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Hell on High Heels Trigger warning: Mentions of abuse, rape, and murder.
Musician Dave Grohl once very wisely espoused, “I don’t believe in guilty pleasures. If you like something, like it...Don’t think it’s not cool to like Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic.’ It is cool to like Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’! Why not?...That whole guilty pleasure thing is full of shit.” Normally this is a train of thought on which I can easily get on board. Three Christmases ago, I shamelessly requested Rod Stewart’s holiday album Merry Christmas, Baby, which I did indeed receive (and I listen to it all year ‘round, thank you very much). I love the Disney movies Bambi and The Princess and The Frog, along with some real stinkers (yes, I do mean The Room). My other hobbies include eating entire bags of mini chocolate-covered donuts in one sitting and watching four or five episodes of Gilmore Girls in a row on Netflix. These are all relatively harmless idiosyncrasies, though some physicians may disagree. However, there is one instance where the pleasure I derive from a certain something is very much of the guilty persuasion. Beyond their insanely catchy riffs and oft-pantomimed guitar solos, the '80s glam metal band, Mötley Crüe, is, bluntly, incredibly sexist and misogynistic. Usually it’s the genre of rap that’s singled out and criticized for these particular sins, but let’s be perfectly honest: that’s just good ol’ fashioned racism. Eighties’ hair and glam metal is rife with both, and these shortcomings are wholly and repeatedly verified by various song lyrics and accompanying music videos, several of which were banned or censored for reasons ranging from nudity to depictions of murder. Mötley Crüe also happens to be one of my favorite bands. I’ve seen them in concert twice and am contemplating a third time; I own several albums and a couple t-shirts; and when I need motivation, they’re one of my go-to choices. It’s become a habit of mine to crank them in my car and belt out “Wild Side” when going to and from job interviews, listen to “Live Wire” and “Kickstart My Heart” when I’m working out, and any other song that strikes my fancy even when I’m baking cookies or writing. Hi, my name is Amy, and I am a terrible feminist. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Improve Hate Crime Reporting RICHMOND – With support from 10 state legislators, Equality Virginia, an advocacy group for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender Virginians, urged the General Assembly on January 20th to pass laws prohibiting discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity.
At a press conference, James Parrish, executive director of Equality Virginia, said many LGBT individuals face hardships. “LGBT individuals can still be fired from their job – or not hired at all – based on their sexual orientation or gender identity,” Parrish said. “They can also be discriminated against as they seek a place to live.” He spoke the day after the Senate General Laws and Technology Committee defeated a proposal (Senate Bill 917) to add sexual orientation and gender identity to the state’s fair housing law and to stop landlords from discriminating against tenants who are LGBT. Last week, the Senate Courts of Justice Committee defeated SB 799, which would have broadened the definition of “hate crime” to include “a criminal act committed against a person because of sexual orientation or gender identification.” At the news conference, Sen. Barbara Favola, D-Arlington, said the bill would have given law enforcement agencies more data for addressing crimes against LGBT Virginians. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Grave Reminders By Jody Rathgeb QuailBellMagazine.com The groundskeeper putt-putted up to me on his tractor and cut the motor. “Looking for anyone in particular?” he asked.
Actually, I was in the cemetery looking at tombstone art and epitaphs, but that’s the way it is in those places: “Who” usually takes precedence over “what.” Most cemetery visits arise because of the people buried there, and famous cemeteries base tours on their famous people, from Jefferson Davis to Marie Laveau. The resting places, however, are also open-air art galleries, with gravestones and memorials displaying art rich in symbolism, often going beyond the traditional ones of faith (crosses, stars of David, angels, etc.). These artworks can reveal more about the person buried, more about those left behind, and more about the times in which they lived. The heyday of memorial art in America was the late 19th century, and finding these symbols is easiest in a cemetery heavy in dates from 1850 to 1900. Gravestones of this era were truly stone (granite and marble) rather than the more modern bronze plaques, and families were eager to have the mason personalize the marker. Christian crosses are most common, and other godly symbols are numerous: angels (carrying one to the afterlife), chain links (the trinity), open books (the word of God), an anchor (Christ) and the eye of God. In addition, there are other types of symbols. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Continuous Disservice on a Day of Service By Gretchen Gales QuailBellMagazine.com In case you forgot, today is Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. The holiday is in honor of Dr. King's birthday and is always set on the third Monday in January (which can be on or around the time of his real birthday, January 15th). On this day, I believe even Dr. King would be more than willing to give back to the community as a birthday celebration. Many cities across America organized service events in honor of a man who spent his life serving.
