in the region.”

Man: “Moderate reform for middle-income earners is good, too.”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

Are you calling me fat? I have absolutely no advice in addressing this question; particularly given that I have asked it myself many times.  You could, of course, try saying, “no, no, no my darling.  You are so svelte of silhouette and lissom of limb as to make Katy Perry appear portly.  If we painted you Mission Brown, you could be mistaken for a paling. Darling, you could use dental floss to wipe your tiny butt.” Yes, you could.

Or, you could help put an end to all of this coddling and call our bluff.  I mean, if somebody wants to engage in self-destructive behaviour, there’s not a thing you can do about it.  It’s certainly not your job to make people feel crappy about themselves, but nor is it your job to fix their crazy shit.

There is a lesson I learnt when I was a resident of Kings Cross, Sydney.  Every day on Ward Avenue, a bloke called Spoons asked me for money for “food”.  I gave it to him, chiefly because his name was so inspired. But, when I’d got to around the thousand dollar mark, I’d had jack of it.   One day, Spoons offered the usual, “Can I have some money for food, sister?” and it struck me that I could say, “You can have some money. But only if you promise to spend it on heroin.” He never asked again and I was free to use my spare change to buy cupcakes and scrapbooking materials.

My point is, the drama of nearly being called fat is a kind of illicit drug to women. Actually daring your boyfriend to call you less-than-Angelina has all the thrill of smack. So, cut off the supply NOW. If, when asked, more men said, “Yes. I am calling you fat”, then perhaps more women would acknowledge how pig-bonkingly stupid the question is, stop asking it and get on with something important. Like urban planning.

It may help you to know that many women have violent conflict with their looks.  And they are not at all content to keep this war civil; they’re looking to fight on other fronts. From the interior, soldiers of self-loathing march toward you, the unwilling ally, with the battle-cry ““Are you calling me fat?”.   There’s no winning, so don’t fight. Gentlemen, lay down your arms and practice nonviolent resistance. It worked for Gandhi.

Chicks. When it comes to their bodies, they’re certifiable.

Having said this, I don’t have much truck with this “Battle of the Sexes” crap; it’s a boring stoush that belongs on breakfast radio.  Instead of focusing on our differences, we should be focusing on (a) urban planning and (b) interesting things to do with our genitals.

Are you calling me fat?

Regards,

Helen

 This was written for the dapper chaps at FHM Magazine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Dear Chaps, malady

It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.  Come to that, cheap
it’s been a while since your trowel last tilled my lady-garden. But, decease
discussion of my area, or “Ground Zero” as it is known to my therapist, is for another, more private time.  For the moment, we’re going to talk about you.

More honestly, we’re going to talk about me; or, we’re going to talk about my gender as it relates to yours.  No. Don’t worry.  There will be no whiny “You Go Girl” drivel about A Woman’s Right to Shoes.  I hate that shit.

 

In fact, there’s a lot of stuff about perky women that makes me long to grow a penis.  I don’t like their fascination with handbags and cupcakes.  I don’t like the way they keep scrapbooks. I don’t like it when they say “women are really good at multitasking” and demonstrate this through buying kitten-heels, scrapbooking and ramming cupcakes in their pie-holes all at once. I mean, if you’re so good at multitasking, stop buying things, shut the hell up and become an urban planner.  Don’t waste your neurological gifts whining “blah blah blah women are so much smarter than men” but doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to bear this out in civic life. Our foremothers did not throw themselves in front of horses so you could buy the Gossip Girl boxed-set, you self-centred, over-spending bint.  Shut up and measure housing density and re-route the traffic; I’ve had it with your moaning.

But, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

There is a critical thing you should know about women which is rarely discussed. To wit: they have an aching need to be told that they’re hideous. I know this seems odd. Given the dollars and energy women expend in bra and diet technology and the horseshit they produce like “All women want to be thought of as beautiful”, you might reasonably think that all women want to be thought of as beautiful.  Not so.  From about the age of fourteen, nearly all women will do whatever they can to get you to call them ugly or, even better, fat.

