I’m on a Moonlighting jag. Technically it’s research. A research jag, yes, exactly. In no way should this be confused with procrastinating or wasting time. A quick nostalgia checklist:

  • shoulder pads and wide belts that don’t hold anything up (everything old is new again)
  • 80s man/woman crimefighting duo innuendo and conversational clichés (see also Remington Steele)
  • sequins
  • hair softly waving back from the face, emphasizing the blue eye shadow
  • smoking, everywhere (in offices! ah, the day)
  • high-waisted pants and sensible heels
  • actually addressing sexism, and calling it by name
  • synthesizer mood music, and reed instruments invoked for suspense
  • 50 minute episodes
  • soft focus lighting to bring out the pastel
  • freeze-frame final scenes (a convention aped to absurd lengths in the under-rated, quickly cancelled Police Squad)

Bruce Willis used to be a lot of fun. I love research.


I’ve been promised

November 21, 2007

at least 10cm of snow when I wake up tomorrow. How exciting! There will be squeals and hand-clapping. Snow!

Update Nov. 22, 8:30am: Ice pellets and freezing rain. How disappointing.

Night sky

November 19, 2007

I kept catching glimpses of the moon, a bright half-circle lurking in the top corner of my back door. So I tried, as I occasionally do when I’m feeling inspired (or bored) and it’s a cloudless night, to take a picture. I’ve got a swanky camera, and now I’ve even got a cute portable tripod, and damnit I’ve got the will. Out on my balcony futzing with the tripod’s legs, with the camera’s seemingly endless settings, a bit of motion caught my eye – the tail end of a shooting star.
It’s like that, sometimes, you’re so intently focused on one thing just out of range, and nearly miss the other. Of course, in the end I didn’t get either. The point’s not really that literal, but rather:

The interesting thing about your solar chart right now is how pronounced is the theme of confronting your fears. The picture is one of going from the general to the specific — you take those monolithic issues like ‘fear of life’ and ‘fear of intimacy’ and feel your way through them until they are more specific. We might add to this list ‘fear of change’, which often silently haunts any experience of love. Give it a voice, so that the haunting ends.

Of course, it’s not only us Leos throwing down commonplace issues like ‘fear of intimacy’ only to balk at peeling back a corner to see what the blanket phrase actually covers. I’ve been trying to disengage some of mine from their history – which isn’t the same as absolving past actors, but rather the notion that confining fears as conditioned responses isn’t enough of an explanation for why they still get to play such a role in the present. We all have people and places and moments that are formative; I’m not decrying the lingering and necessary influence of, say, the hypercritical and passive-aggressive mother. But there’s a difference between formative and definitive. Perhaps it’s just my ornery ego, but hawking all that’s gone before doesn’t credit my ability to change, to be a dialogue rather than a result. A month ago tonight I said something that surprised even myself. In realizing that I believed in the impulse, if not in the words themselves, the past-as-excuse fell a little further away.
So maybe it is like the moon that’s always there in varying degrees of visibility, and the shooting star that can only be seen by luck and timing, or, if you’re the masochistic type, by staring steadily and determinedly at the sky until something reveals itself. And we all know I’m the masochistic type.


November 12, 2007

Days, entire weeks, are passing in half-remembered nights and hangovers, lingering coffees and long meetings, drafts tossed off the table in frustration or fury, frantic scrawling on the back of any scrap of paper at hand, sneakers slapping kilometre after kilometre along the canal, late nights and vigorous moaning mornings. I looked at the calendar and noticed that the garbage needs to go out, that it’s November.


November 1, 2007

Finally, a way to mention female genitals without having to say vagina! How vajuvenile. Startling is that part of this term’s popularization comes via a representation of the medical profession, wherein you’d think the appropriate word for anatomical parts would be, well, appropriate.

I guess I’ll take vajayjay over the hushed, embarrassed, “You know, down there,” but I don’t think it’s much of an improvement. Mine’s a vagina. Or, more chummily (because boy is it ever a good friend), my vag. I don’t need to cutesy it up. Cutesying it up suggests that there is something threatening, shameful, dirty, unspeakable about ‘vagina.’ That it needs to be made girlish in order to be safe. No thanks. I’m a woman, and I have a vagina. It doesn’t need to be shaved or waxed back to pre-pubescent aesthetics. It doesn’t need to be surgically altered to appear more pleasing. Like other women’s, it’s beautiful as it is. And deserves to be called what it is. Say it with me: vagina. And again: vagina. And again and again until we all understand, like Lizzie said to me yesterday, that “ideas and beliefs have to be reproduced over and over in order to hold sway. And that very action opens the means for change.” Vagina vagina vagina.

UPDATE This is funny.

Pardon my directness, but I refuse to beat around the bush. The feminists, it seems, have a proprietary interest in female genitalia.

Proprietary interest? Due to the fact that, as women, it’s our genitalia? How dare we lay claim to our own bodies! Quick, someone do something to make women ashamed, to remind them that their bodies are there for public objectification, commodification, consumption and critique! Oh, wait…

No matter what you call it, many feminists don’t want guys attracted to it.

Can we please just let the man-hating sex-hating feminist stereotype die? It’s misogyny feminism has a problem with, not men. And feminists do like sex, remember? We’re even quite good at it.
Yes, I want guys attracted to my vagina. Just not the ones that are scared off by the very word. If you aren’t comfortable with the actual names of my body parts, you don’t get to touch them. Not until you grow up. And the word ‘vajayjay’ isn’t what says “hello… welcome.” You only get that invite from the woman herself.

It has such a sense of taboo that nobody feels totally comfortable talking about it – not even women, but especially men.

My point exactly. So talk about it. Get comfortable. Stop making bush and box and fingering jokes. See Bitch PhD for more.