But most people will only serve on days oriented towards service such as MLK Day, the Thanksgiving season, and the Christmas season. Once that's over, many people stop caring until the next holiday. If you're financially stable, it's easy to donate a few books to low-income families, volunteer for a day at a soup kitchen, or repaint the walls inside a nursing home. And there's nothing wrong with doing any and all of those things, and I hope you consider participating in at least one of them. But for long term results, long term dedication and presence is required. Especially in improving education and promoting true equality. As a future teacher, I already feel the pinch of eventually having to buy many of my classroom supplies, even if I went to a privileged school. The struggle of getting some parents actively involved in their children's lives. So what would it be like to teach in a district where a child couldn't even afford the supplies required to fully engage in their learning environment? To live in a school district that continuously fails to provide an education that would help low-income students leave the situation they're in? And how did they become that way in the first place? During the 1950s, groups of similarly structured housing clustered into what we call the suburbs. The new suburban environment was (and still is) a happy medium between the city and the rural setting. It also provided a place for many whites at the time to settle after refusing to live among the rising African-American presence in the cities. This grand exodus of the white population to the suburbs became known as "white flight" and sparked another trend of injustice towards all minorities. leaving the area with a socioeconomic disadvantage. Without the presence of a middle class, the pool of tax money the cities once got had been slashed, and cities fell into urban decay. In a 2008 study of the spacial dynamics involved in white flight, a survey indicated that "White respondents tend to rate integrated neighborhoods as substantially less desirable than predominately White neighborhoods" (Crowder and South 793). So even in modern society, underlying racism still haunts us. People don't like stepping out of their comfort zones, but their comfort comes at a cost. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Unbearable Whiteness of Oscar I got up early and turned on ABC in hopes of seeing the announcement of the nominees for the 87th Annual Academy Awards. Aside from mentions of Dick Poop, it went pretty much as everyone expected. Reporters had to get up earlier than normal, the announcers lifelessly announced the choices (again, 5:30 a.m. PST), and critics such as myself immediately judged the proceedings based on what was and what wasn’t nominated. And boy, do I have things to say about this.
Now, to be fair, getting upset about award show nominations the day they are announced is generally a bit ridiculous. Most of it is just a person looking at the list and judging it for not being to their standards. Yes, things are going to be left off the final list, but it would be too complicated if every conceivable nominee was in the running. There were 83 submissions for the Best Foreign Language Film category and 79 songs were up for Best Original Song. So yes, Lana Del Rey won’t get an Oscar nod this year, but it’s not worth caring that much about. Honestly, I’m really glad there’s eight nominees for Best Picture instead of nine just to make things simpler. There are honestly more important things to worry about when looking at the Academy Award nominations. Namely, the fact that the Academy is 94 percent white and 77 percent male. Believe it or not, that tends to play a big deal in what gets nominated and what doesn’t. For the most part, it means that there can be a lack of representation in the proceedings. This is mostly an aspect that is brought for the major awards, particularly acting. It’s been sixteen years since all twenty acting nominees were white. What is important going into this Oscar race is to look at how the decisions are made and what greater implications are presented through this. I’ll examine the major awards and then look at miscellaneous snubs in order to analyze why the nomination list turned out as it did. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Intrigue of the Welsh Lighthouse It was the spring of 2014, and the cold late-May rain steadily fell on the roof. I was slumped in my seat, looking out of the foggy window through my lack-of-sleep haze, headphones blasting Bratmobile into my ears.
I was sitting in one of the countless trains that speed on the railway system through England, Wales, and Scotland. My destination was Cardiff, Wales, but my great fatigue and hunger made it so that I couldn’t get excited for anything about the city where my grandmother went to college, except for eating food and falling asleep. I was with my very best friend and her mother, and we were on a low-budget trip through southern Great Britain and Ireland. I had been most adamant about visiting Wales, for I am a quarter Welsh and I was curious to see the extent of Wales’ differences from England. The train sped past the beginning of a calm expanse of water. My friend’s mother was talking to several different Welsh strangers on the train, while my friend and I kept to ourselves and thought about food. This was a common theme throughout our travels, for my friend and I were rather shy, while her mother was open and interested in talking to all sorts of people. I was brought out of my Bratmobile-and-Welsh-landscape-view reverie by my friend telling me to look out the window at the lighthouse. It looked as if it just grew naturally out of the water, and it didn’t seem like there was any land around it. It was just sitting there, the water smooth and calm like glass all around it. It was white, and short compared to all the other lighthouses I’d seen in the United States. One of my friend’s mother’s new acquaintances told us a little bit about it (most of it I can’t remember, for it was so long ago). He told us that it had been for sale for a while now, and that the price was exactly £1, about $1.50 USD. One could buy it as long as one had the resources to maintain it, one couldn’t buy it and then let it fall into disrepair and abandon it as soon as it wasn’t fit to live in anymore. My friend and I looked at each other, exchanging meaningful glances. We both wanted to buy it. It was only £1, after all! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Returning to Manhattan from the Woods January is rough for lots of us; it’s cold, we spent all our money on the holidays, it’s hard to adjust to a work schedule again, hard to say goodbye to loved ones and leisurely days spent eating whatever we want. Yes, January is a quiet month. Someone told me once that if January were a color, it would be blue.