This strange feminie urge is universal and generally proceeds something like,

Helen: “What do you think of this new chemise?”

Man: “I want to fly my love-plane into Ground Zero this very minute! You look really hot and curvy! ”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

 

Or,

Man: “Wow.  Your arse looks great in those jeans.”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

Or,

Man: “I believe public response to the proposed Carbon Tax has been negative and extreme.”

Helen: “Yes. Excise could be an effective way of cutting emissions and showing leadership in the region.”

Man: “Moderate reform for middle-income earners is good, too.”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

Are you calling me fat? I have absolutely no advice in addressing this question; particularly given that I have asked it myself many times.  You could, of course, try saying, “no, no, no my darling.  You are so svelte of silhouette and lissom of limb as to make Katy Perry appear portly.  If we painted you Mission Brown, you could be mistaken for a paling. Darling, you could use dental floss to wipe your tiny butt.” Yes, you could.

Or, you could help put an end to all of this coddling and call our bluff.  I mean, if somebody wants to engage in self-destructive behaviour, there’s not a thing you can do about it.  It’s certainly not your job to make people feel crappy about themselves, but nor is it your job to fix their crazy shit.

There is a lesson I learnt when I was a resident of Kings Cross, Sydney.  Every day on Ward Avenue, a bloke called Spoons asked me for money for “food”.  I gave it to him, chiefly because his name was so inspired. But, when I’d got to around the thousand dollar mark, I’d had jack of it.   One day, Spoons offered the usual, “Can I have some money for food, sister?” and it struck me that I could say, “You can have some money. But only if you promise to spend it on heroin.” He never asked again and I was free to use my spare change to buy cupcakes and scrapbooking materials.

My point is, the drama of nearly being called fat is a kind of illicit drug to women. Actually daring your boyfriend to call you less-than-Angelina has all the thrill of smack. So, cut off the supply NOW. If, when asked, more men said, “Yes. I am calling you fat”, then perhaps more women would acknowledge how pig-bonkingly stupid the question is, stop asking it and get on with something important. Like urban planning.

It may help you to know that many women have violent conflict with their looks.  And they are not at all content to keep this war civil; they’re looking to fight on other fronts. From the interior, soldiers of self-loathing march toward you, the unwilling ally, with the battle-cry ““Are you calling me fat?”.   There’s no winning, so don’t fight. Gentlemen, lay down your arms and practice nonviolent resistance. It worked for Gandhi.

Chicks. When it comes to their bodies, they’re certifiable.

Having said this, I don’t have much truck with this “Battle of the Sexes” crap; it’s a boring stoush that belongs on breakfast radio.  Instead of focusing on our differences, we should be focusing on (a) urban planning and (b) interesting things to do with our genitals.

Are you calling me fat?

Regards,

Helen

 This was written for the dapper chaps at FHM Magazine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
In 2010, viagra order
a theater writer set out to Scotland’s famous Edinburgh Fringe.   When it came to the traditions of burlesque, side effects
critic Sally Scott would find no fun.  Except, perhaps, that in the creation of similes.  “Somewhere between a crack addict and a blown-up sex doll” was Scott’s published impression of the gaze of a burlesque performer.

An occasional theater writer myself, I recognize this sketch. Personally I’d often place the burlesque dancer’s expression somewhere between Cthulhu and Rachel Zoe.  Rachel Zoe right after a particularly wet air-kiss from Tom Ford. However, ours is not to quibble with facial degrees of numb-but-sensual conceit.  Rather, it is to learn about the criticism of burlesque in Scotland and beyond.

In a compendium review, Scott awarded the several “ironic” strippers she had seen no more than three stars apiece; in Edinburgh, a charge of mediocrity is more damaging than slaughter.  So, the day the reviews appeared, performers donned their nylons early and marched, or minced, to occupy the offices of The Scotsman.

