Today's Edition of "Conniving and Sinister"



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Strips One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98. In which Liss reimagines the long-running comic "Frank & Ernest," about two old straight white guys "telling it like it is," as a fat feminist white woman and a biracial queerbait telling it like it actually is from their perspectives. Hilarity ensues.

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Photo of the Day


Tourists marvel at colorful ice palaces created by Swiss artist Karl Neuhaus in a small forest near Schwarzsee Lake, Switzerland.

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Daily Kitteh

OK, so Ms. Sovereign McHammerson is not much of a hunter (which we are happy about, as one of our household pleasures is bird-watching). Turns out being a cat so blazingly white that photographers are hard-pressed to even snap you in correct exposure is also not the greatest advantage as a predator (unless we move to Antarctica).


So, a couple of weeks ago, I'm sitting on the side porch, and see this, out by our raspberry patch:


You might not be able to tell from the photo, but Sovereign and the squirrel are like, nine inches apart. (It was hard for me to get a decent shot, because every time I came out, the squirrel would run away, but then would come right back, within inches of Sovereign, turn it's back on her, casually eat some of the sunflower seeds that had fallen from the bird-feeder, twitch its tail in her face, etc.)

This went on for a number of days. Sovereign showed interest, but no real hunting behavior -- usually she was in Kitteh Meatloaf position.

So, about the third time I see it, I decide to get the camcorder and shoot a little "Lions and Lambs Why Can't We All Just Get Along?" video, when this happened: (TW video below the fold may increase adrenal activity in wild-life-lovers)


So, now I'm thinking that it will never be the same between them -- the squirrel has now learned that this big white fluff-ball would like to chow some sunflower-stuffed Sciurus griseus.

But no. The next day, I look out the kitchen window and see this:


Let me enhance that for you.


OK, bad photo, so I go out to get a better angle, and once again -- the squirrel runs away from me, not the cat.


I honestly believe they are just playing. Or the squirrel is messing with her mind. Or both.

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I Writes Pomes, I Does

In the course of a) procrastinating writing my piece for Friday night, and b) also not usefully putting in work hours, I started looking for some of my older work that I might be able to use if I don't come up with something in time.

(I always do this, by the way, write things on deadline day; it's like the pressure opens the valve in my head that lets stories out)

While doing so, I found this work from a year ago. I should also point out that, as per the subject, I do write poetry, and I'm particularly fond of structured formats. I attended a local coffeehouse competition once bearing a limerick, two sonnets and a villanelle (the latter about pirates stealing the host's pants, no less!).

Anyway, I think it was New Year's Day of 2009 that I happened to be watching a channel showing all six Star Wars movies in a row. By the time I got to IV (the original first movie), I was getting a bit cabin-fevered, and decided to take up the pen to render the movie in a series of seven sonnets.

And so I present to you:

Star Wars IV: A New Hope, in sonnets1 2

Attacked, a Rebel freighter flees a shot
Of searing light and energies most dire;
The Star Destroyer's troops aboard in fire
The Princess stashes plans in a robot.

Though Rebel soldiers grimly choose a spot,
Soon under blasters' goad they must retire,
While Leia's caught by troopers' stunning fire,
And laid upon a steely prison cot.

Two droids escape from Vader's grasping hand;
A stolen pod falls from a burning sky,
To Tatooine, a dry and dusty place.

C-3PO and R2 on the sand:
The golden droid is caught, R2 they fry,
The Jawas drive a huge and mobile base.

-=-=-

Skywalker's uncle leads him from the farm:
Some droids to help them gather vap'rous trace.
The first R2, though, shortly comes to harm,
So R2-D2's taken in its place.

Now Luke would join the Rebels out in space,
And cleaning droids, he whines about his lot;
R2 projects a holo, Leia's face:
A message begging help, sealed in the bot.

"Show me the rest", says Luke, "she's kinda hot!"
R2 suggests removal of a bolt
Would fix the ever-looping show he'd got.
But R2 flees; Luke knows he's been a dolt.

The name Kenobi rings a bell for Luke;
An ancient hermit, Dune Sea-living kook.

