30 November, 2005 | 2 Comments

According to today’s Guardian, a new study released in Britain has found that “artists are more likely to share key behavioural traits with schizophrenics, and that they have on average twice as many sexual partners as the rest of the population.”

In the study, the artists surveyed were visual artists and poets. Apparently, artists and schizophrenics have a “greater tendency to feel in between reality and a dream state, or to feel overwhelmed by one’s own thoughts,” says the Guardian story.

Dr. Daniel Nettle of Newcastle University, one of the scientists who carried out the study, told the Guardian that “the results suggest that the creativity of some artists is fuelled by the unique world view mental illness can provide, but without the completely debilitating aspects of the condition. Instead, the artists are able to direct their creativity into artistic projects.”

In an entry on the Culture Vulture blog, Andrew Dickson, arts editor of the Guardian, probes the sexual aspect of the study. He quotes Dr. Nettle as saying that, “Creative people are often considered to be very attractive and get lots of attention as a result…They tend to be charismatic and produce art and poetry that grabs people’s interest…It could also be that very creative types lead a bohemian lifestyle and tend to act on more sexual impulses and opportunities, often purely for experience’s sake, than the average person would…Partners, even long-term ones, are less likely to expect loyalty and fidelity from them.”

Dickson contends that it’s primarily male artists who jump from bed to bed, but as someone who has spent a great deal of time around poets and writers of both genders, I disagree.

So what’s the moral of this story? If you’re lookin’ for monogamous love, marry a scientist.

29 November, 2005 | Comments are off

Normally, the 800 residents in the hall where I live ignore the fire alarm because it goes off all the time, screeching for 30 seconds before someone turns it off. Burnt toast? Microwave popcorn mishap? Who knows. But tonight there was an actual fire drill and the staff had to knock on our doors and drag us out. Funnily enough, right before the drill, the Internet service in the building went out. Now that’s clever!

I really enjoyed shivering outside in the darkness, wearing flip flops and a pajama top under my coat. Imagine the planning session that preceded tonight’s event:

Suit #1: I say we have a fire drill!

Suit #2: Yes, but let’s wait until the end of November when it’s 30 degrees outside.

Suit #1: Great idea!

Still, the drill was a good opportunity to chat with the neighbours. One non-Brit joked that if there was a fire, it would take 6 hours for the fire brigade to turn up. I did NOT laugh at this malicious joke, which poked fun at that English habit of, well, taking their time. Of course I didn’t laugh. In other news, a fellow American told me that last week, only a block away, she was attacked by some sort of vicious girl gangsta! In Bloomsbury! Oh dear. I don’t know what worries me more — violent youths roaming our leafy enclave or the thought that if there’s ever a real fire in this building, we’ll all perish.

28 November, 2005 | 3 Comments

You may have been stuffing your face and shopping during this holiday weekend, but don’t feel guilty. Angelina Jolie tended to the poor and the needy on your behalf, consoling survivors in earthquake-ravaged Pakistan as an ambassador for the UN. She has atoned for your gluttonous sins.

News reports of Angelina’s latest humanitarian mission have prompted this rant. Enjoy.

Only a few short years ago, Angelina Jolie was Hollywood’s wild child, a former drug addict who French kissed her brother in public, wore a vial of Billy Bob Thornton’s blood around her neck, and had a penchant for self-mutilation. But now she is no longer the actress renowned more for her silicone-plumped lips than for her acting ability. Now she is Saint Angelina. I predict that at next year’s Oscar ceremony, she may ascend directly to heaven in a burst of golden light.

Angelina’s miraculous transformation can be traced back to her adoption of son Maddox in 2002. The entertainment media (and by extension the news media in general, since there is very little difference nowadays) lionizes celebrity motherhood, tracing the stars’ growing “bumps” with glee (and then ridiculing them later if they don’t slim down fast enough). After the birth, the new celeb mamas predictably gush that their lives are forever changed, that winning an Oscar cannot compare to wiping up baby sick. Welcome to the 1950s! Meanwhile, regular women are left to feel inadequate in the face of such media spin, which seems completely believable to most people.

Angelina Jolie cleverly zoomed past all of the unpleasant pregnancy business. No stretch marks or weight gain for her! By adopting an orphan from Cambodia, Angelina became not only an instant mother but a champion of the underprivileged children of the world. Almost instantaneously, Angelina ceased to be a weirdo in the eyes of the media and became Super Mom instead. Only motherhood could have bestowed such veneration upon her talentless shoulders. And it only helped Angelina’s image that Billy Bob appeared to end their relationship over the adoption. Angelina sacrificed her marriage for motherhood!

