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…in the lyrics to this song, and you have some sense of how my early-to-mid twenties went. (Lyrics are after the jump.) Also, please know that for the benefit of this post, I spent hours searching for some representative photographs of myself in the classic buzzcut of the era, which I would have happily scanned and reproduced here, but they are apparently buried in the detritus of more than fifteen years’ accumulated papers and pictures, scattered hither and yon. When I finally do track them down, I’ll gladly share.

Also, this post should not be construed as a condemnation of any among the varieties of feminism, nor is it a disavowal of my own experiences which are indirectly mirrored in the motif of this song. Rather, it’s just a glimpse back in time, and a gentle pondering of what (at 37) I can now credibly refer to as “my youth.”

(click on triangle to play song - hopefully it will work!)

[special thanks to Nat for the plugin recommendation.]

Did you enjoy that? Go here to buy the all-around brilliant album from the artist’s own site. Alternatively, you can buy just the song from Amazon or iTunes.

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Dar Williams: “The Pointless, Yet Poignant, Crisis of a Co-Ed”

I’m not a leader, I’m not a left-wing rhetoric mobilizing force of one,
But there was a time way back, many years ago in college (don’t laugh),
But I thought I was a radical, I ran the hemp liberation group with my boyfriend,
It was true love, with a common cause, and besides that, he was a Sagittarius.

We used to say that our love was like hemp rope, three times as strong as the rope that
You buy domestically,
And we would bond in the face of oppression from big business and the deans,
But I knew there was a problem, every time the group would meet everyone would light up,
That made it difficult to discuss glaucoma and human rights, not to mention chemotherapy.

Well sometimes, life gives us lessons sent in ridiculous packaging,
And so I found him in the arms of a student against the treacherous use of fur,
And he gave no apology, he just turned to me, stoned out to the edge of oblivion,
He didn’t pull up the sheets and I think he even smiled as he said to me,
’well, I guess our dreams went up in smoke.’
And I said, no, our dreams went up in dreams, you stupid pothead,
And another thing, what kind of a name is Students Against the Treacherous Use of Fur?
Fur is already dead, and besides, a name like that doesn’t make a good acronym.

I am older now, I know the rise and gradual fall of a daily victory.
And I still write to my senators, saying they should legalize cannabis,
And I should know, cause I am a horticulturist, I have a husband and two children out in
Lexington, Mass.
And my ex-boyfriend can’t tell me I’ve sold out, because he’s in a cult.
And he’s not allowed to talk to me.

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* Which is not to say these are mutually exclusive categories. Goodness knows I’ve encountered a fair number of women who could be described both ways.

Earlier today I could not get enough of listening to Bikini Kill’s 1994 album, Pussy Whipped. Specifically, I had to hear Rebel Girl over and over (I even stopped to tweet this fact), as well as Alien She, which includes these lyrics:

…She wants me
To put the pretty, pretty lipstick on
She wants me to be like her…
I want to kill her
But I’m afraid it might kill me
Feminist
Dyke whore
Pretty, pretty
Alien
And all I really wanted to know
Who was me and who is she
I guess I’ll never know…

For reasons that will be evident to some of my longtime readers (though I can’t refer you to past explanatory blog posts, which is just as well because all that material has gone back into the proverbial cauldron for its eventual repurposing), these lyrics are searingly relevant to me. Due, I will simply say, to a woman named Lee whom I met late in 1992, shortly after I’d left Olympia for Seattle (with a New York art colony sojourn between), and following which the course of my life was violently and inexorably altered - as indicated, perhaps most clearly, by my official status, with law enforcement in Washington state, as a “missing person” in the summer and autumn of 1993 (although police in two additional states, plus the FBI, also wound up tangentially involved).

And even if those particular lyrics weren’t so immediately relevant to my history, there is also the touchstone fact that I had been in Olympia at the same time Bikini Kill was emerging. The riot grrrl scene was an alternate universe against which my own was being played out; many nights in late 1990 and early 1991 had found me standing guard for my sociopath girlfriend, Amy, who, without the slightest sense of irony, was spraying graffiti around town protesting violence against women¹. (Note: she was not only a serial batterer of her lesbian partners - see her hometown’s newspaper for crap she would still be doing more than a decade later - she also claimed to have a juvenile record for attempted murder.)

So, while I stood guard (the alternative to which was: trust me, you wouldn’t want to know), Amy would be spraying Dead Men Don’t Rape across the facade of the furniture store downtown. Then we’d go around a corner and she’d be hoping to attack another surface with her hilariously inappropriate sloganeering (which I came to regard as her preemptive strike against the credibility of the women she’d battered and raped; by attaining, under false pretenses, her “folk hero” status among the radical feminists and lesbians in town), out of nowhere there’d be some fresh new graffiti up, saying only Bikini Kill. And we had no idea what the fuck Bikini Kill meant (only later learned it was a new punk band, which would go on to define the riot grrrl genre), we only knew they were taking up precious wall space and really kind of pissing Amy off.

