Feelings are for Girls.

I'm listening to the local Top 40 station this morning, because on NPR they were talking about legislation that's being passed to prevent bilingual children from having to translate sensitive medical information to their parents in inner-city hospitals, and I like to have my depressing after breakfast. On happy-go-lucky radio they're having a competition between a man and a woman that involved the playing of audio clips from "chick flicks" and "guy movies" to see who could identify the most. The guy lost, which was funny becasuse they were stupidly easy, for example (I'm paraphrasing here)
"You're Mr. White, you're Mr. Brown, you're Mr. Pink."
"Why do I have to be Mr. Pink?"
Yeah. Or:
"Something about a shrimp-boat captain."
Those were the two guy movie clips I heard. Reservoir Dogs I can understand; it's violent and it's about crime, and while this is just one woman's opinion, I have to say that I think Tarantino is overrated *ducking* and I hate blood, so whatever, guy movie it is. But Forrest Gump? Is that because the main character is a man? Because not only is he a momma's boy, but there's a pretty strong love story component, and I don't know about you, but it makes me weep helplessly. Which brings me to my point: one of the chick flicks was The Breakfast Club. And that's just kind of sad. Do we assign gender identities to our art so narrowly that things are automatically tossed into the Feminine Bin because Molly Ringwald's in it, or because the characters talk about their feelings? Is anyone out there irritated by the label 'chick flick' and if so do you try to avoid saying it, or do you use it and have no problem with it? Call me the Raging Language Strumpet from the Bog of Eternal Feminism, but I think that our use of words does reinforce culturally-circulated ideas, and can even create them, so I don't really have a right to be annoyed when some manners-impaired old man drools down my shirt and tells me I should smile more if I'm still using terms like "chick flick." I should just get over it and accept sexual harassment in all its various mouth-breathing incarnations. But gee, I just don't wanna.
I looooove my suffrage rights. Almost as much as I love my new ankle boots!

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