The new activist version of Saint Angelina became a Goodwill Ambassador for the U.N., which means, essentially, that the taxpayers are financing her worldwide exploits (and I do mean that literally). Images of her making out with Billy Bob on the red carpet have been replaced by photos of her in a business suit sitting next to Condoleezza Rice and Hillary Clinton. Her T&A film roles are carefully balanced with paparazzi shots of her carting Cambodian tot Maddox all over the world like a Birkin Bag. The media cannot get enough and neither can the public, apparently.

Further proof of Angelina’s sainthood is obvious to anyone who’s been following the celebrity news story of the year. Under normal circumstances, when Brad Pitt dumped America’s Sweetheart Jennifer Aniston for another woman, the other woman would have been vilified by the press. But unfortunately for Aniston, the other woman in this case was Saint Angelina. So Aniston became the villain instead, portrayed as a selfish career woman with a barren womb who sent her husband rushing to the maternal bosom of Jolie. By all accounts, this is a complete fabrication in every way, yet the media ran with it. Poor Brad! All he wanted was a baby. And now he has not only little Maddox to call him papa but Jolie’s newest acquisition, Ethiopian baby Zahara. Here’s Brad carrying Zahara through an airport this weekend:

Awwwwwwwww! Isn’t an African baby the perfect accessory?

Brad Pitt is clearly an asshole. But I wonder if Saint Angelina actually believes her own press by now? Her father, Jon Voight, famously said in a TV interview a few years ago that his daughter is mentally ill. While he didn’t get specific, my guess is that she does believe her own messianic press. I mean, sista ain’t that good of an actress.

I cannot recall another situation where a Hollywood star has so radically changed her image, especially in such a short period of time. Of course, Tom Cruise did it in reverse this summer, shattering his carefully constructed façade of normalness to reveal the brainwashed cult member and all-around nutjob within. (God, that was fun to witness.) But Saint Angelina’s extreme makeover is fascinating because it so obviously highlights the sexism, conservatism and utter shallowness of today’s media. I know, what a shock.

27 November, 2005 | Comments are off

I am reading Mikhail Bakhtin as part of my PhD research. Actually, right now I’m reading a book about Bakhtin in the hopes that it will help me understand the book by Bakhtin that I just read. Much of Bakhtin’s work is too abstract for me, but occasionally a light bulb will go on, as happened recently when reading Michael Holquist’s book Dialogism: Bakhtin and his World:

“For in order to see ourselves, we must appropriate the vision of others. Restated in its crudest vision, the Bakhtinian just-so story of subjectivity is the tale of how I get my self from the other: it is only the other’s categories that will let me be an object for my own perception. I see my self as I conceive others might see it. In order to forge a self, I must do so from the outside. In other words, I author myself.” [Page 28]

You have to admit, this is lovely.

26 November, 2005 | Comments are off

I’m no fan of Camilla Parker-Bowles, the second Mrs. Prince of Wales. But her son has won me over. In a Guardian piece about famous men and food, food writer Tom P-B said:

“What always depresses me is when either men or women don’t like eating. My wife, my sister, my mother, all the girls I know eat as much as I do. That is, a lot. Hearty appetites are hugely attractive.”

Looks like Camilla did one thing right…

25 November, 2005 | Comments are off

In the winter, I tend to hibernate. I don’t like the cold and the dark. And I really hate snow. But this year I am a leopardess who has changed her spots. I am making a big effort to enjoy the festivities and culture that London has to offer.

Thankfully, it doesn’t snow much in London, which will help me approach winter differently. Today many parts of Europe experienced their first snow of the season. Parts of the UK experienced a “blizzard,” which I was relieved to discover meant 5 to 8 inches of snow, not the two feet of snow that constitutes a blizzard in New England. Still, the snow caused misery and chaos for thousands, probably because people are unaccustomed to heavy snow. But if any flakes fell in London today, I missed them.

This evening, I ventured out to a Christmas fair on Lamb’s Conduit Street, a tiny stretch of shops and flats nearby. The air smelled of roasting kebabs and incense. A gift shop selling raunchy greeting cards and lingerie had Father Christmas on hand for the kiddies. Everyone was complaining about the bitter cold, but it really wasn’t bad. I bought a dictionary that translates American English into English English (and vice versa). Who knew that noughts and crosses is actually tic-tac-toe?!

When I got home from the fair I checked the post and found my tickets to The Nutcracker! Hurrah!