Despite the radical life-interruption that was Amy, though, it was, most substantively, the prelude to what would follow, in Seattle, with Lee.

Which is why, perhaps, this morning I struggled for what seemed an eternity to wake from a certain, apparently chaotic dream, the meaning of which I could not discern until I had physically written it out, on paper (as is often the case with me; it’s like, with the action of pen on paper, puzzles can be put together in very clear ways, even when, at first, I had not known there was anything besides chaotic and, most likely, meaningless fragments in play).

To read the full-sized journal entry, click here, otherwise you may be able to make out the words as they appear below².

Nope - the past still isn’t dead.

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¹ The Olympian ran something or another in some crime or public complaint column about Amy’s exploits (not that anyone outside the lesbian community knew who was behind the graffiti); ironically, she’d had been an employee of the same newspaper when I met her in October of 1990. (Hey Olympian: check your HR records, if you have ‘em that far back. I can also tell you about the security guard she met there, with whom she committed robberies - or at least, so she was given to boasting while drunk.)

² Re-reading the bit about Pearl Jam’s song, Jeremy, coming on the radio as I was writing it, I think, inevitably, of where I once lived, on Jeremy Street, in a San Diego suburb, when I was thirteen. Then I go read the Wikipedia entry on that song, and I learn that one of the song’s inspirations was a disturbed junior high school student in San Diego. Um, wow.

It was the summer of 1988. Probably the turning point of my life...or one of them. I was 18 and sitting in the back seat of someone's car. It was probably my car, and I was probably being driven around Chicago by one of my friends, while the rest of the passengers joked and laughed and talked about various things. I had my nose in a book I had just bought at Powell's. I had pulled it at random from the shelves, saw illustrations by Sue Coe, and decided I had to read it. That book was _Narcissism and Death_ by Mariarosa Sclauzero, which is an experimental prose book about the human psyche, love, ethics, beauty, narcissism...and death. ha. It was fascinating to me, because it was written in a sort of ADD skipping from one topic to the next style that seemed to be a salvation in terms of setting an example for a type of novel I could actually write. I have never been very linear...and I am not good at envisioning and bringing to life meticulously accurate story lines from beginning to end with any amount of cohesion.

At any rate, I had my nose in that book when we turned on to Kenmore street. I remember the name of the street because people were talking about Kenmore appliances or something. Maybe the topic of washing machines came up. Maybe someone was talking about duds and suds, the new bar/laundromat that we always talked about going to, but always ended up dragging bags and bags of dirty clothes to my moms house in the suburbs, anyway...on those weekends we would go back for shows at Dirty Nellies and, later, mcGregor's.

So we parked somewhere on Kenmore to visit with my roommates boyfriend Erich "Fish" Blocher, and his roommate Warren "Fish" Fisher. They were two men who shared an apartment and a nickname. Warren was fish for obvious reason, and I believe he played bass for screeching weasel for awhile and was in a band called Ozzfish or The Ozzfish Experience...although I recently chatted with my other old roommate and we can't for the life of us figure out who the Ozz in Ozzfish was. Erich was nicknamed fish for reasons unknown. He was a tall, goofy, John Denvery looking guy with round glasses and a sort of hippie, laid back demeanor. He was living in the other Fish's closet at the time. I remember laying on the pillows on the floor and looking up at the chain that hung from the bare lightbulb in the closet. there was a long string tied to the end of the chain as a means of extension "Because I am too lazy to stand up to turn it off at night." said fish.

And as I lay there, with my nose still in Narcissism and Death, one of the fishes made me a tape of the Chumbawamba lp _Pictures of Starving Children Sell Records_ because I just HAD to listen to it over and over again. And I have. And I still do. It is kind of a masterpiece.

And when I hear Chumbawamba now, I think of that day. I think of being driven, nose in book, refrigerators, washing machines, lightbulbs and fish and fish and fish's closet. And I think of black and white ink drawings and songs about anarchy and I think about Pictures of Starving Children and Narcissism and Death. And the richness and clarity of these memories amazes me always.

I worked past midnight and have no Friday Random Ten to offer. I have no pet photos, nor a pet. As my poor substitute, I offer celtic punk. I would have preferred Rebels of the Sacred Heart, but there are no videos of it with passable sound, so instead, here is Flogging Molly with Drunken Lullabies:

Feel free to FRT below.

Obama’s a pimp and Hillary is a bitch. Lovely.

And this comes from the pro-Obama camp. Can we please knock if off now, guys? I know we can do better than this.

Video from TRex.

You might already know I Wanna Fuck You from the immense amount of radio airplay it was getting last year, in the censored “I Wanna Love You” version, of course–the distinction here is important, which is why I’m not being radio-friendly. If you’re not, it was the first single to reach #1 on the charts for Senegalese-American rapper Akon and the second for his collaborator, Snoop Dogg. Akon also got attention last year for humping 14-year-olds onstage.