For me, January has an added layer of post-holiday blues: a serious “home for the holidays” hangover, where the ghosts of Christmas past and present and future linger, uninvited and inappropriate and utterly at odds with the date on the calendar. I realize that the holidays have been over for most people for a while now, but I only just got back to New York City, and I just got back from Del Norte County, California: a place that couldn’t be farther from New York City either physically or spiritually. It’s the place I went to high school, fell in love for the first time, joined the abstinence club, and did a lot of other ridiculous things – like driving my car into a table that was inside a building, driving my car into a fence, and driving my car into a dirt road in the mountains where no one could find us, to kiss for hours and look at the stars. Del Norte County is a place where people wear plaid and beards without irony, tack the Confederate flag on the back of their pickups, and listen to the country station non-stop. It’s a place where people deer-hunt, prospect, surf, kayak, fish, whale-watch, and live off the grid. It’s a wild place. A wooded place. An isolated place that, this time, took me 35 hours to reach via plane and car. It’s the place about which my mother always said, though she loves it and still resides there, “You can’t stay here. You will go to college.” You will go out of the woods, and into the world. Her town has maybe 500 people. My borough has maybe 1.7 million. When I am there, I am lonely for people. When I am here, I am lonely for trees. When I visit my mother and step-father for Christmas, I am also visiting the woods. Literally. Figuratively. We sit together, drink wine, and unwind the spool of our desires, struggles, and history through conversation, and all the while the trees outside rustle in the wind, listening. There’s a bay tree on the top of our hill that I’ve sat in and talked to for eighteen years now, ever since we moved there. It guards the waterfall that we only have in the winter. It guards most of my secrets. It saw my first kiss, and the mountain lion that could have eaten me alive when I was fifteen. It survived my ill-laid plans for a tree house as well as several epidemics of Port Orford Cedar root rot. I hope it will survive me, survive the plans upriver to install a nickel mine that would destroy Del Norte County as I know it. I hope that bay tree will be around to watch the sun turn red. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Ladystache Diaries I've bleached it. I've waxed it. I've tweezed it. I've burned it off with chemicals.
Why? Let's start at the beginning: I've had noticeably dark hair on my upper lip since almost as far back as I can remember. Chalk it up to heritage—I’m half Mexican, half Italian, and as such am just a hairy person, period. I know I wasn't born with it, but I do remember that kids at school started making fun of me for it around age six, and I first started bleaching it at seven. My sympathetic mom bought the bleach—which I know sounds like a mild form of child abuse these days, but rest assured, it just broke her damn heart that other kids were making fun of me. I still remember the way the bleach smelled and the way it felt; the entire experience: Mix part A with part B, stir with a tiny plastic spatula and spread the grainy mixture over the affected area. Sitting on the closed toilet lid in the back bathroom as my mom crouched down and applied it; the unnatural smell stinging my nose hairs and traveling what felt like all the way into my brain. We did this every two weeks, or whenever roots started to grow in. And the bleaching didn't even work. I mean, it did bleach the hairs, but once you're known as "Mustache Girl," this is your moniker forever. Especially, as in my case, there was a sizable portion of kids from the neighborhood who were zoned for the same schools as me, and whom I saw nine months out of the year–every year—from kindergarten to college acceptance. It would have been impossible to become anything other than Girl With A Mustache, although I’m sure the fact that I was just a weird, awkward kid didn’t really help my social standing either. I eventually found some friends, but the upper-lip-hair-related comments didn’t cease. Somehow it became OK to not necessarily make fun of me (except for one guy who was cool with it—thanks for giving me a lifetime of complexes, Jeremy Celaya), but to just verbally let me know that I had a mustache. My classmates always phrased it the same precise way: "You have a mustache." I don't know if they thought they were doing me a favor, or if they were just kids being the assholes that kids are, but still, it’s kind of astounding how they all felt it was totally OK to just tell me this, to my face, as if I had no idea it was there. Had their moms not taught them good manners?! It was especially tough when I thought I'd made a new friend, and, even at age 13 or 14 or some other age where these burgeoning adolescents really should have known better, I'd be standing outside of a portable after school—the light just soft enough to highlight my then-girlstache—they'd stare for a second, and as a total non sequitur, say to me . . . The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Dude Goes to Chinatown I promised it, and now I’m delivering. I saw Inherent Vice right before the Golden Globes, and boy did I need a movie like that on my mind before going into that awards show. I’m not saying that I needed to feel high in order to watch that ceremony, but I needed something like it to get me through the four hour special. I needed to remind myself that there are good movies out there, and that they might not necessarily get recognized at a mainstream award show. It’s a shame, but it means I get the chance to evaluate a film and think about what is worth recognizing it even if the Hollywood Foreign Press Association doesn’t.