Only four more months until daylight saving time…Only four more months until daylight saving time …Only four more months…

24 November, 2005 | Comments are off

Happy Thanksgiving to my American friends! I celebrated the holiday this evening with fellow American students at Smollenskys on the Strand. They offered a fixed price dinner of turkey and roasted veggies and pecan pie. While the food certainly didn’t taste like “Thanksgiving” to me (duck burrito as a starter, anyone?), it was the spirit of the day that mattered.

Be thankful!

23 November, 2005 | Comments are off

You’ll be relieved to know that the noxious trend of reality television thrives on both sides of the Atlantic. In fact, I think it may be even more popular in the UK, which seems to be the launching pad for many shows that find their way to the States.

Yours truly rarely indulges in reality TV, though if I had been living here earlier this year, I would have watched famous feminist author Germaine Greer lose her mind and become a contestant on Celebrity Big Brother. However, last night I forced myself to watch an episode of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! I only watched so I could report on it for my faithful blog readers, of course. The latest series of the pointless show features a plethora of mostly D-list British celebrities who are stranded in the Australian outback where only one will survive to the end. (Unfortunately, they won’t be fighting each other to the death.) But there is one American in the group, Utah’s own goody two-shoes Jimmy Osmond. Last night, the younger sibling of Donnie and Marie was locked in a pen with angry kangaroos. And did I mention one of his mates on the Survivor-esque show is Carol Thatcher, daughter of Margaret? Perhaps the Bush twins have a future after all.

22 November, 2005 | Comments are off

The BBC has gone mad for Shakespeare. This fall, on television and radio, they are filling the airwaves with the Bard. The centrepiece of this extravaganza is four dramas airing on BBC One. Each drama is a modern reinterpretation of a Shakespeare play, set in modern-day Britain and sans the highfalutin language. Much Ado About Nothing was transplanted to a news studio in Wessex. The contemporary MacBeth was about chefs in a top restaurant. The shrew in last night’s The Taming of the Shrew was a Tory MP. And the upcoming A Midsummer’s Night Dream is set in a leisure park. Not surprisingly, many critics are having a hissy fit about this sacrilege. According to the Guardian: “The Shakespeare season is inventive, often wildly so, brave, and occasionally interesting. It is also a tragic failure and a dreadful waste of money.”

Oh, shut up!

I did not watch the first two dramas. I’m not glued to the TV, people! But I could not resist The Taming of the Shrew last night. It’s about gender politics and Rufus Sewell plays Petruchio. It’s hard for a gal to pass up Rufus, let me tell you. The Shrew was directed by a woman, which was a smart move. For those not familiar with the utterly misogynist plot of the play, you can read an overview here. In a nutshell, an ill-tempered woman is married off and forced into submission by a brute of a husband. Wrote one critic: “The conclusion of Taming of the Shrew – in which Kate submits to the rule of her husband – is so at odds with modern gender politics that some refuse to perform the original text.”

In large part, much of last night’s retelling was an almost-successful satire about women and power and relationships. Kate is a young Tory MP (and all-around nasty person) who wants to try for the party leadership, but she’s not married and people think she’s a lesbian. Uh oh! Petruchio is an aristocrat with a title and lots of debt who wants to marry a rich broad. They meet in an elevator and one week later they’re married. He shows up for their wedding drunk, wearing stiletto boots and a miniskirt. Oh, did I mention he likes to dress up in ladies’ clothes? (Somehow, Rufus still manages to look quite smouldering in purple eye shadow.) Kate didn’t know about the cross-dressing and they start their honeymoon in a massive battle, with Kate threatening divorce.

Eventually, Petruchio “tames” his shrew while they’re in Italy. Because Kate is so monstrous, it’s a relief when she stops screaming and flipping people off. But the modern adaptation tries to have it both ways. The last cringe-worthy scene features Kate spouting totally bogus-sounding dialogue about submitting to her husband while her mother and sister roll their eyes. Then we learn that Kate eventually becomes the prime minister and her husband is a happy stay-at-home dad to triplets. Perhaps this totally schizo ending is meant to reflect the impossible situation powerful women with families often find themselves in. Perhaps. But I’m not willing to give the filmmakers that much credit.

21 November, 2005 | 2 Comments

The big news here is the murder of a police officer last Friday. Rookie PC Sharon Beshenivsky, 38, was shot dead by armed robbers at a travel agency in West Yorkshire. She was killed on her daughter’s 4th birthday. The murder of a police officer is quite rare in Britain and a female police officer has not been fatally shot in over 20 years. This incident has renewed the debate over whether police should carry guns. From an American perspective, it’s rather astonishing that 90 percent of the British police force is unarmed. To me, police and guns are synonymous. I can’t imagine the police being able to do their job without having the threat of deadly force at their disposal. But then I guess that’s just the blood-thirsty Yank in me. A survey of the UK police force three years ago revealed that 80 percent of them do not want to be routinely armed.

