h/t Questionable Advice
December 6, 2013
December 4, 2013
Average-Looking but Good with Eyeliner Maria of My Soul
So I've been reading some Latin-American novels lately --The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz and Beautiful María of my Soul by Oscar Hijuelos and I gotta ask:
Have these guys ever even met a woman?
They've both got Pulitzers under their belts, which admittedly meant a lot more to me before I knew a few men --always men-- on Pulitzer committees, so it's not like they lack chops.
And yet there's nothing self-designated misunderstood geniuses who don't understand why their very act of existence doesn't merit some sort of pussy salary *coughOSCARWAOcough* love more than wanking over novels about --you guessed it-- self-designated misunderstood geniuses who don't understand why their very act of existence doesn't merit some sort of pussy salary. They eat that stuff up.
And who can blame the food metaphor when female characters, even the ones who are otherwise complex, are constantly described by the current market value of their body parts.This one has juicy thighs, this other has a tender breast, María's skin is perfectly done and golden brown.
To paraphrase Robert Smith, I really do [bleeping] despair.
The all-consuming physical perfection of Hijuelos' María and the minutely-documented blossom and decay of Wao's female characters' sexual desirability is jarring and tiresome, especially from such talented writers. No woman, not a single one, looks hetero-dude fantasy perfect every minute of every day. To pretend she is is just lazy writing. Hell, the only movie star I look like when I wake up is Oliver Reed. Sure you could say it's just how the narrator, not the author himself, sees women, but it's too pervasive for that, and besides, why not write a better, more complex narrator?
I know I can't be alone on this.
After reading yet another book on a flawlessly, stereotypically beautiful woman (who never actually works on being beautiful, because it's totally within the realm of possibility to have your life saved by a magical mongoose but a woman bleaching her 'stache is a bridge too far), I begin to see the appeal of heroines like whatever her name is in those Twilight books, who are apparently devoid of anything but the most basic physical description.
I haven't read them, what with having standards and all, but I get the appeal.
Have these guys ever even met a woman?
 |
| Starring the amalgamated humpable parts of a woman |
And yet there's nothing self-designated misunderstood geniuses who don't understand why their very act of existence doesn't merit some sort of pussy salary *coughOSCARWAOcough* love more than wanking over novels about --you guessed it-- self-designated misunderstood geniuses who don't understand why their very act of existence doesn't merit some sort of pussy salary. They eat that stuff up.
And who can blame the food metaphor when female characters, even the ones who are otherwise complex, are constantly described by the current market value of their body parts.This one has juicy thighs, this other has a tender breast, María's skin is perfectly done and golden brown.
To paraphrase Robert Smith, I really do [bleeping] despair.
The all-consuming physical perfection of Hijuelos' María and the minutely-documented blossom and decay of Wao's female characters' sexual desirability is jarring and tiresome, especially from such talented writers. No woman, not a single one, looks hetero-dude fantasy perfect every minute of every day. To pretend she is is just lazy writing. Hell, the only movie star I look like when I wake up is Oliver Reed. Sure you could say it's just how the narrator, not the author himself, sees women, but it's too pervasive for that, and besides, why not write a better, more complex narrator?
I know I can't be alone on this.
After reading yet another book on a flawlessly, stereotypically beautiful woman (who never actually works on being beautiful, because it's totally within the realm of possibility to have your life saved by a magical mongoose but a woman bleaching her 'stache is a bridge too far), I begin to see the appeal of heroines like whatever her name is in those Twilight books, who are apparently devoid of anything but the most basic physical description.
I haven't read them, what with having standards and all, but I get the appeal.
December 1, 2013
I'm Ba-aack!
Except I didn't go to Disneyland; I didn't even go to Tijuana, which a friend of mine once described as "Disneyland for anarchist perverts" and which, truth be told, I prefer to anything Walt ever invented because if I'm going to have ultimately destructive gender roles shoved down my throat, they better be accompanied by some high quality tacos and someone trying to take my picture with a donkey.
I suppose the better question to ask would be what did you all do on my not-actually-summer vacation, since I am but one mere mortal and you are...probably not actually reading anymore. If you are, check in and tell me what's been going on in your world and if anyone had any good fights over Thanksgiving Day. I know I had a whopper!
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