Tempest Rose, a professed “showgirl sensation”, led the complaint against the reviewer.  She and her fellows, it seems, were worked-up by Scott’s failure to appreciate everything the burlesque revival had done for women.

Rose was acting, she said in a statement, on behalf of “a community” angered by the assertion that her burlesque was about nothing more than tassels and tar-tars. Burlesque, said Rose, “promotes the idea that a woman can be intelligent and powerful as well as expressing and enjoying their sensuality”.

“Women can have brains and beauty,” said Rose.

This is the sort of pish one might excuse from a pageant contestant.  Perhaps if a woman other than Miss Norway believes that this is a point worth making publicly, then she has no real place making art.

But, this is the point that drives a good deal of burlesque: women can be intelligent and sexy and in charge of removing their very own clothing.  Zzzz.

Certainly, the view that a bright woman need not forfeit her libido is one with which I have no quarrel.  But, there is a good deal of burlesque that is performed by women who show much sexual hunger but nothing that makes them seem especially bright.

It is, of course, no crime to be dim. If it were, then our prisons would be full of the off-cuts from Reality TV.  It is not a crime but it is a sin to press a terribly useful thing like feminism into the service of under-done theater.

If I’ve seen one lass in an animal-print tutu drop her boop-a-doop and give us the late-breaking news that women are capable of thought and tassels, I’ve seen a hundred.  Or, at least a dozen since the New Burlesque hit town a little more than ten years ago.

Across this past decade, burlesque has developed a few different subspecies and functions.  First, it was an “empowerment” exercise that, regrettably, took root in licensed premises.   One can spot these performers by checking the ladies for (a) feather headdress and (b) frequent use of the phrase “brains and beauty.”

Then, it became a project of those who have read books.  One can spot these performers by checking the ladies for (a) tattoos and (b) frequent use of the phrase “performativity.”

So, burlesque has been largely practiced and informed by Personal Development or Gender Studies hobbyists.  Which helps us understand both why it’s so bad and so absolutely, cultishly sure of itself.

As burlesque shows no sign of setting down its brains-and-beauty, the time has certainly come for critique. It’s time to alert the community of corsets that their burlesque can no longer rely on a feminist fan dance to save it from review.  Perhaps we could invite the critics of Scotland over to take the ladies’ boop-a-doop away.

Or, perhaps we could make our own efforts as connoisseurs.   A good start, is in seeing something good; something that does not crave approbation for its “beauty and brains” but seeks, instead, to jolt.

The tradition of burlesque can offer us something wonderful.  The idea of identity as a costume that is worn, not a biology that is fixed, can be so boldly illustrated in the sideshow arts. But, most of the time, it is not.  The most sincere artistic wish of many local practitioners is not to detonate gender or beauty or the fabric of identity.  Instead, it is to purchase cute, shiny outfits and take them off in a Brooklyn speakeasy. To an uncritical audience that lacks a Sally Scott.

 

 

This piece is adapted from a thingie I wrote for The Age newspaper
Dear Chaps, look

It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.  Come to that, price
it’s been a while since your trowel last tilled my lady-garden. But, discussion of my area, or “Ground Zero” as it is known to my therapist, is for another, more private time.  For the moment, we’re going to talk about you.

More honestly, we’re going to talk about me; or, we’re going to talk about my gender as it relates to yours.  No. Don’t worry.  There will be no whiny “You Go Girl” drivel about A Woman’s Right to Shoes.  I hate that shit.

In fact, there’s a lot of stuff about perky women that makes me long to grow a penis.  I don’t like their fascination with handbags and cupcakes.  I don’t like the way they keep scrapbooks. I don’t like it when they say “women are really good at multitasking” and demonstrate this through buying kitten-heels, scrapbooking and ramming cupcakes in their pie-holes all at once. I mean, if you’re so good at multitasking, stop buying things, shut the hell up and become an urban planner.  Don’t waste your neurological gifts whining “blah blah blah women are so much smarter than men” but doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to bear this out in civic life. Our foremothers did not throw themselves in front of horses so you could buy the Gossip Girl boxed-set, you self-centred, over-spending bint.  Shut up and measure housing density and re-route the traffic; I’ve had it with your moaning.

But, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

There is a critical thing you should know about women which is rarely discussed. To wit: they have an aching need to be told that they’re hideous. I know this seems odd. Given the dollars and energy women expend in bra and diet technology and the horseshit they produce like “All women want to be thought of as beautiful”, you might reasonably think that all women want to be thought of as beautiful.  Not so.  From about the age of fourteen, nearly all women will do whatever they can to get you to call them ugly or, even better, fat.

This strange feminie urge is universal and generally proceeds something like,

Helen: “What do you think of this new chemise?”

Man: “I want to fly my love-plane into Ground Zero this very minute! You look really hot and curvy! ”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

Or,

Man: “Wow.  Your arse looks great in those jeans.”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

Or,

Man: “I believe public response to the proposed Carbon Tax has been negative and extreme.”

Helen: “Yes. Excise could be an effective way of cutting emissions and showing leadership in the region.”

Man: “Moderate reform for middle-income earners is good, too.”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

Are you calling me fat? I have absolutely no advice in addressing this question; particularly given that I have asked it myself many times.  You could, of course, try saying, “no, no, no my darling.  You are so svelte of silhouette and lissom of limb as to make Katy Perry appear portly.  If we painted you Mission Brown, you could be mistaken for a paling. Darling, you could use dental floss to wipe your tiny butt.” Yes, you could.

Or, you could help put an end to all of this coddling and call our bluff.  I mean, if somebody wants to engage in self-destructive behaviour, there’s not a thing you can do about it.  It’s certainly not your job to make people feel crappy about themselves, but nor is it your job to fix their crazy shit.

There is a lesson I learnt when I was a resident of Kings Cross, Sydney.  Every day on Ward Avenue, a bloke called Spoons asked me for money for “food”.  I gave it to him, chiefly because his name was so inspired. But, when I’d got to around the thousand dollar mark, I’d had jack of it.   One day, Spoons offered the usual, “Can I have some money for food, sister?” and it struck me that I could say, “You can have some money. But only if you promise to spend it on heroin.” He never asked again and I was free to use my spare change to buy cupcakes and scrapbooking materials.

My point is, the drama of nearly being called fat is a kind of illicit drug to women. Actually daring your boyfriend to call you less-than-Angelina has all the thrill of smack. So, cut off the supply NOW. If, when asked, more men said, “Yes. I am calling you fat”, then perhaps more women would acknowledge how pig-bonkingly stupid the question is, stop asking it and get on with something important. Like urban planning.

It may help you to know that many women have violent conflict with their looks.  And they are not at all content to keep this war civil; they’re looking to fight on other fronts. From the interior, soldiers of self-loathing march toward you, the unwilling ally, with the battle-cry ““Are you calling me fat?”.   There’s no winning, so don’t fight. Gentlemen, lay down your arms and practice nonviolent resistance. It worked for Gandhi who always told his wife Kasturba

Chicks. When it comes to their bodies, they’re certifiable.

Having said this, I don’t have much truck with this “Battle of the Sexes” crap; it’s a boring stoush that belongs on breakfast radio.  Instead of focusing on our differences, we should be focusing on (a) urban planning and (b) interesting things to do with our genitals.

Are you calling me fat?

Regards,

Helen

This was written for the dapper chaps at FHM Magazine

 

 
Dear Chaps, read

It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.  Come to that, allergist
it’s been a while since your trowel last tilled my lady-garden. But, ed
discussion of my area, or “Ground Zero” as it is known to my therapist, is for another, more private time.  For the moment, we’re going to talk about you.