Amnesty International’s UK director calls the results of a new survey on rape “shocking.” I agree. It appears that in Britain, 1 out of 3 people believe that women who flirt or who are drunk are at least partially responsible if they are raped; more than one-quarter believe a woman is responsible for being raped if she wears revealing clothing. Scary.

I recently wrote about attempts to crack down on sex tourists from the UK in Cambodia. Now comes word that British rock star and convicted pedophile Gary Glitter, who now lives in Vietnam, has been arrested trying to flee the country after it was discovered he’d had sex with two underage girls. The ultimate punishment for this crime is death by firing squad. Good luck, Gary! Michael Jackson, take note.

18 November, 2005 | 4 Comments

Perhaps I should consider myself lucky. After all, it’s not every aspiring novelist and recent MFA graduate who gets to see her work reviewed in The New York Times and The Atlantic Monthly. But that’s exactly what happened to me within the past few months. And while I don’t consider myself lucky, I certainly do feel wiser. I’ll never read a book review in the same naïve way again, that’s for sure.

From September 2003 to August 2005, I worked at the Boston Women’s Health Book Collective, the feminist organization that publishes Our Bodies, Ourselves. The first edition of OBOS (as it’s known) was published in the early 1970s, before I was born. I was hired in 2003 to help produce a new, completely revised 8th edition of the book. As the photo editor, I was given the monumental task of finding almost all new photographs for a book that had used the same hippie chick images for over 30 years. I was also assigned to rewrite the chapter on body image, which was one of the greatest challenges of my writing career.

The new edition of OBOS was published in April of this year. For the first time in my life, I felt the fear that writers must experience before their books are published. I felt mildly nauseous for a while, until the early reviews started to come in and they were overwhelmingly positive. Local newspapers and television stations, academic journals and mainstream magazines alike all heralded the book as a triumphant revision of a classic. My chapter on body image was frequently singled out, perhaps because it’s the first chapter in the book. My sidebar on Brazilian bikini waxing was of particular interest, called a misguided diatribe in one review and bland in another.

I stopped paying attention to the reviews after a while. The thrill wears off quickly. But when two of the most important publications in the country decided to write about OBOS, I must admit it was thrilling.

The New York Times Book Review: When Snark Attacks

In July, after the initial buzz had died down, we were told by our editor at Simon & Schuster that The New York Times Book Review was going to publish an essay about OBOS on the back page and that the essay was not altogether positive. We anxiously stood by the fax machine one afternoon, awaiting an advance copy of the essay. The moment we received it, I was surprised that I knew the author of the piece, Alexandra Jacobs. She and I had been interns together at Entertainment Weekly in the mid-nineties. We kept in touch for a while after our internship, then lost track of each other. I had always considered us friends and whenever I saw her byline, I was happy for her success.

In her essay, Jacobs never discloses that she knows me, even when commenting on the photos or the body image chapter. I wasn’t surprised. When it comes to book reviewing, ethics fly out the window. I’ve been around the literary universe long enough to know that critics review the work of their friends/colleagues/lovers/enemies without ever making these relationships known. Hell, professors serve on prize juries and give the top awards to their students.

Jacobs’s essay is primarily a paean to the OBOS of the seventies. It’s a highly personal piece written by what I can only describe as a “character.” The narrator certainly does not resemble the Alexandra Jacobs I knew. She was a small child in the late seventies, yet she indulges in quite a bit of self-mythologizing, presenting herself as a hardcore feminist of a bygone era. My friends and colleagues were shocked to learn that the author of the essay is only slightly older than me.

As a journalist for The New York Observer, Jacobs has perfected the snarky tone that is the backbone of so much contemporary journalism. I wasn’t surprised that her essay on OBOS is snark-infested. I would have been shocked if it weren’t. What did shock me was that The New York Times Book Review published an essay about Our Bodies, Ourselves – a key text in the feminist and women’s health movement – that has about as much depth and intellectual gusto as an article from Vogue magazine. A meaty discussion of women’s health is nowhere to be found. (A publishing insider recently told me that many independent publishers have stopped sending their books to the Times for review because of the “ignorant treatment” they often receive there.)

