Paperblog A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

"Mabel's not crazy... she's unusual."

Those of you who are also working today (freelance life) might have seen the feminist cries of outrage over the released photographs of naked celebrities stored on Apple’s iCloud.
I get the outrage, because it’s really embarrassing to have naked photographs of yourself released to a general public. Not that it’s ever happened to me…yet. 
But I don’t get how releasing these nude photographs is any different than the type of degradation female celebrities — and by extension, females in general — submit themselves to on a daily basis.
Jessica Roy on nymag.com wrote, for example: “Hackers obliterated these celebrities’ right to privacy and reduced their bodies to strings of ones and zeroes to be offered up to the greedy male gaze.”
Hackers did that? Really?
I mean, look at the picture of Jennifer Lawrence from “Esquire” magazine, above.
Look, I don’t think that it’s right to ever invade someone’s privacy. Three thoughts, however:
1. I actually feel like it’s less violent and disturbing to see a nude photograph of a celebrity, taken of her own body, than the atrocious, scary, malignant cancers that infiltrate our society in the form of Photo-shopped spreads in glossy magazines. In fact, I would rather see raw photographs of beautiful women, because then I’d at least be like, “Oh, your nipples look like that? I always thought mine were so weird!”
2. WHY ARE WE SO ASHAMED OF NAKED BODIES??? And especially female bodies. Like, you can show a woman walking on the red carpet with a strip of fabric over her nipples and her pudendum, and everyone is like, “Ok, fine, she’s on the red carpet, we accept this.” But you see a celebrity’s vagina, and everyone is like, “THE OUTRAGE, QUELLE HORROR, LET US RISE UP AGAINST MISOGYNY.” And I’m, um, did you just regain your eyesight, or is it that you’ve been in Guantanamo without access to media since you were born?
3. If you have taken a naked picture of yourself, you can never reasonably expect that to be safe, not even if you’re a celebrity. The same goes with emails, text messages and Gchat, which is why I just write everything private about myself on my blog. WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY LEARN FROM HACKING ME BESIDES THAT I HAVE THE BARENAKED LADIES IN MY iTUNES. Anyone who believes differently has clearly never worked an office job.
The naked pictures are bad. But don’t you, ladies who write for glossy magazines, feel more disgusted by airbrushed pictures of female celebrities in tiny bathing suits that you run on the pages of your own magazines? Like seriously, come on.

Those of you who are also working today (freelance life) might have seen the feminist cries of outrage over the released photographs of naked celebrities stored on Apple’s iCloud.

I get the outrage, because it’s really embarrassing to have naked photographs of yourself released to a general public. Not that it’s ever happened to me…yet. 

But I don’t get how releasing these nude photographs is any different than the type of degradation female celebrities — and by extension, females in general — submit themselves to on a daily basis.

Jessica Roy on nymag.com wrote, for example: “Hackers obliterated these celebrities’ right to privacy and reduced their bodies to strings of ones and zeroes to be offered up to the greedy male gaze.”

Hackers did that? Really?

I mean, look at the picture of Jennifer Lawrence from “Esquire” magazine, above.

Look, I don’t think that it’s right to ever invade someone’s privacy. Three thoughts, however:

1. I actually feel like it’s less violent and disturbing to see a nude photograph of a celebrity, taken of her own body, than the atrocious, scary, malignant cancers that infiltrate our society in the form of Photo-shopped spreads in glossy magazines. In fact, I would rather see raw photographs of beautiful women, because then I’d at least be like, “Oh, your nipples look like that? I always thought mine were so weird!”

2. WHY ARE WE SO ASHAMED OF NAKED BODIES??? And especially female bodies. Like, you can show a woman walking on the red carpet with a strip of fabric over her nipples and her pudendum, and everyone is like, “Ok, fine, she’s on the red carpet, we accept this.” But you see a celebrity’s vagina, and everyone is like, “THE OUTRAGE, QUELLE HORROR, LET US RISE UP AGAINST MISOGYNY.” And I’m, um, did you just regain your eyesight, or is it that you’ve been in Guantanamo without access to media since you were born?

3. If you have taken a naked picture of yourself, you can never reasonably expect that to be safe, not even if you’re a celebrity. The same goes with emails, text messages and Gchat, which is why I just write everything private about myself on my blog. WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY LEARN FROM HACKING ME BESIDES THAT I HAVE THE BARENAKED LADIES IN MY iTUNES. Anyone who believes differently has clearly never worked an office job.