Inherent Vice is adapted from the Thomas Pynchon novel of the same name. It stars Joaquin Phoenix as Doc Sportello, a private eye living in the fictional Gordita Beach of Los Angeles in 1970. His ex-girlfriend, Shasta (Katherine Waterston), comes to him with a case. She suspects her lover is going to be committed to a mental asylum by his wife and her lover, and she wants Doc to do something. However, Doc ends up getting tangled in a much larger conspiracy and runs into various characters across L.A, including a cop who hates hippies (Josh Brolin), a man on the run (Owen Wilson), and a drug addicted dentist (Martin Short). The film is a stoner’s version of film noir. It’s a detective story, set in the dark underbelly of Los Angeles, except it’s far past the era noir is usually set in and everyone is on drugs. Yeah, there’s a lot of drug humor in this film. Weirdly, it’s not used for really cheap jokes and is played pretty realistically. The majority of characters in the film smoke (or in one case, eat) marijuana, and a few characters snort cocaine or shoot heroin. This is often used to show how addictive these people are and gives an idea that some of them might really be more hedonistic than they would admit. It’s easy to see why these people would be so hedonistic. The film is set right at the start of the 1970s, and the era of peace, love, and understanding was over. The Manson murders are referenced quite a bit, so it’s clear that the hippie movement is losing steam. A lot of the hippie characters come off as really lost and confused. They turn to narcotics and other pleasurable activities, but there’s really no reason to. They’re not making a stand or challenging society, they’re just smoking pot because they want to smoke pot. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The New New Yorker I don't remember where and when I discovered the photography blog Humans of New York (HONY), but now I know I couldn't go throughout the year without following the thousands adventures. It's a simple concept; a man with a camera roams the streets of New York City, asks them about their personal lives, and posts them to his blog. It's kind of creepy if you think about it, and under normal circumstances would. Yet many comb every street, avenue, boulevard, and alleyway to have their picture taken and their voice heard. To date, over 11 million people devour the compilation of NYC's "ordinary", vivacious, and adorable citizens. It showcases advice from the young and old. Each entry is as unique as the people in each photo. Sometimes they are humorous, other times heartbreaking. HONY captures the frustrations and concerns of our time. Though occasionally more familiar faces appear, HONY specializes in the power of authenticity and doesn't discriminate.
Brandon Stanton, the curator of thousands of stories and photographs, hardly sees himself as anything extraordinary. His beginnings, like so many he captures in his blog, are quite humble. While studying history at the University of Georgia, Stanton unknowingly began his career after taking out $3,000 in student loans and placing a bet on Barack Obama in the 2008 election. Shortly after he was given a chance at trading bonds for Gambit Trading in Chicago. When he became suddenly unemployed, Stanton took his camera and turned his hobby into a profession with one goal in mind. "I thought it would be really cool to create an exhaustive catalogue of New York City's inhabitants, so I set out to photograph 10,000 New Yorkers and plot their points on a map" as Stanton puts it on the"About" page of his blog. Since then, he has become NYC's unofficial historian, traveled the globe (including his extended project in Iran), and supported charitable organizations. His project has spawned hundreds of similar photography projects such as Humans of Richmond and many others based off of locations and cultural ties. Recently, Stanton's collection of favorites have been published in book form by the same title for those, like this individual, that enjoy the crisp smell and touch of a physical book. The HONY book became a #1 New York Times bestseller in November of 2013 and later, the adaptation for children (featuring adorable children) titled Little Humans was also made available. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Limbo Within This essay or piece of my mind is simply a protest; it is a cry of shame or maybe of pride- standing firm and tall against the social tide of gender competition; it is the suicide letter, albeit without the suicide.
But who's to blame? I honestly cannot say. The society has always been biased towards men; even some women today are biased towards men. I have listened, infuriated with so many women saying that they wish their child-to-be is a boy rather than a girl, for they cannot imagine the difficulty that their daughters will have to endure in a man’s world; that they do not want to relive the battle through them. I am not sure whether to cry or to shriek about this. I remember very well when I was young how girls were supposed to cover their nudity and to sit straight and place one leg over the other. Even at an early age while boys were celebrated every time they named their penis correctly: some contest they keep winning and keep being awarded. The award of one is the shame of the other. While men are built to find pride in their manhood to use as a weapon, women are facing early and unnecessary body rejection, shamed into a body they will carry for as long as they live, a body they should love enough in order to but not exclusively carry additional life within. And the curse continues, even today, many young women get pressured into marginalizing their emotions but cashing on their body early. Prostitution, child pornography, and sexual objectification are the mere surface; there are the hushed cries and the everyday bows to reality, as it always will be. But even closer than all of this, the milder, the more immediate and the less obvious breach of gender roles (let it be known that positive breaches of gender roles are always encouraged and appreciated) is simply the competitive nature in which men have always lived. Traditionally and psychologically, women have been the pursued, for the stakes are higher for them (pregnancy and all it entails) whereas the men are the pursuers. There’s a certain game to be played, of pushing and pulling, of challenging and wooing that will and should take place. There is where the magic has the opportunity to breathe, it is in that game or gap or rabbit hole or whatever you might want to call it, that’s where the universe puts its weight on convincing or perhaps tricking us, humans, men and women, to keep playing the game, to feed the flame, to push and pull and tickle and laugh, to make love and keep hope alive, to embellish the lies and forge new colors into our grayish realities until…the rules changed. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Bad Case of the Grouchies "How do I manage irritability toward those closest to me? I believe this is happening to me due to anxiety and a defense mechanism to ward out hurt feelings. I have had this problem for a while now, with my mom and best friends, but more lately it's happening with my boyfriend. I definitely still love him and want to be with him, but sometimes when we're actually together I get annoyed and even angry at things, like sometimes when he shows affection. It's very hard because when I'm not with him, I want to be, but when we are together I'll all-too-soon feel like I want to be alone. My entire life I've used this 'trust no bitch' defense mechanism, and it's preventing me from having a close, happy relationship. Any pointers?