-=-=-

Though R2's found, the Tusken strike with speed;
Poor 3P0 completely falls in parts.
Kenobi's roar clears Sandmen and their steed,
They're shaken to their dusty Tusken hearts.

Back in Kenobi's hut, Luke starts,
Examining his father's ancient sword.
But though he wants what Obi-wan imparts,
To Uncle Owen, Luke's more son than ward.

The Jawas dead: it seems, by Tuskens gored?
Kenobi says, "Young Luke, you must look twice,
The Sandmen never formed so large a horde;
No, only Stormtroopers are so precise."

Luke races back to find his life destroyed:
To Alderaan with Ben he'll take the droid.

-=-=-

Mos Eisley now, a passage must be bought.
Patrols seek droids, but weak minds cannot see -
Kenobi's wave can change a trooper's thought;
"These aren't the droids we're looking for", says he.

Cantina music tinkles softly out,
From sunken inn comes, too, a reek of beer;
Kenobi takes them in despite Luke's doubt -
No droids though, "We don't serve their kind in here!"

A local is disarmed by Obi-Wan;
A Wookiee says he just might have a ship.
A quick deal's made, but soon they must be gone -
In space the Falcon soon gives Imps the slip.

While Leia suffers torture by a droid,
And soon must watch her Alderaan destroyed.

-=-=-

Kenobi teaches Luke, the sword to use;
R2's dejarek skills make Solo grin.
"You'll lose your arms," he says, "should Chewie lose."
C-3P0 says "Let the Wookiee win."

At Alderaan, no planet found, just space;
A short-range fighter out this far? Oh please!
A moon nearby might be the hidden base -
But "That's no moon!" is what Kenobi sees.

The tractor beam pulls Falcon into bay;
A smuggler's trick eludes the troopers' search.
Kenobi knows how they can get away
But Luke can't leave the Princess in the lurch.

While in cell block eleven thirty-eight
In darkened cell does Leia grimly wait.

-=-=-

The rescue goes awry, the hall's a trap:
To freedom can the heroes find no path.
Til something in the Princess seems to snap -
She blasts a way into a stinking bath.

Kenobi's cut the tractor's fearsome grasp,
While Luke and Leia swing across a shaft.
The Wookiee, droids and Solo flee the rasp
of Vader testing Old Ben's sabercraft.

The Jedi smiles; he knows the time is near
To move beyond life's day-to-day concerns
He stands up straight, his saber raised, no fear;
At Vader's stroke, Ben to the Force returns.

The Falcon flies, Kenobi dies, alone;
Skywalker's Jedi skills he now must hone.

-=-=-

Han Solo's unaware of Vader's trace -
The Grand Moff's station follows Falcon's lead.
Though Leia's worry's written on her face,
The Rebels soon will have the plans they need.

The briefing room is stuffed with pilots true.
The Rebel forces' task seems much too hard -
In one-man fighters, to the shield and through,
A tiny six-foot port, they fly toward.

Reb after Reb falls to the flashing fire,
As Vader flies his Tie with eerie skill.
But Luke is just as finely-skilled a flyer:
His torps fly true, the Death Star for to kill.

A big hurrah, a fanfare blown in praise
Now Luke must learn alone, the Jedi ways.

-=-=-

1 Some of them are Petrarchan, some of them Spenserian, some of them Shakespearean. And yah, I may have dinged the scansion in a few places. Come on! It's not bad for something I managed to write before Lando even flew into Death Star II...for the curious, it's Petrarchan, Spenserian twice, then four nice easy Shakespearean. While I like the Petrarchan, the squishiness of the eight-line conflict, and the wastefulness of six lines of resolution, make it unsuitable for this form (part of a sequence). I think when I do the other movies, I'll move the Petrarchan to the end, where a six-line resolution would be more appropriate.

2 Yes, I clearly had too little to do today.

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Let's Play BasKKKetball

This story is not from The Onion. More's the pity.