The naked pictures are bad. But don’t you, ladies who write for glossy magazines, feel more disgusted by airbrushed pictures of female celebrities in tiny bathing suits that you run on the pages of your own magazines? Like seriously, come on.

Comments 7 notes

I Am Not Someone Who Is For Everyone: On Owning My Condescending Feelings Towards Douchebags

I had to realize that the male idea of successful love is to get a woman into a state of secure dependency which the male can renew by a touch or a pat or a gesture now and then while he reserves his major attention for his work in the world or the contemplation of the various forms of surrogate combat men find so transfixing. I had to realize that female-style love is servile and petitionary and moves in the direction of greater and greater displays of servility whose object is to elicit from the male partner a surplus — the word was emphasized in some way — of face-to-face attention. So on the distaff side the object is to reduce the quantity of servile display needed to keep the pacified state between the mates in being. Equilibrium or perfect mating will come when the male is convinced he is giving less than he feels is really required to maintain dependency and the woman feels she is getting more from him than her servile displays should merit.” — Norman Rush, Mating

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Before I got married, everyone told me that life after marriage would be different. I thought that they meant that my relationship with Caleb would achieve more gravity. The vow is binding, and thus, the commitment to each other becomes an even deeper partnership.

I was wrong.

What changes in a marriage is the power dynamic between men and women. When we go away for the weekend now, as a couple, to stay with other couple friends, I spend my time in the kitchen helping the females prepare food and clean the house, and Caleb sits out on the porch or in front of the television with the other men, drinking beer and occasionally grilling.

This is the way it is.

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"Get up," I hiss to Caleb, pinching his arm. "Get in the kitchen right now and empty the dishwasher to help us."

He does, and the other men do not follow, because unlike the women, they do not feel any guilt seeing other people do work in the kitchen — work for them — and doing nothing to help. I feel guilty. I am a woman. “I’m sorry,” I say when I see another women cooking. “Can I do anything to help?”

"Can you give me $100 to leave for food?" I ask Caleb, and he takes out his wallet. His role is to give me money, and mine is to not make a scene in front of other people.

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Comments 49 notes

Me and My Sister, Catching Up Before Labor Day Weekend

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Some notes:

1. My sister and I have had at least 10 20-second catch-up phone conversations since these.

2. She is driving herself to the Berkshires, so if I were you, I would postpone your Labor Day plans until she kills someone else.

Comments 3 notes
It could be the future, although it is from the past.

It could be the future, although it is from the past.

Comments 4 notes
I found blueberries on the street yesterday, and I give you an August poem.
You Can’t Have It All
by Barbara Ras
But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown handsgloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old fingeron your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful lookof the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would biteevery sorrow until it fled, and when it is August,you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love,though often it will be mysterious, like the white foamthat bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneysuntil you realize foam’s twin is blood.You can have the skin at the center between a man’s legs,so solid, so doll-like. You can have the life of the mind,glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness,never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who’ll tell youall roads narrow at the border.You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the gravewhere your father wept openly. You can’t bring back the dead,but you can have the words forgive and forget hold handsas if they meant to spend a lifetime together. And you can be gratefulfor makeup, the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, gratefulfor Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towelssucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts,for passion fruit, for saliva. You can have the dream,the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leapingof distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.You can’t count on grace to pick you out of a crowdbut here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mindas real as Africa. And when adulthood fails you,you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pondof your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananasyour grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother’s,it will always whisper, you can’t have it all,but there is this.

I found blueberries on the street yesterday, and I give you an August poem.

You Can’t Have It All

by Barbara Ras

But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands
gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old finger
on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.
You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look
of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite
every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August,
you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love,
though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam
that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys
until you realize foam’s twin is blood.
You can have the skin at the center between a man’s legs,
so solid, so doll-like. You can have the life of the mind,
glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness,
never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who’ll tell you
all roads narrow at the border.
You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the grave
where your father wept openly. You can’t bring back the dead,
but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands
as if they meant to spend a lifetime together. And you can be grateful
for makeup, the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, grateful
for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels
sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts,
for passion fruit, for saliva. You can have the dream,
the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.
You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,
at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping
of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.
You can’t count on grace to pick you out of a crowd
but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,
how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,
until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,
and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind
as real as Africa. And when adulthood fails you,
you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond
of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas
your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.
There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother’s,
it will always whisper, you can’t have it all,
but there is this.