- from Angry at Love" You know much more about you than I do, so I'll just respond with something that helps across all situations: Often, when I'm not with my lover, I'll long for him and yearn to be embraced, and then when he's there, I'll want to be alone. I am still working it out. I call myself "solitude-sensitive"; you might like me in that regard. I deal with it by altering my social life in accordance with the ebb and flow Honestly, I tend to sort out my feelings a lot when I'm alone which is part of why solitude is so sacred to me. I've always considered it to be what I called "solitude sensitive" and one of the conditions of being my friend or lover is that they must respect the fact that I need solitude, usually copious amounts of it. To fail to respect that part of me is to invade my personal space emotionally. You should try to be mindful of your come-here-go-away feeling patterns. If you don't have a pen, paper, or keyboard at hand, then just note your emotions, what triggered them, and whether being around people or solitude will help you feel better. Sometimes, you'll think that you want social time, only to dip your toe in and get frostbite. You might think that keeping yourself all locked up is rejuvenating you, but all work and no play makes Jack a dull and homicidal boy. Thought and self-analysis exercises gauge how much solitude you need to feel free and satisfied so that you know at what point that you actually WANT to be around people, thus increasing your desire for intimacy. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Farewell to "Andrew Logan" Last week was my imaginary ex-boyfriend's birthday. January 2, to be exact. I only know this because Facebook told me so. I had forgotten about him.
His name is Andrew Logan, and he’s 33 years old now. Well, not technically. He's actually eight; I created him back in 2007 to make a real ex-boyfriend jealous. Andrew and I met over one summer during my college years and had one of those passionate summer flings that we knew would never last and parted on the best of terms in a very conscious uncoupling fashion. From 2007 to early 2010, Andrew posted on my Facebook wall nearly every day asking me, “What’s up, doll?” or “Just thinking of you!” He was also very sweet about leaving comments on every. single. one of pictures, telling me that I looked “super hot,” while also wondering, “Why has no one scooped you up yet?” Conveniently, Andrew lives abroad (according to his profile, he currently resides in Madrid), which explains why we were never meeting up in real life despite his constant, loving admonishments of, “When can I see that pretty face of yours?” His current profile pic is that of the 2010 Madrid protests over Spain’s financial crisis...rather than a personal smiling shot because he is such an extremely private person and hates taking pictures of himself. Even without a face (which I’ve always pictured as a mix between a young Hemingway and Heath Ledger), there is a lot to envy about Andrew Logan. He is the perfect combination of brains, brawn and bravado. He was born in Vancouver—so he’s earthy and athletic—but his law degree from McGill University proves that he’s also intelligent and articulate. His favorite authors include Fyodor Dostoevsky and Stephen King, but he also loves “Futurama” and “The Office.” He gets down to Kanye and Common, but he’s not ashamed to profess his love for Elton John and Jack Johnson. He’s fluent in French and Spanish, too. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Perspective on Rolling Stone's UVA Rape Article By Gretchen Gales QuailBellMagazine.com Though it has been a couple of weeks now, there's still much to say in regards to Rolling Stone's article "A Rape on Campus: A Brutal Assault and Struggle for Justice at UVA". The article was written by Sabrina Erdely and published online November 2014 (later featured in the December 2014 print issue) of the popular publication. I recently subscribed to Rolling Stone because I enjoy reading interviews my favorite musicians and other pop culture personalities. With that said, I typically only glance at the current events and political content unless the topic catches my eye. As a Virginia college student, anything pertaining to higher education will be my immediate focus. Of course, nothing was more eye-catching than seeing an elite university at the center of controversy, especially one so familiar.
The University of Virginia (UVA) was founded by Thomas Jefferson in 1819. It has since blossomed into one of Virginia's premier universities and holds international esteem for both its academics and the "work hard, player harder" lifestyle of its students. I've personally met quite a few students and alumni of UVA, and, among them, you'll find a wide range of personalities, motivations, and interests...just like at any college or university. Not that much different from average college students who (surprise, surprise) are also concerned with social status and attending parties. But somewhere inside of us all, we enjoy seeing anything of prestige be humbled, even destroyed. Moments after seeing the headline, I caught myself thinking, Not so fancy now, eh? But let's be honest with ourselves for a moment. Why did that particular article go viral? Why was it that now that it seemed everyone suddenly cared about rape culture on campus? For the same reason I kept reading: it was a darn good juicy story filled with scandal. Later, Rolling Stone admitted that there were "discrepancies" in the article. The facts given to them by Jackie and the evidence and conclusions of the many investigations of the Phi Kappa Psi house and UVA did not align. Rolling Stone's Managing Editor Will Dana released a statement saying, "Our trust in [Jackie] was misplaced," averting blame from the magazine onto "Jackie." Shortly afterward, an updated statement was released, though it was just as disturbing as the initial statement: The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Because I Need to Question My Judgement By Alex Carrigan QuailBellMagazine.com Award season is underway! This Sunday is the 72nd Golden Globe Awards, a night full of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler comedy, celebrities getting to drink, and people watching at home pretending to understand what the Hollywood Foreign Press Association does. For most people who follow film awards, this is the ceremony that kicks the entire shebang off.