I could pick apart the essay line by line, pointing out the serious mischaracterizations and inaccuracies. I could dwell on the fact that the essay is all style and very little – if any – substance. But this would only make me seem like I’m out for revenge. The Times published a letter by my colleagues, which you can read here.

Did I feel hurt after Alexandra published such a mean-spirited and dishonest essay about a book I had dedicated myself to for almost two years? Yes, of course I did. Even if the essay had been written by a complete stranger, it would have been upsetting because of the way it utterly misrepresented the new edition of the book. But it’s never fun to be attacked by someone you thought was your friend, especially not in the pages of The New York Times. I should make it clear that I don’t think her attacks on the book had anything to do with me personally. I was just collateral damage. Writing for the Times is a big opportunity, and a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

The Atlantic Monthly: I’m a feminist, but…

Unlike Alexandra Jacobs’s essay, the review of OBOS in the October issue of The Atlantic Monthly attempts, at least, to grapple with the serious issues. Unfortunately, the end result is a harangue by Cristina Nehring, who in her spare time is a chorus girl in that long-running show called “Blame Feminism!”

It’s clear from the start that Nehring has a score to settle with mainstream feminists, the scary bogeywomen she blames for many of society’s ills, the ultimate party-poopers epitomized by the likes of Our Bodies, Ourselves. Throughout her review she swats at the book as if it’s a piñata.

A little Internet research turned up an exchange between Nehring and the Independent Women’s Forum, that bastion of right-wing “feminism.” Apparently, the IWF blog accused Nehring of being a feminist of the man-hating, hairy leg variety. An outraged Nehring set the record straight. Here are two excerpts:

“LOVE–romantic, Valentine’s Day love–is my cause celebre. I have spent the beginning of my career defending it against rabid feminists, not attacking it.”

“So what say we band together (as far as our contrarian and upstart spirits will admit) instead of fighting each other senselessly? Let’s be part of a renaissance of female public intellectuals who love romance and men and don’t just write about our navels, victimizations, or vaginas.”

(You can read the whole exchange here.)

Nehring’s review of OBOS is clearly driven by her agenda, and one suspects that The Atlantic’s decision to assign her this review is also part of an agenda – to spark controversy (or worse, but let’s not go there). Is even a smidgen of open-mindedness too much to expect from a reviewer, or does The Atlantic prefer that critics make up their minds before they even crack open the book?

Nehring is not only close-minded and agenda driven, she’s prone to the kind of grandiose pronouncements that might befit a leader in the field, but not a no-name critic. Behold:

“For all its comically bad prose and cloying eulogies to female anatomy, Our Bodies, Ourselves was in its day a solution to women’s problems. In our own day it is the problem.”

“Now published by Simon & Schuster and 600 pages longer, this women’s health classic has become a compendium of the curses and clichés that beset modern feminism—curses and clichés that feminism must discard or else render itself obsolete.”

“That women’s interest in their appearance lies largely in wanting to please men is a myth, and one that should be retired without further ceremony.”

“Our Bodies, Ourselves is a comforting book—even a soporific one. But it represents the end of honest inquiry and the end of curiosity. It represents the death of passion.”

Nehring clearly detests the new OBOS and everything it stands for, but sista, the world’s not coming to an end. Chill out.

She directs considerable venom at my chapter on body image, declaring that it’s “an attack on beauty.” Yet in her haste to steamroll over nuance, she fails to see that it’s an attack on beauty culture, a culture that does not honor beauty at all, but offers up cookie-cutter images of starved white women with fake breasts as the ideal for us all to emulate.

Nehring also focuses at length on a Calvin Klein ad I included in the chapter as an example of repellent advertising:

I could have chosen a worse ad, one with a dead woman modeling haute couture, for example, but the CK ad was more subtly subversive. I showed this image to friends and colleagues – both male and female – before deciding to put it in the book. All of them thought, immediately upon seeing the ad, that the girl-woman clad only in her undies, with her ass up in the air, was waiting for just one thing (and I don’t feel the need to spell it out, thank you). To anyone familiar with the advertising techniques of Calvin Klein, inventor of heroin chic and purveyor of pre-teen porn, this assumption is likely right on target.

But Nehring sees things differently: “I would wager that most women, if they were honest, would say they like the Calvin Klein model in Our Bodies. She looks vulnerable, to be sure—but we cherish vulnerability in our fellow creatures. What is more affecting than a picture of a sensitive cowboy or a doe-eyed street kid; what sells calendars faster than a forlorn kitten?”

