I have been thinking lately about Cultural Appropriation. It has come up a lot in the media. And as I refine my views, I realize more and more that they tend, as usual, toward the “lighten up” perspective. What do you think? Read my piece in Sociology of Style and let me know!
I’ve begun writing a little series of articles based on recent, life changing experiences, the first one of which has been published in the wonderful Sociology of Style web magazine.
Here is an excerpt: “A few months ago, I underwent an enormous existential transition. In a trifecta of life changing events, I went from being a married woman in her 30s, working full time and unsure of what the future held, to being pregnant, 40 and separated from my mate.”
Begin reading about my saga here! Leave comments! Share with your friends!!
I am leaving. It’s not you, it’s me. I haven’t always been unhappy here. I just feel that we will both be better if I go. I know you will be sad and will miss me, but I think that will pass in time. I will miss you preparing my meals and massaging me every day, but, again, I think what we will be gaining will be so much greater than what we are giving up.
The thing is, I need to roam. I mean really roam. Like for hours and hours a day. Seriously, these “walks” we go on together just don’t cut it. Sometimes I feel as though I am tethered to you, like you are leading me around. I know you care for me but I feel like you control everything: where we go, what we do, who I socialize with. If I express any upset, I am quickly rebuked. You have no tolerance for my displeasure and my ways of expressing it.
Also, I am hurt because of the language and tone you sometimes use with me. You tell me I am disgusting, just because I do what comes naturally. I hate to break it to you, Gladys but everyone has bodily functions.
And to call what I like to eat trash?! I don’t criticize your food choices. In fact, I like what you eat. I have very versatile tastes and you could be a little more generous and share with me from time to time. It’s frankly a little cruel the way you snack in front of me when I am hungry and don’t even offer me a bite.
Also, you have, on occasion, gone so far as to actually use the word “bad” when you’ve been upset with me or when talking about me to others. It’s giving me a complex!
Throughout our relationship, while there have been many sweet and wonderful times (in bed together, in the park, lying on the couch with my head in your lap while you stroked my hair), there have also been too many humiliations (embarrassing clothes you’ve given me and all but forced me to wear, public reprimands for my “behavior”, that diet you made me go on when you told me I was “a fat little thing”). It’s all too much. I love you but I can’t take it any more.
Do you know how many women out there would love me as I am? Do you realize how much attention I get when we go out? There are plenty of ladies that would love to steal me away from you… and now they just might get the chance. Or, I might just be a lone wolf for awhile, sowing my wild oats, so to speak (I know what you’ll say to that… we’re all just dogs!) .
The truth is you probably have my balls in a jar somewhere because I sure as hell don’t have them anymore. I lost them the day I met you, you neutering bitch (please remember I am not insulting you when I say this. This is just how we think of women where I come from).
You lavish me with attention when you are around but then you go off for what seem like endless periods of time leaving me to wonder if you are ever coming back. The feeling is so devastating it makes me crazy. I feel like I’m going to chew through the walls sometimes! You’ve seen the damage I can do when I feel abandoned. It’s not good for either of us. And, I think we were both a little embarrassed by the underwear incident. I just missed you so much, I couldn’t resist…
I’m sorry if all of this hurts you, Gladys but I think it’s just easier this way. I know you will be alright with out me. You are the kind that’s always taking in strays… Someone else will come along who needs you and you can devote your considerable attentions to making them the obedient and respectable companion you always wanted me to be.
I will think of you often and will miss your sweet voice, your touch, and most of all, your smell (oh those underpants!).
I’m sorry I failed you, but what can I say? You can’t teach an old dog new tricks…
(by the way my real name is Gorthon RatHunter of the Clan Wolfheart but, you know, Peaches is fine too.)
James Franco and I are linked. I don’t know why or how but I know this to be true because, for one thing, I keep having dreams about him. And, no, it’s not what you think (not usually anyway…:). These dreams are about James and I attending college classes together, working at a carwash, fighting werewolves or flying through the air side by side over a Moorish kingdom.