Comments 12 notes
Love.

Love.

Comments 1 note
Wrong.
Comments 4 notes
In the interest of pale beauty.

In the interest of pale beauty.

Comments 4 notes

Summertime By David Lean: A Review

I only have a few minutes to write, because I need to finish this fucking book, which is actually beginning to feel like a sinking ship into which I need to pour all of my time to save, but from what? There are no stakes. I love doing it. Loving is enough, although I wouldn’t mind making some money to buy a nice fall sweater.

I think I might start writing in run on sentences for a bit after reading a James Wood review on James Kelman, who seems fucking fantastic. James Wood is fucking fantastic as well, am I wrong? He’s the book critic for the New Yorker. I used to love Anthony Lane and David Denby because I used to go see more movies. Now, I read more books, because books are almost the same price as movies, and you can bring them to the park with you in the summertime or on the subway.

One place I do watch films is on planes, because is there else to do? Reading on planes gives me headaches, a bit, although I do that as well. I try to never waste any of my time, not even when I’m on a plane, not unless I’m watching the Real Housewives, so usually, on planes, I watch old movies. I want to edu-macate myself about old movies.

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Comments 10 notes
This is the house Caleb and I would have if we had any money.

This is the house Caleb and I would have if we had any money.

Comments 10 notes
"What did I want? I wanted Denoon either to turn out to be the definitive elusive great man or I wanted him to turn out to be an open-and-shut fraud — that is, mediocre — so I could go on with my lifelong headlong flight from the unintelligentsia and all its works. I don’t know which I wanted more, although I’ve thought about it. I was well aware this was chapter nine thousand in the supremely boring unfinished comic opera The Mediocre and Me, and also aware there was nothing so superlative about me as to justify my stupid elitism. But there it was, crazing me as usual. The psychogenesis of this is not a mystery to me.”

"What did I want? I wanted Denoon either to turn out to be the definitive elusive great man or I wanted him to turn out to be an open-and-shut fraud — that is, mediocre — so I could go on with my lifelong headlong flight from the unintelligentsia and all its works. I don’t know which I wanted more, although I’ve thought about it. I was well aware this was chapter nine thousand in the supremely boring unfinished comic opera The Mediocre and Me, and also aware there was nothing so superlative about me as to justify my stupid elitism. But there it was, crazing me as usual. The psychogenesis of this is not a mystery to me.”

Comments 5 notes
Tristan da Cunha
Comments 3 notes
Salt.
Comments 10 notes

The Emmy Awards 2014: A Fashion Analysis

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I really should be doing other things, but I’m going to start my morning by doing a fashion analysis of of the 2014 Emmy Awards because I can’t help myself.

Last night, looking at the red carpet round-up on the New York Times website, I was struck by the diversity of female body types and ethnicities in our television shows, and it made me proud to be an American. And then I was like, is the New York Times fooling me by cleverly organizing this thing? And then I was like, “Oh wait, the only reason for this is because of the women playing prisoners on Orange is the New Black.”

I guess I’ll start with the pretty.

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I basically always think that January Jones looks the prettiest, first of all because she is the prettiest, and second of all because she always wears something interesting without looking like a lunatic. Like on someone else, this dress might look like a magician’s cape, but on her, it looks like an elegant 1950’s ballgown.

I take serious issue with her hair, however. Why get those bangs? They look like straw. Or like Harry Dunne on Dumb & Dumber.

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Whatever she still looked fabulous.

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People in the know will immediately recognize that what Clare Danes is wearing is a version of Kim Kardashian’s Givenchy wedding dress. Seriously. This is a version of it in red with way, way too many jeweled details. Why is the belt plain in the front and jeweled in the back? I don’t get it.

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It looks like something my sister made with a glue gun and then tried to stick to a leather bag.

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Everyone seems to love Christina Hendrick’s dress but I think she looks like a wet cocker spaniel wearing a pet costume. No offense.

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There is a Ukranian baby inside of Haley Panettierre.

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Comments 26 notes
"What does this place say? Suppose you went to the Chinese embassy and it turned out to be a replica of an American log cabin circa 1830? You’d be flummoxed. Is everything ultimately a camp experience, is this the message?"

"What does this place say? Suppose you went to the Chinese embassy and it turned out to be a replica of an American log cabin circa 1830? You’d be flummoxed. Is everything ultimately a camp experience, is this the message?"

Comments 4 notes