Yes, I agree that the model in the ad is as vulnerable as a kitten – if you’re…I don’t know…Roman Polanski? It’s too bad the readers of The Atlantic could not see the ad which prompted Nehring’s leftfield analysis. She cannot take a break from shooting arrows long enough to cede that this ad is at least mildly creepy. Instead, she disagrees that the woman is a sex object and makes the leap from this to accusing the Boston Women’s Health Collective of promoting the idea that “any woman who looks attractive or dresses agreeably” is only trying to please men.

It seems highly likely that many readers of The Atlantic Monthly are smart enough to see through this ideology masquerading as book criticism. It also seems highly likely that these same readers would have appreciated an actual review of the book, not a lecture. But I imagine Nehring and her brand of feminism will continue to find a home in the pages of magazines and newspapers because it is not threatening to the status quo, unlike a certain 832-page book I know.

17 November, 2005 | 3 Comments

The newest UK screen adaptation of Pride & Prejudice has finally made its way across the Atlantic. Enjoy it, my American friends. The film stars Keira Knightley as Elizabeth Bennet. (Excuse me while I wretch. I’m having a flashback to Gwyneth Paltrow playing Emma.) Needless to say, I haven’t seen this latest film.

It seems the Yanks are being shown a different ending to the film than the Brits. From USA Today:

“You got the more sugary one,” says Matthew MacFayden, Mr. Darcy to Keira Knightley’s Elizabeth Bennet, of the version that runs 135 minutes – eight minutes longer. “The Brits hated it.”

The British and European version of the film ends with Elizabeth’s father agreeing to let Mr. Darcy marry his daughter. But American test audiences loved an alternate ending they were shown, wherein Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy smooch it up on a moonlit balcony. According to the BBC, Donald Sutherland, who plays Mr. Bennet, said it was decided that American audiences needed a “sweeter film.” And with 8 additional minutes, that must be quite a kiss.

At this point I could make lots of snide jokes about Americans and Brits, Jane Austen film adaptations, etc. But that’s not what stands out in regards to this story. What really disgusts me is the film industry’s persistent use of test audiences. How can anyone take film seriously as an art form when audiences are given the power to shape the final product, not the directors or writers? This is akin to Toni Morrison writing several alternate endings for her latest novel and then letting a panel of readers in a shopping mall somewhere in Kansas decide which one is best. I’d like to think that a film is somehow different from, I don’t know, Vanilla Coke or the new Ford Focus, but it seems they’re all just products created for mass consumption.

As for the current version of Pride & Prejudice, is it really necessary to test a film based upon a Jane Austen novel, for crying out loud? Shouldn’t the words “Jane Austen,” “Pride & Prejudice,” and the angelic face of Hollywood’s newest It-Girl Knightley on the movie poster be enough to get butts into the seats? I guess not.

15 November, 2005 | Comments are off

British authorities are working with Cambodian officials to track down sex tourists from the UK and prosecute them. Bravo! Cambodia and other poor Asian countries are hotspots for pedophiles and rapists travelling from Western countries. Under a proposed law, British tourists and expatriates could be tried for their crimes in either country. I really hope that other nations begin to adopt laws like this. We’re so concerned about child molestation in our own countries yet we export sexual predators to developing nations with impunity.

15 November, 2005 | Comments are off

Not surprisingly, documents released this week by the Reagan Library quote Supreme Court hopeful Samuel Alito as saying that, “the Constitution does not protect the right to abortion.”

In his bid to become a deputy attorney general under Reagan, Alito said that his government work allowed him “to advance legal positions in which I personally believe very strongly.”

Now isn’t this the kind of judicial activism that so outrages Dubya?

It’s obvious why the right-wing is salivating over the prospect of Alito ascending to the throne…er… Supreme Court. Is it just me, or is this process reminiscent of the most recent Star Wars movie wherein Anakin Skywalker becomes Darth Vader?

14 November, 2005 | 3 Comments

I am caged in this corner/full of melancholy and sorrow…my wings are closed and I cannot fly…I am an Afghan woman and must wail. – excerpt of a poem by Nadia Anjuman

The Sunday Times published a more in-depth piece about murdered Afghan poet Nadia Anjuman (see previous post, “Nadia Anjuman, R.I.P.”). The article sheds light on a possible motive for the killing: “Friends say her family was furious, believing that the publication of poetry by a woman about love and beauty had brought shame on it.”

Apparently, Nadia’s hometown of Herat, which has a strong literary heritage, is “shocked” by her murder. But according to The Sunday Times, “Herat, in particular, has seen a number of women burn themselves to death rather than succumb to forced marriages.”