And then, sometimes, on days like today, I will wake up and have a random thought of James Franco (something like: I wonder what James Franco is doing today? Or, What will that modern-day renaissance man do next? Learn to trick ride in the rodeo??).
Then that thought is followed by a few other random thoughts including one about my ideal vocation being a sort of blend of contemporary cultural ethnologist/anthropologist meets travel writer who occasionally writes and stars in films in between learning new and interesting trades like cobbling (that’s shoe-making to you).
So then, I open Facebook (the single largest obstacle to my success in all my endeavors) and see a post by James Franco himself which is a treatise on the cultural legacy and cumulative influence of Bret Easton Ellis’ 1991 novel American Psycho and the 2000 film of the same name. The article is smart, well-written and seems only to lack commentary on American Psycho’s still hilarious and numerous Phil Collins references (though he does talk a bit about Patrick Bateman’s love of Huey Lewis).
What the hell?! This is exactly the kind of deep-but-not-deep stuff I love! Is this Franco guy reading my mail? I peer through the window slats to catch a glimpse of his unkempt good looks as he rifles through my mail box. Nope. Nobody out there except a cat with no tail and an elderly lady in a soiled night-shirt shuffling past…
So what is this? Am I becoming a Franco-phile? I am not normally celebrity obsessed. I don’t have chronic dreams about other famous folks (except once I had a very upsetting dream about Craig T. Nelson). What does Franco represent to me that my subconscious keeps conjuring him?
And then it dawns on me… James Franco has what so many of us in America want (even if our desire is misspent and ill-advised). He has the twin endowments Fame and Fortune. And, unlike the hoards of vainglorious and acquisitional celebrities who pepper the media, it seems he uses these assets in much the way I imagine I would if I were gifted with the 2 big Fs: He thinks. He has experiences. He learns stuff. He makes stuff. I mean, the guy has a published book of short stories, has directed documentary films, is pursuing multiple advanced degrees at Ivy League universities and highly regarded schools such as RISD (in my home state!), is a professor in his own right, and all this in addition to a long and illustrious TV and Film career.
Sure, he is flawed. He was like a walking mannequin when he hosted the Academy Awards. Possibly he smokes too much pot. He may have overextended himself with that third PHD… but, hell, that’s his prerogative, he’s JamesEffingFranco!
Seriously, what kind of excess would most of us indulge in if awarded the same priveleges as Franco? I commend him for his aspirations (as well as his charming crooked grin).
James Franco and I are linked by, if nothing else, a common desire to learn, digest our culture and regurgitate something of value back into it. Is this very involved, deeply considered article on American Psycho it? I don’t know. Is this blog it? Probably not… but it’s something anyway, and maybe something fun. I hope one day to have as many accomplishments that I am proud of as someone like Franco seems to now.
And, who knows? Maybe James Franco is having dreams about a certain RI born, Atlanta dwelling writer/actress/phenomenologist/ethnologist/pie-maker/tiny animal caretaker…
read James’ article here: http://www.vice.com/read/american-psycho-twenty-years-laterten-years-later
In light of the fact that Disney attempted to revamp Merida and turn her from feisty tom-boy to ultra feminized princess (the antithesis of her character), I thought I would reblog this old post I did for my friend’s blog awhile back.
Thanks to Heather Ticheli for bringing this recent offense to my attention and to Jamie Gordon (The Narcissistic Anthropologist herself) for posting my old rant in the first place…
A creationism museum seems appropriate to me because creationism feels more like performance art or a ridiculous archive of the past than an actual theory that anyone would believe in. But hey, people used to think autism was created by a cold and unloving mother, that butter was good for burns and that if you looked at something ugly while pregnant, you’d have an ugly baby.
So before you read on, beware pregnant ladies, who knows what looking at the utter twaddle that fills the creation museum might do to you and your unborn…