Trying to predict the Golden Globes is often a bit ore chaotic than predicting the Academy Awards, mostly because the GG audience seems to be harder to read. Most years, the awards go to some weird choices, and some of the nominees come right out of nowhere. In 2011, they nominated The Tourist, a spy drama, for Best Musical/Comedy and nominated its stars Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp for leading roles, even though the film was poorly received and not a musical or comedy. It's that kind of blatant rating stunt that threatens the legitimacy and dignity of such an awards show. So while the Golden Globes are harder to predict, especially since they have no previous awards shows for reference or betting, I will make an attempt to predict. I’m not going to predict the TV awards since I don’t feel as qualified to judge them, nor do I think they’re as relevant as the film categories. Here we go: The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Inner Monologue By Steven Joseph McCrystal QuailBellMagazine.com What on earth did I get out of bed for? It only takes a few minutes before cabin fever takes over. In between the numbness my thoughts cut me to the bone. I have hours to go before I sleep. It doesn’t matter how hard I try. I’m stuck here. As my thoughts crawl across the razors edge some good ideas pop in: a walk, a book, a bath, a shower, but none of these are real options. I just can’t move. I need to tidy up the house. There’s a circle of clutter that surrounds me. I’ve been trying to survive. I need to eat. I need to breathe. I need to sleep. The washing can lie in the machine for another day. Going stale. Just like me. I try the tele for a minute but that’s causing more damage than my thoughts. Perfect lifestyle adverts pile upon perfect lifestyle ads. Smiles upon smiles. It makes me sick. If I had a hammer in my hand I’d show those small people what life’s really like. I can’t switch off. I can’t stop thinking but there’s nothing there to think about. Standing up is just one big sigh. I am lead in motion. I move to the stereo for some joy but my favourite song poisons me. It reminds me of something I may never have again. I look out the window and there’s nothing but greyness. I look inside myself but there’s still no colour, no spark, no pulse. I feel like I’m dead. I want to die. I want to be free of this blackness. I sit back down to stare at the walls. No sound. No pictures. Just silence. I can almost hear my heart breaking one more time. My thoughts swirl around and around. There is no reprieve. There is no sanctuary from my waking mind. There is only pain. The light is only an illusion. My tunnel taunts me so but I defy gravity one more time. I stand up slowly. Once again: I am lead in motion. I move through to the bedroom but I don’t remove my week old clothes. I simply crawl under the duvet and die. That’s how I survive. #Real #CabinFever #Bedtime #WakingUp #Depression #Down #Disappointments #BigThoughts #Death Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
How to Make Purple Snow *Advanced My winter gift to you is a a spell that changes the color of snow from white to purple. It is advanced. I know this because I made it myself and have seen others die trying. 1.) Acquire purple dye of some kind. Difficult, I know, but you can use food coloring, koolaid, etc…Get creative and remember: be ADVANCED. 2.) Acquire snow. 3.) Focus your energy into your hands as you "project" the dye out of the bottle and onto the snow as you pour the purple dye out of the bottle onto the snow. If you are having problems with this, devise a chant and burn some incense. As a rule of thumb…the more esoteric and lesser-known the herbal properties of said incense is, the more potent and powerful it is. Duh. 4.) ??????? 5.) Win. #Real #Pagan #Magick #DieFluffyBunny #Satire #WitchierThanThou #PurpleSnow #DoNotEat #Science Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Everybody Spanks Everybody spanks. It is not especially sexually self-aware; "kink" as we've come to know and identify with it is less a series of preferences than it is a genre of physical and emotional interaction.
Kink has been called "the geekiness of sex" and I relate to a degree—modern geekdom and fandom have low barriers to entry. What you're a geek about, or fan of, is of secondary importance to having an enthusiasm for something, anything. My partners and I have at times wildly different preferences and fantasies. What makes our relationships "kinky" are not the specific acts themselves, but rather a desire to create and explore consensual power exchange. It's also what makes us non-exclusive. I enjoy being fucked in a stranglehold in view of strangers—my honey is mostly submissive, so I don't pressure her to perform this role for me. I have other avenues to have this need met. Her not liking to dominate me does not cessate the demand in me; our relationship has been consciously crafted to afford us the means to meet our needs with emphatic, compassionate support. Coercion flourishes in a closed circuit. Considering all this, it's no surprise that the UK is being, well, (nonconsenually) spanked over its decision to ban spanking and nine other acts—including aggressive whipping, fisting and female ejaculation—from porn. What the country's officials fail to understand is that making (consensual) spanking illegal to depict in porn does not arrest the demand for it. Viewers will still want it. A lot of viewers will still want it. Because everybody spanks. Gay, straight—I've spanked Christian university voice teachers and aspiring YA authors with two children, both of whom would assert they aren't into "freaky stuff." The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
This Town By Ren Martinez QuailBellMagazine.com My life has been a series of increasingly successful efforts to live in a pop punk song.