Under the Taliban regime, Anjuman risked her life to write poetry and study literature. From The Sunday Times:

Women were banned from working or studying by the Taliban, whose repressive edicts forbade women to laugh out loud or wear shoes that clicked. Female writers belonging to Herat’s Literary Circle realised that one of the few things that women were still allowed to do was to sew. So three times a week groups of women in burqas would arrive at a doorway marked Golden Needle Sewing School.

Had the authorities investigated, they would have discovered that the sewing students never made any clothes. Once inside the school, a brave professor of literature from Herat University would talk to them about Shakespeare, Dostoevsky and other banned writers.

Under a regime where even teaching a daughter to read was a crime, they might have been hanged if they had been caught.

After the fall of the Taliban, Anjuman and other women were finally allowed to attend Herat University. She had persevered under the tyranny of a brutal regime, only to be murdered by her husband in her own home. (He claims, from his jail cell, that she committed suicide after they fought.)

What can I possibly add to this story? It speaks for itself, but I’ll try: After a little research, I discovered that I could fly from London to Nadia’s hometown of Herat in about the same amount of time that it takes to fly from New York City to Los Angeles.

Nadia Anjuman did not live a million miles away. She did not live on another planet. She – and the millions of other women in Afghanistan like her – are frighteningly close. How can this be?

12 November, 2005 | 2 Comments

Thumbsucker is an American indie film based on the novel by Walter Kirn. It’s about a high school senior named Justin, who still sucks his thumb. When times are tough, some of us drink, others smoke, and then there’s always Haagen-Dazs. But Justin prefers his thumb. You get the idea. This is a coming-of-age story about teen angst, America’s reliance on Ritalin and suburban family life.

What really makes the film stand out is the cast, with Vinnie D’O as Justin’s dad (I guess I really am over 30 now that I fancy the middle-aged dad in the film. Crikey!), Tilda Swinton of Orlando fame as the mother (doing a perfect American accent), Keanu Reeves as a spacey orthodontist, Vince Vaughn as the high school debate coach (hilarious) and Benjamin Bratt as a cheesy TV star/drug addict. There are quite a lot of yummy men in this film. Lou Pucci, who plays young Justin, is wonderful.

Highly recommended!

11 November, 2005 | 2 Comments

The Afghan poet Nadia Anjuman was beaten to death by her husband late last week. Anjuman, 25, was widely praised in Afghan and Iranian literary circles for her first collection of poetry, called “Gule Dudi” or “Dark Flower,” published earlier this year. She was set to publish her second collection next year. Anjuman was an undergraduate studying literature at Herat University, where her husband worked as an administrator.

Anjuman’s husband, now in custody, admitted to knocking his wife unconscious during an argument. Her mother was also arrested in connection with the crime and at least one news report suggested this was an “honour killing.”

“This is a tragic loss for Afghanistan,” said U.N. spokesman Adrian Edwards, according to the Associated Press. “Domestic violence is a concern. This case illustrates how bad this problem is here and how it manifests itself. Women face exceptional challenges.”

Thousands of people attended Anjuman’s funeral. If she had not been a respected poet, her death would have gone unnoticed. I certainly wouldn’t be writing about her. She’d be another sad statistic. Perhaps in some small way, her death will draw attention to the violence and brutality that continue to be a fact of life for so many Afghan women.

11 November, 2005 | 1 Comment

I can’t recommend it. Turns out London’s iconic river is awash with cocaine. Yes, cocaine! Scientists recently discovered that each day, 80,000 lines of coke enter the river after passing through users’ bodies and sewage treatment plants. And Kate Moss has been locked up in rehab, so we can’t blame her.

The study, commissioned by the Sunday Telegraph, estimates that Londoners snort 150,000 lines of cocaine everyday, a rate that is 15 times higher than current government stats. According to experts, this level of drug use signals a “ticking healthcare time bomb.”

I find this study to be alarming not only because many of the people I pass on the street each day are coke heads, but also because, apparently, sewage is passing into the Thames. Uh, what? Come again? This can’t be right, can it? I did some investigating and it turns out that indeed, tons of raw sewage is dumped into the Thames each year. Hundreds of thousands of fish are killed as a result and the danger to humans is being studied. (But, I mean, it can’t be great. Duh.)

Turns out the city’s Victorian sewers cannot cope with large amounts of rainfall, thus flooding the river with sewage during periods of heavy rain. According to the BBC, a committee member investigating the human risk associated with the toilet bowl known as the Thames, said: “London is a world-class city – it is unacceptable that huge amounts of raw sewage, which includes human waste and sanitary products, is released into our river up to 60 times a year and has been for years.”