More honestly, we’re going to talk about me; or, we’re going to talk about my gender as it relates to yours.  No. Don’t worry.  There will be no whiny “You Go Girl” drivel about A Woman’s Right to Shoes.  I hate that shit.

In fact, there’s a lot of stuff about perky women that makes me long to grow a penis.  I don’t like their fascination with handbags and cupcakes.  I don’t like the way they keep scrapbooks. I don’t like it when they say “women are really good at multitasking” and demonstrate this through buying kitten-heels, scrapbooking and ramming cupcakes in their pie-holes all at once. I mean, if you’re so good at multitasking, stop buying things, shut the hell up and become an urban planner.  Don’t waste your neurological gifts whining “blah blah blah women are so much smarter than men” but doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to bear this out in civic life. Our foremothers did not throw themselves in front of horses so you could buy the Gossip Girl boxed-set, you self-centred, over-spending bint.  Shut up and measure housing density and re-route the traffic; I’ve had it with your moaning.

But, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

There is a critical thing you should know about women which is rarely discussed. To wit: they have an aching need to be told that they’re hideous. I know this seems odd. Given the dollars and energy women expend in bra and diet technology and the horseshit they produce like “All women want to be thought of as beautiful”, you might reasonably think that all women want to be thought of as beautiful.  Not so.  From about the age of fourteen, nearly all women will do whatever they can to get you to call them ugly or, even better, fat.

This strange feminie urge is universal and generally proceeds something like,

Helen: “What do you think of this new chemise?”

Man: “I want to fly my love-plane into Ground Zero this very minute! You look really hot and curvy! ”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

Or,

Man: “Wow.  Your arse looks great in those jeans.”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

Or,

Man: “I believe public response to the proposed Carbon Tax has been negative and extreme.”

Helen: “Yes. Excise could be an effective way of cutting emissions and showing leadership in the region.”

Man: “Moderate reform for middle-income earners is good, too.”

Helen: “Are you calling me fat?”

Are you calling me fat? I have absolutely no advice in addressing this question; particularly given that I have asked it myself many times.  You could, of course, try saying, “no, no, no my darling.  You are so svelte of silhouette and lissom of limb as to make Katy Perry appear portly.  If we painted you Mission Brown, you could be mistaken for a paling. Darling, you could use dental floss to wipe your tiny butt.” Yes, you could.

Or, you could help put an end to all of this coddling and call our bluff.  I mean, if somebody wants to engage in self-destructive behaviour, there’s not a thing you can do about it.  It’s certainly not your job to make people feel crappy about themselves, but nor is it your job to fix their crazy shit.

There is a lesson I learnt when I was a resident of Kings Cross, Sydney.  Every day on Ward Avenue, a bloke called Spoons asked me for money for “food”.  I gave it to him, chiefly because his name was so inspired. But, when I’d got to around the thousand dollar mark, I’d had jack of it.   One day, Spoons offered the usual, “Can I have some money for food, sister?” and it struck me that I could say, “You can have some money. But only if you promise to spend it on heroin.” He never asked again and I was free to use my spare change to buy cupcakes and scrapbooking materials.

My point is, the drama of nearly being called fat is a kind of illicit drug to women. Actually daring your boyfriend to call you less-than-Angelina has all the thrill of smack. So, cut off the supply NOW. If, when asked, more men said, “Yes. I am calling you fat”, then perhaps more women would acknowledge how pig-bonkingly stupid the question is, stop asking it and get on with something important. Like urban planning.

It may help you to know that many women have violent conflict with their looks.  And they are not at all content to keep this war civil; they’re looking to fight on other fronts. From the interior, soldiers of self-loathing march toward you, the unwilling ally, with the battle-cry ““Are you calling me fat?”.   There’s no winning, so don’t fight. Gentlemen, lay down your arms and practice nonviolent resistance. It worked for Gandhi.

Chicks. When it comes to their bodies, they’re certifiable.

Having said this, I don’t have much truck with this “Battle of the Sexes” crap; it’s a boring stoush that belongs on breakfast radio.  Instead of focusing on our differences, we should be focusing on (a) urban planning and (b) interesting things to do with our genitals.