You know, those anthems that shout that they’re going to “leave this town” or “run away from this place” or any other variation of there being a location that must be immediately vacated. When I think of “this town,” I think of a typical suburbia just outside of Richmond, Virginia. Technically, it’s called Midlothian, but no one’s ever heard of it, so it’s easier to say I’m from Richmond. When I was a child, the landmarks of note were Cloverleaf Mall and the Regal Cinemas just beside a used car dealership. As I grew, so did the suburbs, a stuttering pubescence that saw the rise of sprawling shopping centers dotted with Starbucks coffee shops, a number of neighborhoods with “Fox” all in their names, and the sad announcement that Cloverleaf Mall was riddled with asbestos and would be closing down. My high school, once surrounded by trees and a few fast food joints, became a central hub of activity, with a oft-visited Tropical Smoothie right down the street. It was positively hateful. I have always been restless, and as the newest chain store rose, so did my need to escape. My family was always incredibly tight-knit (my Puerto Rican heritage demanding close contact), and I loved them fiercely, even as I was slowly suffocating. Weekends were expected to be spent at home, every practice or rehearsal was attended by all four sisters, and family dinners were required, even if they were in front of the television. College seemed like the best way to escape such a fate, but when the nearby university, VCU, offered me a full scholarship, I figured twenty minutes was at least a head start. A small town city full of pretentious hipsters and beer enthusiasts, Richmond settled in my bones. I loved being able to walk outside my apartment and have to choose between the vegan cafe or the cheap Thai place. The streets were always busy but never packed, and I knew where to find superior dive food (Village Inn) and the greasiest pizza (Piccola’s). But, it was only a year or two before I felt that familiar stirring in my gut, the need to wander itching beneath my skin. So, I ran away to England. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Where the Other Half Shops By Jody Rathgeb QuailBellMagazine.com During the holiday season, many made much of how you shop. Go to the mall or outlet, and you’re either boosting the national economy or selling out to the big boxes. Shop online and you’re either lauded for personal efficiency or chided for burning fossil fuels via FedEx and hurting the local merchant. Shop locally, and they roll their eyes at how stupid you are to pay premium prices for the same thing you can pick up cheaply at Walmart.
What the critics and shoppers alike miss is Option D: none of the above, the alternative economy. It’s been there all along, but you might not have seen it unless you’ve avoided an interstate tie-up by taking a less-used slow route to your destination. Or if you’ve taken a wrong turn and ended up in a neighborhood you would usually avoid. There, at the intersection of Where’m I and Which Way, is the used tire store, a dusty thrift shop, a heavily grilled bodega, and a place to buy day-old bread, where a good chunk of America goes shopping. I grew up without knowing this spot exists. Although my earliest shopping memories recall small-town department stores, I came of age in the doughnut of malls and strip centers as Greensburg, Pennsylvania was reborn as suburbia. Nearby, Monroeville Mall was replacing Pittsburgh’s grand old stores. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Whydah, Coulda, Shoulda By Zack Budryk QuailBellMagazine.com Not a lot is small or quiet in Provincetown, Massachusetts. If you walk down the Cape Cod town’s main thoroughfare, particularly during the summer months, almost everything and everyone you see is energetic, sunny and gay. To complete the picture, occasionally you’ll see cult director John Waters, who has made the town a second home after his native Baltimore, riding his bike. There is, however, one exception: At the end of the pier on the waterfront, the departure point for the whale watches that are one of town’s major draws, you’ll find a small, quiet museum dedicated to an auspicious milestone: the first sunken pirate ship ever recovered.
The Whydah, an English slave ship, was captured by Captain “Black Sam” Bellamy and his crew in the Caribbean in 1717, after which Bellamy made for the Carolinas and hit a nor’easter, hitting a sandbar and capsizing (local legend holds that Bellamy was heading for Provincetown Harbor to rendezvous with his lover Maria Hallett, the “Witch of Wellfleet”). Of the 146 men onboard the ship,144, including Bellamy, drowned in the wreck. More than 200 years later, in 1984, archaeologist Barry Clifford recovered the wreck of the ship after several years of false starts, to the point that his belief that he’d found the wreck had become something of a running joke in the local press. Clifford established the museum to house the artifacts recovered from the wreck, ranging from cannons to the ship’s bell to improvised explosive devices. Probably the most notable thing about the museum is, again, its size. A find like this seems like something you’d find in a high-ceilinged room in the Smithsonian, where every footfall ends up loud enough for the old man who’s been sitting on the bench for half an hour to turn and give you a dirty look. But the museum, like a lot of other Provincetown buildings, is small and intimate, a one-story affair that you move through in a circle, coming out just across the room from where you came in. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Nights of the Laughing Dead The Victorians wanted to preserve the memories of deceased loved ones with photographs like how we modern folk try to preserve corpses. Apparently, “the practice fell out of fashion as photos became more commonplace with the arrival of the snapshot” during the brink of the 20th century, probably due to the the limited shelf-life of the lifeless body being posed like a mannequin on display. Remembering your loved ones lounging in a chair or cradle might be more comforting than remembering them face-planted or loll-eyed and bloating on the floor. But very few people nowadays look upon their loved one’s corpses and think, “Now this is something that I totally want haunting my dreams forever.”