When I started writing this post, my intentions were to share a serious yet darkly comic story. Now I just feel sick.

9 November, 2005 | Comments are off

A few of my American friends have pointed out typos on my blog. (Aren’t I lucky to have English majors as friends?) Turns out these “typos” are due to the differences in British and American English. I’ve only been here for two months but it seems that Brit spelling and phraseology has begun to slip into my vocab. I’ve switched the spellchecker on my computer over to British spelling, and sometimes words are converted without my even noticing.

I love language and really enjoy spotting the differences between British and American English. However, given that my world revolves around writing – as a freelance writer, composition teacher, literature student and creative writer – I do get confused and must think about the words I use to a greater extent than is convenient.

I was grocery shopping the other day and saw Kellogg’s Sultana Bran. How strange is that?! Here are a few other foodie differences:

[Brit to American]

Rocket = Arugula

Aubergine = Eggplant

Banger = Sausage

Biscuit = Cookie

Caster sugar = Powdered sugar

Chips = French fries

Candy floss = Cotton candy

Courgette = Zucchini

Crisps = Chips

Fairy cake = Cupcake

Gammon = Ham

Jam = Jelly/Jam

Jelly = Jell-O or gelatin

Rashers = Bacon

Sultanas = Raisins

Toffee = Taffy

Wholemeal = Whole grain

7 November, 2005 | 1 Comment

If you read my blog regularly, you know that I usually don’t write about the big news items of the day. I am very passionate about politics, but this isn’t a news or politics blog. There are countless bloggers out there who write eloquently and passionately about politics and I applaud them and support them. No one looks to me for the latest news or political commentary.

Now that I’m living abroad, I have found it surprisingly (alarmingly?) easy to ignore the political landscape in America. To be honest, it’s just nice to be away from the Red State/Blue State culture wars that are destroying the country. As a former CNN junkie, I am shocked at my ability to almost completely tune out the news from Washington. George Bush is doing lasting damage to the country. I know many liberals who feel that U.S. citizens deserve the president they chose and that those who didn’t vote for Bush will unfortunately have to go down with the ship. It’s easy to adopt this attitude. There comes a point when it’s just easier to throw up your hands in disgust than it is to get angry and do something.

But after learning more about Bush’s latest pick for the Supreme Court, Samuel Alito, I must emerge from my cocoon and at least try to do something. If Alito is confirmed to the seat vacated by Sandra Day O’Connor, his right-wing political views will help shift the court in a way that will shape the U.S. for decades to come and impact every single American’s life. Any American that cares about women’s rights and civil rights should do what they can to oppose this nomination. Even if you just do one thing – sign a petition, write to your senator, spread the word – it’s better than doing nothing. We can’t count on the Democrats in the Senate to do the right thing. It seems that most of them are spineless weasels that stand for nothing. We must speak the only language they know: If they don’t try to stop Alito, they will pay the ultimate political price.

Judge Alito is dangerous because he has a long record of voting against women’s and civil rights. From The New York Times:

Ralph G. Neas, president of the People for the American Way and an outspoken critic of Judge Bork in 1987, warned last week of a “constitutional catastrophe” if Judge Alito is seated on the nation’s highest tribunal. “He is a walking constitutional amendment who would undo precedents that protect fundamental rights and liberties that Americans think are theirs forever,” Mr. Neas said. “The American people could wake up one morning and those liberties would no longer be there. It’s that dramatic.”

Also, check out this op-ed if you want to have a nightmare tonight.

Here is just one chilling example from Alito’s record that speaks volumes:

In the landmark case Planned Parenthood vs. Casey, Alito argued that women should be forced by the state to notify their husbands if they want to have an abortion. Every other member of the Third Circuit Court of Appeals voted the other way and they were upheld by the Supreme Court.

Next on our reading list, class, is The Handmaid’s Tale!

Alito is now making the rounds on Capitol Hill, a dangerous right-wing religious fanatic wacko dressed in sheep’s clothing. Democrats should ignore the spin and listen to Alito’s mother. When asked if her son was anti-choice, she answered “Of course.” We should believe her.

Write your senators. Sign this petition. Or this petition. Donate money. Please do something. Conservative religious ideologues have no place on the Supreme Court or in any position of power in our government. A future where the United States has more in common with the theocratic regimes in the Middle East than our long-time allies is not unimaginable. In fact, we’re already on our way.

[Thanks to Bitch Ph.D. for some of the links.]