Are you calling me fat?

Regards,

Helen

This was written for the dapper chaps at FHM Magazine

 

 
Miranda July is the hottest name in independent cinema right now. I know this because a cineaste of my slight acquaintance, side effects
whose day-job it is to decorate cupcakes with “satirical” trim, somnology
recently told me. “Miranda July is the hottest name in independent cinema right now, epilepsy
” she said as she nibbled a pastry shaped to resemble a rat.

If you have not yet viewed Ms July’s oeuvre, it would be reckless to amend this mistake. Even if her work is both “hot” and “independent”, it is also entirely slap-able and seems chiefly concerned with poor jokes about poop and bad sex. The 2005 film Me and You and Everyone We Know marked July’s first award at Cannes, her directorial debut and the appreciation of anyone who has ever eaten and enjoyed a “satirical” cupcake. It’s awful and cutesy and deniably meaningless.

July is to cinema as the contemporary cupcake is to carbohydrate. This is to say, she is fantastically decorative and easy to consume but ultimately delivers naught but empty calories in a gaudy blast of sugar. In her non-narrative narratives about mildly depressed shoe salesmen and people who babysit slightly injured cats, she hints at depths that do not exist. This, of course, is not a transgression we could attribute to the cupcake. But July’s perplexing popularity, just like the cupcake’s, is founded on the overuse of whimsy.

Whimsy. Like iPads and overly bookish spectacles and bacteria, it is everywhere.

It is difficult to pinpoint the moment in which whimsy escaped from the birthday parties of six-year-old girls and into the business of serious art. We might suppose that this was in the same moment grown and intelligent women stole cupcakes from their daughters. I personally place the shift at about ten years ago when I noticed a large dog sitting by Sydney Harbour.

There are many things to loathe about Jeff Koons. Much of his work is a triumph of money and plastic. Even when he does not work in plastic, he seems, somehow, to be hygienically safeguarded against any infection by meaning. This, to me, is his gravest offence and the primary impact of his stupid sculpture Puppy.

Puppy, who has since scampered to the Guggenheim, is an enormous West Highland White Terrier made of steel and topiary. I have no quarrel with this feisty little breed and find the Westie’s likeness entirely acceptable on headbands or at the birthday parties of six-year-old girls. He has no place, however, rolling over for bloated art.

Thanks to the ruse of whimsy, Koons and his terrier are permitted to feast on the bones of meaning. The appearance of childlike spontaneity excuses a lack of thought and gives rise to a thousand other dogs. The films of Wes Anderson, by way of example, are rabid with whimsy and seem to hint at deep emotional difficulties when, in fact, all they do to chew on the gristle of magical realism and upchuck it at the doorway of art.

In recent comedic seasons, the gifted humorist Daniel Kitson has elected to replace actual jokes with the sort of quirky reminiscence that would make John Irving call for restraint. Once, he spoke with incandescent wit about all he saw wrong in the world. Now, he sits next to bits of obsolete technology in a cardigan and talks about “ordinary lives”.

The popular actress and singer Zooey Deschanel had an elective surgery which saw her brain and taste replaced with a clockwork mouse. Michael Cera, insufferable star of the insufferably whimsical Juno, works to a similar mechanic and if I see one more knitted effing toy at a gallery, I may take a needle and hurt the next “craft practitioner” foolish enough to offer me a cupcake.

As for burlesque. Well. If I had my way, “whimsical” disrobing would by now be a summary offence.

There is, of course, that kind of “whimsy” that has changed the world of art. If Marcel Duchamp had never whimsically thought to sign a urinal and call it art or if Lewis Carroll had never dug a rabbit hole, we might very well be still looking at ordinary landscapes and reading narratives that only take place in the real.