A new professional basketball league called the All-American Basketball Alliance (AABA) sent out a press release on Sunday saying that it intends to start its inaugural season in June, with teams in 12 U.S. cities. However, the AABA is different from other sports leagues because only players who are “natural born United States citizens with both parents of Caucasian race are eligible to play in the league.” AABA commissioner Don “Moose” Lewis insists that he’s not racist, but he just wants to get away from the “street-ball” played by “people of color” and back to “fundamental basketball.” Lewis cited the recent incidents of bad behavior by NBA players, implying that such actions would never happen with white players:

“There’s nothing hatred about what we’re doing,” he said. “I don’t hate anyone of color. But people of white, American-born citizens are in the minority now. Here’s a league for white players to play fundamental basketball, which they like.” [...]

He pointed out recent incidents in the NBA, including Gilbert Arenas’ indefinite suspension after bringing guns into the Washington Wizards locker room, as examples of fans’ dissatisfaction with the way current professional sports are run.

“Would you want to go to the game and worry about a player flipping you off or attacking you in the stands or grabbing their crotch?” he said. “That’s the culture today, and in a free country we should have the right to move ourselves in a better direction.”

The AABA is targeting Southern cities, but one proposed city — Augusta, GA — is opposed to the league.
Proposed team names are The Grand Dragons, The Kluxers, The Imperial Wizards, and The Flaming Cross.

Welcome to post-racial America.

Crossposted.

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Wednesday Blogaround

This blogaround brought to you by Shaxco, canners and distributors of Deeky's Crab Stew.

Recommended Reading:

Echidne: Fear of Feminism

Chally: Disability Is Not Your Analogy

SarahMC: Work: Ur Doin it Rong

Sean: The Truth Still Matters

Andy: Gavin Newsom: Obama Position on Same-Sex Marriage is 'Fundamentally Inexcusable'

Marcella: Carnival Against Sexual Violence 86

Anji: Eighth Carnival of Feminist Parenting

Tigtog: Ukraine's Got Talent Winner

Leave your links in comments...

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Today in Rape Culture

[Trigger warning.]

Smack in the middle of a new profile of Neil Gaiman in The New Yorker:

He was one of the first writers to have a blog—he started it in 2001, and had, at last count, some 1.4 million readers—and he often posts to his Twitter feed a dozen or more times a day. He attributes his recent No. 1 débuts to his ability to communicate directly with his fans: he tells them to buy a book on a certain day, and they do. "It means I'm nobody's bitch," he told me.
The hat tip goes to Latoya, who notes in her piece that Gaiman's success is largely attributable to "his wide appeal to female readers," which makes his use of misogynist slurs all the more tragic.

But let us be honest: The use of "bitch" here is not merely a misogynist slur. To be someone's "bitch" is to be sexually subservient to hir, and the phrase is typically associated with nonconsensual sexual subservience, i.e. rape. (Specifically, it originates with prison rape.)

I understand, quite keenly, the value of being a writer who is able to communicate directly with hir readership. That is a priceless freedom.

But...

Mr. Gaiman, I have been a writer beholden to other people with agendas, constrained in my work by forces I could not control. I have also been someone's "bitch." And they are not the same thing.

Not at all.

------------------------------

Commenting Note: This thread is not a referendum on Gaiman's work or popularity, and comments dismissing him on the basis of his talent—"I always thought he was a shitty writer, anyway."—or on the basis that he's not famous enough—"Who?"—as well as comments defending him on the basis of his talent or popularity—"But he's a brilliant artist!" or "He's famous! Who the fuck are you?"—are irrelevant, unhelpful, and will be considered off-topic. Comments about being a disappointed fan, based on the content of his work, or quoting text, interviews, etc. that make this surprising or unsurprising for you, are on-topic.

[Related Reading: On "Bitch" and Other Misogynist Language; Rape Culture 101.]

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Every Single Time...

...I read another interview with Gabby Sidibe, I love her more.

Lee Daniels is best known as the producer of the Oscar-winning Monster's Ball. He made his directorial debut in 2006 with Shadowboxer, ostensibly a thriller about contract killers starring Helen Mirren as the stepmother (and lover) of Cuba Gooding Jr. Precious is a million miles away from being thriller material.

"I don't think Lee got Precious at the start," says Sidibe. "He assumed what she was like. He thought bigger girls were dumb. Is he ever wrong!" she laughs.