Pictures say thousands of words. Yet of the thousands spoken from Victorian memorial pictures, I can only understand so many when those words come from corpses with eyes painted onto their lids to give them a living likeness, people holding dead children in their arms like freshly-hunted deer, and corpses posed among the living in arrangements that are identical to the classic portraits of families with warm blood and beating hearts. Since alabaster complexions were so de rigueur back then, they wanted to take advantage of the pallor mortis kicking in. Sure, we can sit here and poke fun at those wacky Victorian times. We can laugh and shudder at how the people of the past thought it was cool to pose corpses like mannequin. We now have reason to question the living status of every person in the majority of Victorian photographs we’ve ever seen. Or we can gawk at corpses that actually pose themselves. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
We're Never Doing It Again Get AWAY from him, you sicko! Credit: Thinkstock As the mopey song goes: "What do you get when you kiss a girl?"
Yeah, what? "You get enough germs to catch pneumonia!" While we can't vouch for the scientific accuracy of the pneumonia accusation, there is an undeniable element of truth to this lyric. Indeed, new research conducted by Micropia and TNO in the Netherlands reveals that there is a significant amount of bacteria-swapping that occurs during moments of intimacy. Researchers tested 21 couples, ranging in age from 17 to 45, and asked them a series of questions regarding their smooching habits. Scientists gave one half of each couple a probiotic drink before asking them to embark on a full-on makeout sesh (or, as they put it, "intimate kiss"). In doing so, they were able to track the passing of new bacteria. And that's when things got . . . gross. Using this method, researchers calculated that kissing someone for 10 seconds transfers 80 million bacteria. To put that in perspective, if these germs were dollars, they would be equal to Jon Stewart's net worth. Couples (in general) share much of their tongue microbiota—probably from swapping so much spit. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I Think I'm Gonna' Like It Here (Sorry) By Colleen Foster QuailBellMagazine.com There are myriad reasons this newest reboot of Annie should make me break out in hives.
First of all, my Broadway roots predispose me to resistance. As a former musical theater performer and still enthusiast, I’ve been conditioned by the community to be rubbed the wrong way by the plucky little orphan. After a few too many shrieked renditions of “Tomorrow” in audition rooms, she’s become a bit of a persona non grata. Which is a shame, because the original 1977 score, with music by Charles Strouse and lyrics by Martin Charnin, rarely gets the praise it deserves. Second, each actor has been Auto-Tuned to within an inch of their audio life. We’re going to assume that no one was cast without some proven ability to vocalize in a somewhat harmonious way, but showbiz being what it is, the jury’s still out. The whole thing could have been recorded in spoken word and then had pitch injected with a few spun dials. The days of Marnie Nixon saving starlets’ nonmusical asses in The King and I, West Side Story, and My Fair Lady are long gone. For better or worse, it’s amazing what you can do with recording technology nowadays. Thirdly...oh hell, let’s just stop there. I admit it, let the nonplussed reviewers and 4.9 stars on IMDB skewer me: Annie was a guilty pleasure. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Words from the Front-woman of Kill My Coquette Natalie Denise Sperl is the front woman of Los Angeles-based quartet Kill My Coquette whose self-titled debut EP is due out on January 20th. Armed with attitude and boasting vital rock & punk with a twist of designer blues, Kill My Coquette is influenced by game-changing artists like Jack White, Lou Reed, Joan Jett and the New York Dolls, but they have a sound all their own. Written and arranged by Natalie, the 5-song EP was recorded at Evelyn Martin Recordings in Los Angeles with producer Danny McGough (Tom Waits, Social Distortion).
She generously shares with LFF about playing the sax in high school and picking up a guitar years later; her inspirations from Hunter S. Thompson to Anais Nin; the meaning behind the band name; how L.A. is for women in music and much more… Where are you from? How did you get into music? I’m from a tiny town in Minnesota called Ulm. Restless Catholic school girl. Music has been in my life as far back as I can remember. My Dad liked to blast music every morning before school. Classic stuff mostly. Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen. My brother was into punk while my Mom liked Janis Joplin. It was an eclectic mix to say the least. I’m sure the neighbors loved us! My brother and I formed a band way back and he played drums while I sang. I don’t remember it lasting too long. Creative differences perhaps, lol. Anyway, I was in choir and eventually joined the school band. I chose the sax because Springsteen’s band had one. I eventually let that go in favor of acting in school plays and didn’t pick up an instrument again until years later. Two years ago in fact - when I plugged in an electric guitar. It’s true what they say about them. Epic moment. From that point on I learned the instrument and practiced as much as I could. I dusted off my notebooks and arranged and re-arranged lyrics to form the songs on my very first EP. |
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