But, these works, fanciful as though their origins might have been, do not simply suggest meaning; they actually produce it. And they do so not, as the contemporary burlesque dancer does, by offering us a whimsical tease to confuse our view but in allowing us the space for interrogation with their bare ambition.

Now so very often in the cupcake half-bakery of art, whimsy dresses the naked truth. Often in a cardigan.

This was written for and first appeared in The Age newspaper.

4 Responses to “So Hot Right Now”

  1. Fiona says:

    I had to Wiki this July person (is it possible to be too hip to notice things that are hip???).

    Anyway, I saw this quote in Wiki-land which made me think that perhaps a cupcake might be more substantial (but I am in a rather bad mood today). 2007 interview with Bust magazine re her feminism: “What’s confusing about [being a feminist]? It’s just being pro-your ability to do what you need to do. It doesn’t mean you don’t love your boyfriend or whatever…When I say ‘feminist’, I mean that in the most complex, interesting, exciting way!”

    Whimsical indeed. Ms Greer has found her successor.

  2. Kabdoo says:

    I saw YMEWK when it was released and I liked some scenes for their “awkwardness”. Gotta give her points for trying to do something a bit different. I remember thinking, at the time, this is going to earn less money than the Choc Tops sold during one session of Spiderman.

  3. Mitch says:

    In recent comedic seasons, the gifted humorist Daniel Kitson has elected to replace actual jokes with the sort of quirky reminiscence that would make John Irving call for restraint. Once, he spoke with incandescent wit about all he saw wrong in the world. Now, he sits next to bits of obsolete technology in a cardigan and talks about “ordinary lives”.
    ——————————

    My criticisms of your media preferences are tedious and petty, but it doesn’t hide the fact that Wes Anderson is fun. I respect your cynicism in opposition, forril (Wes Anderson, while maintaining his artistic integrity IMO, has since appealed to the masses). This assumption comes having never even heard of Kitson (which the internet tells me I can’t even blame on being a 90’s child), but it makes sense to me that fame and wealth would relieve me the societal and personal pressures of moving out of my parents house and finding a box somewhere that I may freely write my whimsical fairy-tales without a higher education telling me how they’re supposed to be structured (fuck you, Carleton University. 1000 hours at minimum wage that I’ll never get back; 1000 more hours spent spending said cash on ‘class’). Thus eliminating the anger at the world – or belittling it. It did, after all, give him a TV show.

    What has apparently been apparent in my second nitpick of your opinion which is somewhat but in no way related to the topic at hand (my first being some shpeil I wrote you one morning earlier this week about how Ashton Kutcher wasn’t half bad and also something about me sucking dick), is my overwhelming desire to do nothing but consume and create media. It’s all I’m fucking on about.

    Because nothing irritates me more than pseudo-intellectuals winning accolades that I rightly deserve (I don’t, yet). Not to mention there are 1000’s of ideas which interest me and have been done poorly, however they remain in the museum of copyright which demands I not touch for artistic merit but am encouraged to visit the ‘fan-fiction’ Gifte Shoppe.

    Short-story-shorter: creating meaning that IS meaning (i.e. derived from the real) is not limited to those that do it first rather than those that are willing to write from the heart(/brain). Making up meaning to be relevant is about as good as me thinking up a good gimmick for a story – without something to tie that art to you and me it’s a fucking sculpture.

    Unless, of course, you fancy the emporer’s new robe. /howifeelabout”””independantfilms””

    *shrug* did I even come close to understanding it? Why did I even try? I clicked on one of your articles and now I’m kind of in love with a woman 5 years younger than my mom.
    Not to say you have a stalker on your hands (fat chance if you’re hoping, Canadian means I’m both geographically and ethnically incapable of doing such a deed) but I’ll buy whatever shit you wanna sell. Because whoa is me, heartbreak and the pursuit of happiness is sold out.

    But fuck sympathy, I just wanna tell you I’m appreciative for someone gallantly calling out stupidity without a (absurd) regard for the emotion of the individual.

    #3cents #everydaysexism

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