So you understood Precious better than him? "Hell, yeah. I'm a girl – so I knew what Precious was like a little bit better than him. Plus, he's from Philadelphia and I'm from Harlem, so I brought New York to this character."

More importantly, she understood how Precious would present herself to a hostile world in a way that the director couldn't. "He assumed she wouldn't try to be presentable – but I knew she would. She wouldn't wear – as Lee initially thought – pink yellow and orange and flannel. He wanted to tie my hair into ponytails to make me look poor – but I would never have looked like that. I'm not a rich girl but I would never dress like that. And I knew Precious wouldn't. So he changed her wardrobe."

But what about the hunched and truculent way Precious carries herself – so very different from the way beaming Gabourey Sidibe swept into the room an hour ago? "I channelled her anger and her daunting disposition. She walks into the room and her shoulders are hunched. She disappears into her own world. It's called acting, sweetie," she says.

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Massachusetts Election Open Thread

When we saw the results last night, all I could do was shake my head. I know there will be all sorts of postmortem debate about how Coakley's campaign was run shittily and changing demographics and blah blah blah, and some of it will be right and some of it will be wrong, but my visceral reaction was that a Republican taking Ted Kennedy's seat was somehow a perfect (if terrible) symbol for the Great Bipartisan Presidency.

And now the media is all aflutter with the opportunity to write its "GOP COMEBACK!!!1!eleventy!" story, just in time for midterm elections. Swell.

And right on cue:

AP: Democrats seek back footing after epic Mass. loss.

New York Times: G.O.P. Senate Victory Stuns Democrats.

Politico: Forces of change now target President Obama.

USA Today: GOP win in Mass. toughens task for Obama.

New York Times: Democratic Loss Imperils Health Care Overhaul.

And here come the defeatocrats:

TPM: Health Care Comes to Screeching Halt—Sen. Webb: No HCR Votes Until Brown Seated and Frank: I Hope Some GOP Senators Will Support Health Care Reform—Because Without Them, Bill May Be Toast.

ABC: Bayh Warns "Catastrophe" If Dems Ignore Massachusetts Senate Race Lessons.

If you'd like to read something written by someone with some sense:

Peter Daou: We Told You So.

Discuss.

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Personal Note: Stage Appearance

If anyone in southern Ontario is interested in making it out to this, I'll be appearing Friday night at Cliterature, a local event in KW for several years now. I've performed several times, usually reading my own work, as indeed I will be this year. Either show would be good, though, I know Charlene Russell is performing both nights, and Nairn Holz is reading her work on Saturday, and she's outstanding.

The show - actually shows, this year there will be two nights, with a different lineup each night - presents a variety of different acts, including burlesque, comedy, readings, dance, film and photography, all focused on women's sexuality.

The event isn't really suitable for children, as one might expect from the focus and name.

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Open Thread


Hosted by the center of a golf ball. Don't worry, it won't explode.

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Two-Minute Nostalgia Sublime



Danielle Dax: "Big Hollow Man"

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Question of the Day

What are the best and worst jobs you've ever had?

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Quote of the Day

"Forty-eight years ago in this country we could make fun of Arabs. … We could make fun of people in a general way, and certainly, 'Ahab the Arab' is a general parody. But now we can't. What has changed in America?"—Professional diarrhea-spewing blowhole Bill O'Reilly, lamenting with "Ahab the Arab" singer Ray Stevens the passing of a time in which privileged wankers could openly mock Arabs with impunity, as long as they called it a "parody."

(Hey, Billo—you're out of touch. The modern dudebro reaches for "ironic.")

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Well.

This is one of the most tragic and pitiable things I've read in awhile.

Not because I don't believe sexuality is fluid, at least for some people; I do. I've no complaint about the premise. It's the intolerable sneer born of thinly-veiled self-loathing that makes me cringe. And the objectification of women as baby-making machines. And the regard for potential children as things to be possessed. And the tiresome stereotypes, which almost certainly would be justified by a grim explanation about how in reality there are really people like that, for realz!

Saddest of all is the fact that Mr. Muirhead never seems to have considered the possibility that the object of his envious gaze, the strong-handed father of the fair-haired boy, was himself a gay man.

