It’s 2014, but Barbara Fletcher at OZY is still spreading (pun intended) 25 year old misinformation about AIDS:
Then the happy ending: Rose gets the all-clear and we’ve all had a hearty laugh. But in 21 minutes we’ve also learned something: AIDS is not just a “gay disease” and it can happen to anyone. Understanding is vital. A pretty good lesson from a show about four older women living together in Miami, Florida, don’t you think?
No, AIDS couldn’t “happen to anyone.” But gay activists needed that myth.
AIDS was one of the best thing to happen to the “gay cause” because it became a weapon of “normalization.”
Promiscuous gay men couldn’t be bothered actually using all those Trojans they tossed around during Pride Parades, but activists employed AIDS as a Trojan Horse, to get their false “we’re all the same” message into the culture.
(Note: the writers on Golden Girls were gay men.)
This led to the AIDS Industrial Complex we’ve been putting up with for years, although losing a bunch of members of that industry in one day may cripple it temporarily.
While The Golden Girls was on the air, rich conservatives were dunking tens of millions into think tanks and magazines, but not much into producing pop culture counter-narratives.
Barbara Fletcher effortlessly remembers a TV show that aired in 1990. Enough others did too, to warrant an article about it at OZY.
Can anyone (even the men who wrote them) recall a single white paper produced by Hudson or Heritage at that very same time?
Does Olivia Chow’s proposed handgun ban include the piece owned by Warren Kinsella’s girlfriend — who volunteers for Chow?
Not surprisingly, there are great comments at Kate’s site, as to laws against “brandishing,” transporting firearms, etc.
I’m glad Kinsella and Kirbie approve of armed self-defense.
That’s something the three of us can agree on, but the authorities don’t see it that way. It’s a crime in Canada.
— Warren Kinsella (@kinsellawarren) July 5, 2014
But that’s a real one above, right? I’m so confused.
Meanwhile, does anyone know if Warren Kinsella has resigned from Sun News yet?
…someone at a congressional computer keeps changing the Wiki entry on the Kennedy assassination.
That’s the real reason they hate unapologetically in-your-face “conservative” women like Ann Coulter or even Sarah Palin.
Watch how quickly the mask drops, and over less than nothing — in fact, over something you’d think they’d approve of:
But it seemed, at least to me, that using a woman’s last name for a child threatened everyone. An older woman asked me if I was doing this to make a point. Why was all this doing perceived as mine, not my husband’s as well? At a party, a peer told me she was “diehard Obama” and then argued that her only real concern about using a woman’s last name is that you risk the ease of preserving lineage and historical records.
“Really?” I kept responding.
Then, I took my pregnant, vomiting, exhausted self to New York to visit my cousin—a remarkable and fierce woman whose Facebook “political views” description reads :I’m for doing drugs during an abortion while marrying a gay illegal immigrant.” We drove around her neighborhood and she showed me the street art she photographs. At some point, I told her about my baby’s last name. She lifted her hands off the steering wheel and yelled, “What?!” as if in prayer, as if the earth had shuddered.
One short pause and then: “I want that. I really want that. But my man would never let that shit fly.”
…and told him: “It’s time you became a man.” Whatever reservations one has about expecting a child to be a man at the age of four, I’m not sure in societal terms the outcome is worse than letting everyone stay a child until 30.
The more basic point here is the state’s presumption that your children are yours only if you raise them in accordance with state diktats. (…)
Children are the property of the state and are merely outsourced to you for rearing. And, if you don’t do it right, they’ll re-allocate the rearing to somebody else.
I’ve been annoyed about turning 50 since my 49th birthday, if not earlier.
When I hit the big 4-0, I could still realistically get away with saying, “Hey, I’ve got half my life ahead of me!”
When the calendar clicked over to “2014,” my dread intensified each month, as May drew closer.
Speaking of “each passing month,” if you’d told me when I was 12 years old that one day I’d be sad about not getting my period, I’d have kicked you in the shins.
I never even used my uterus for its intended purpose, yet the looming prospect of not spotting (pun intended) that reliable signal of youth, fertility (and, yes, usefulness) is bumming me out.
Hell, my now-infrequent strolls down the drug store’s feminine hygiene aisle can bring nostalgic tears to my eyes, and I don’t even go swimming or horseback riding.
Look, I never go to the Toronto Film Festival, but I still want it around, as a sign that I’m not living in Hicksville.
Menopause is my Hicksville.
Toronto Life thinks this comment by Jerry Agar to Olivia Chow is controversial – just check out the smug “need we say more?” layout, with the font size that used to be reserved for stuff like the D-Day invasion.
This is the city I live in, people.
That this is the stuff I grew up reading should explain a lot.
Just flipping through my two Rock Yearbooks (1982 and 82), and getting dust all over myself.
Was looking for, and found, the story (just an aside, really) about Bruce Springsteen during his big breakthrough UK tour, having “employed fake doctors to pretend to drag him from the stage during his show.”