So although I heard Akon’s version about a billion times in 2007, I just found this other live video from spring of last year. It seems that the deeply weird American-French sister duo CocoRosie started performing an inverted version of Akon’s song during their European tour. Like the original, it features a guy trying to pick up a dancer at a club, but from the opposite point of view, far more introspective, and rotated towards their signature Billie-Holiday-meets-fractured-experimental-trip-hop style.

Here are the choruses of the two songs:

Akon:
I see you winding and grinding up on that pole,
I know you see me looking at you and you already know
I wanna fuck you, you already know
I wanna fuck you, you already know

CocoRosie:
You see me trying to smile up on this pole
But I’m just hiding the pain that’s deep in my soul
You wanna fuck me, I already know
You wanna fuck me and toss me back on the floor

I had a series of strong reactions to this song.
(more…)

Something to consider submitting to:

Women and Language calls for submissions to a special issue dedicated to “Hip Hop’s Languages of Love.” The issue will focus on love in hip hop as it relates to language and gender. It will be published in the Fall of 2009.

Critical examination of hip hop’s languages of love is important because despite its crude stereotypes, hip hop is an often-consulted source on the subject. We intend to expand the definition of love by embracing its complexities. We seek perspectives on love that are not singular and do not polarize. For instance, we welcome manuscripts that address diverse sexual identities and relationships. Moreover, our definition of hip hop extends beyond rap music to embrace an entire culture that includes other forms of music, dance, visual art, comedy, fashion, film, poetry, journalism, literature, scholarship, and politics. The culture’s influences are readily found in media, professional athletics, and religious and educational institutions, just to name a few of the major sites.

(more…)

via Our Bodies, Our Blog, I belatedly found Kate Harding's ode to Liz Phair's "Exile in Guyville," which Kate calls, "the album that made me a feminist."

A few years ago, I wrote my own mash note to "Exile" -- which is being rereleased this year for its 15th anniversary.

Kate and I had remarkably similar experiences with this album -- and I imagine we're not alone. I wrote, "I certainly didn't think of "Exile" as a feminist statement. It was just good music. But the album was sort of my musical bridge from Pavement to riot grrrl -- which was, I think, my bridge to feminism." Kate wrote, "'Guyville' was not only my favorite album of 1993 but an early foundation of my feminism."

(As a side note, I also love that Kate cites "6'1"" as a song that made her, a 5'2" woman, feel incredibly strong and empowered -- the lyrics go, "I kept standing 6'1" /instead of 5'2"/ and I loved my life/ and I hated you." The funny thing for me in reading Kate's post was that it's eminently clear to me now that the song is about a super bad-ass 5'2" woman, but I had always heard it as an anthem for over-6' women who is proud of her unconventional height. Hahaha. It's so awesome that both Kate and I identified with the song.)

Recently, Courtney and I were talking about "click" moments -- you know, the point at which it all came together for you and you started identifying as a feminist. (Courtney's story is great -- she should really post about it.) I told her I couldn't think of my "moment" -- that it was an evolution for me, and no single experience stands out as a turning point. And while I'm not quite willing to say that listening to "Exile in Guyville" was when it all clicked, this album is certainly one of a series of things that led me to feminism.

So what about you? What was your "click" moment?

I have been waiting impatiently for the video for OTEP’s Confrontation to come out - and it’s a fire-hot, unapologetically political follow-up to 2004’s Warhead. (Did you not catch that when it first came out? Hit that previous link; I’ll wait here while you listen and watch.)

Again, it hardly matters if you’re into metal or not (or, if you are into metal, if you’re possessed with some weird idea that women are not capable of fully owning the genre); this is just some really powerful music. (But do know that I’ve been listening to this album for months now, so my perceptions are based on that more than the video per se; between Confrontation and Warhead, the video for the latter packs a different sort of punch; Confrontation leaves the viewer a little uncomfortable, I think - which, quite possibly, is the point.)

And the album from which Confrontation is drawn, The Ascension, is unbelievable, lyrically and otherwise¹.

Eet the children, for example, is like an anthem both for abused children and those deemed mentally ill as a result of such abuse. It begins with these haunting, almost whispered lines:

Hush little baby
Don’t make a sound

This is gonna hurt
Me more than you…

Following which there is a kind of aural explosion, vocalist Otep Shamaya’s lyrics continuing with these lines:

If I’m a danger to myself
Just think what I would do to you…

Really, listening to that track is for me like the auditory equivalent of reading certain of flawedplan’s posts in the ‘child abuse’ category at Writhe Safely. (Even though punk is more her thing than metal, but I’ll tell ya, Otep’s music transcends a lot of boundaries.)

But back to Confrontation.

Here are some of the lyrics, followed by the video.

More capitalist crimes,
More enemies than allies

No WMD’s, who gives a fuck
If they die

Just kill em all, watch em fall
Skin the world with their lies

Its a rich man’s war
But it’s the poor that fight

Stand up
Speak out
Strike back…

They don’t know
What they started

CONFRONTATION…

(Note: Further lyrics include those that inspired the title of this post; listen via the link below.)

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¹ The album is also available for (legal!) download from Amazon and iTunes (in its DRM-free “iTunes Plus” format).