[H/T to Shaker Melusin.]

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Daily Kitteh



"What does a cat have to do to get some head scratches around here?"

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Today in Rape Culture

[Trigger warning. And Part 50 in the "Rape is Hilarious" series.]

So I'm watching the most recent episode of Clean House the other night, which features a single dad and his 18-year-old son whose house is, naturally, full of clutter. And a big part of the episode is about how this dad is still hung up on his ex-wife and needs to get over her—leading to a lot of uncomfortable scenes in which he awkwardly flirts with show host Niecy Nash, and culminating in his repeatedly kissing her in what I can only describe as a totally creeptastic scene.

Yet worse was a conversation early in the episode in which the Clean House crew ask if the son and father have many women over to their messy house. As is typical of the show, there is a clip of the conversation followed by inserted comments by the show crew—and "Go-To Guy" Matt Iseman's commentary was, in this case, a high-larious rape joke.

Iseman: Do you ever have friends over?

Son: Never.

Iseman: Ladies over?

[laughter]

Nash: Does anybody have ladies over?

Father: Uh, no. The last one that came over, she made fun of my place; I never invited her over again.

Trish Suhr: Oh.

Son: What about the ones that never called you back?

Dad: That's true.

Nash: Snap!

Iseman: No, I don't think you're getting a lot of women in here—unless you're using chloroform.
This is a perfect example of the rape culture and how it works. It's just a totally casual "joke" about drugging a woman to bring her back to your home for "romantic" purposes. On a family show. Like it's nothing.

This is how rape is normalized and its gravity diminished—by flippant "jokes" like this one, everywhere, day in and day out. And the people who object to the relentless treatment of a heinous, endemic crime against women as a punchline are dismissed as oversensitive, instead of everyone ever stopping to collectively question whether maybe being desensitized to the ugly reality of rape isn't really rather worse.

Clean House airs on the Style network, which is a property of Comcast Networks. If anyone can find contact info for teaspooning, please drop it into comments.

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lolsob

Shaker John emails: "The Economist's weekly debate is about whether women in the developed world have ever had it so good."

And so it is:


[If you cannot view the image, it's a picture of a woman's disembodied high-heeled feet propped up on a desk with files, pencils, and an engaged phone. It is accompanied by the text: "Women: This house believes that women in the developed world have never had it so good."]

It's an interesting choice of words, isn't it? "Had it so good." It's the sort of thing one says when begrudgingly acknowledging someone else has something they aren't perceived (via spite) to truly deserve, like a jealous parent to a child who has a better childhood than the parent did, or a bitter boss to a junior employee whose workload was made easier through a technological innovation.

You women of the developed world, you've never had it so good. You don't even know! Ingrates.

That is merely the tip of the iceberg of problems with this "debate."

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Today's Edition of "Conniving and Sinister"



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Strips One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97. In which Liss reimagines the long-running comic "Frank & Ernest," about two old straight white guys "telling it like it is," as a fat feminist white woman and a biracial queerbait telling it like it actually is from their perspectives. Hilarity ensues.

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Two Weeks


[Original graphic here.]

The countdown has officially begun, Losties.

Iain and I have been rewatching Season 5 to gear up for the sixth and final season of the Best. Show. Evarrrr. And as the last season progresses (we just watched "LaFleur" last night), I am getting increasingly quivery with excitement for Lost's return.

Since the end of last season, I have—in my continuing role as Lost's biggest pusher (Iain, Mama Shakes, Kenny Blogginz, Space Cowboy and Space Cowgirl, as a few familiar names, have all become addicts by my devilish hand)—gotten Deeks irrevocably hooked, and he is bearing down on completing Season 5, just in time for the start of Season 6. And he has, at his place, been diligently blogging every episode, if anyone wants to catch up or dive in and needs a good place to start.

Use this thread to SQUEEEEEE!, make predictions, ask questions, whatever you like. Just please be considerate and add a SPOILER WARNING to the beginning of comments that contain Season 5 spoilers, for those who aren't quite finished with the last season yet. It only just came out on video recently, so there are a few Shaker Losties still getting caught up.

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