Howard Jones’ Humans Lib: “I can think only of a kid who’s been given a Rolf Harris Stylophone for Christmas and thinks he’s Gandhi.” – Melody Maker
Scritti Politti’s Songs to Remember: “Music for intelligent, sensitive and confused middle-class youth living in very small rooms.” — NME
Simple Minds’ New Gold Dream (81-82-83-84): “Cluttered, constipated, formulated fear straining for an arty fart.” – NME
Tears for Fears’ The Hurting: “The perfect group for all those fucked up, ‘what are we going to do with our lives’ student types who spend every moment wrapped up in their tiny problems and pathetic existence.” – NME
A-ha’s Scoundrel Days: “The hotbed of talent that is A-ha continues to go unrecognized. The critics, the unbelievers, the philistines who see only the glossy posters and the fancy haircuts, will persist in sneering at these Scandinavian saucepots with all the insight and perception of a tree.” – Sounds
Alison Moyet’s Raindancing: “This great white anserine blob called Alison – surname designed to suggest champagne, a nuance of upward mobility (if you’ve got a crane handy) but never forgetting the common touch (she talks like an oik and her lyrics admit that men and women sometimes get into the same bed) – doesn’t she just remind you of a belch?” – Melody Maker
“…my neighbors have knocked on the door to see what may be wrong. Kathy, your best yet.”
(From the 200+ comments.)
Nicholas James Pell writes about the “wrestling is racism” thing:
But in the final analysis, I think the problem writers and readers of The Atlantic have with professional wrestling is that it delights in its own lack of political correctness. The “Attitude Era” might be over, and with it the intensely bloody matches, women stripping each other out of bikinis, and not-so-thinly veiled double-entendres, but it’s still the sporting world’s answer to a trip to Hooters—only a couple steps removed from a hot dog eating contest.
Not a bad list. Good to see David Crosby on here.
You can imagine the comments.
A common theme is the usual liberal revisionism:
“Oh, please. We all KNEW John Lennon was a jerk. That’s not the point.”
No, you didn’t. You are the same people who insisted he was a living god, until butt-pains (like me) kept hammering away at his unearned saintly reputation.
Same thing with Michael Moore. Having beaten her down with a list of his lies and ethical lapses, a now ex-friend insisted, “But we never thought he was THAT important anyhow.”
She said this while standing in front of a TV stand piled with DVDs of every movie and TV show Michael Moore ever made.
If you love “small town girl goes to the city to forge a career” movies as much as I do, then you’ll want to check out the almost-forgotten A Life of Her Own by George Cukor (even if Cukor himself didn’t like it much.)
This movie did nothing to lessen my dislike of Ray Milland. However, if you think Lana Turner was just a pretty face and figure, her performance in this movie should convince you otherwise (even though at 30 she is too old for this part.)
Two other actresses almost steal the movie from Turner:
Ann Dvorak is perfectly cast as the bitter aging model, and Margaret Phillips as the invalid wife.
And the costumes — a crime in a movie about the fashion world — are indeed mostly awful.
George Cukor’s 1950 melodrama “A Life of Her Own” (which I discuss in this clip) takes place in the splashy milieu of New York fashion modelling and the social whirl that surrounds it. But Cukor keeps the movie—and its protagonist, Lily James (played by Lana Turner)—amazingly inward and tamped-down. It’s as if the entire film, with its breath-holding look at the catastrophic love of a single woman for a married man, stays hushed in anticipation of romantic disaster. The majesty of melodrama is the exaltation of everyday people and the revelation of tragedy in the conflicts that they face. That’s also the source of melodrama’s potential for absurdity, and the reason why it veers readily into (intentional) comedy and why (unintentionally) it often elicits laughter at moments of the greatest and noblest passion. Tragedy—which yokes its grand tone to the greatness of its characters and situations, putting large-scale history on the line—comes with a degree of awe built in. But melodrama, to be effective, depends on exquisite taste and delicate control of tone. Perhaps no filmmaker achieves those two elements as consistently and with as much variety as does Cukor, who is also the director of the greatest musical melodrama, the 1954 version of “A Star Is Born.”
Tucked elbow-to-elbow into our spots, we waited for Pearl Jam to hit the stage when we noticed that three or four young women – the band’s girlfriends, as it turned out, in their standard issue thrift store dresses, torn jeans and combat boots – had walked into the pit area directly in front of the band carrying an SLR or two and at least one old super 8 camera. We had been cleared from the spot where we’d best be able to do our jobs to make space for some proto-hipster tour document where the band would probably just get mocked. (…)
It felt like a final humiliation, and obviously I’m still smarting from it today. I didn’t much like the band, and now I knew why; not merely spoiled rock stars, they were shameless beta male rock stars, happy to make some camera stiff’s job harder to keep peace in the ad hoc domestic space of the tour bus. Shooting arena shows was bad enough, but being collateral damage in some assless wonder’s attempt at making his girlfriend feel “included” on his “big rock star tour ego trip” made it feel worse.