Week 2 (17)

Overreaction, indeed.
Saturday, 20:31

A nine-year-old girl has been arrested on sex charges. Read the AP story, and you’ll know as much as I do, at the moment.

 

Props.
Friday, 13:13

Should have mentioned that the wack John Ashcroft easter egg came from the irreplaceable David Chess, who did me the inestimable favor of swiping a bunch of my links, even as he snarkily suggested I’m somehow NSFW. Yeah, well, I guess I am.

—Should have, but didn’t. Till now. (And yes. I fixed his link. Thanks.)

 

Beauty is youth, youth beauty.
Friday, 10:11

We live in a Pepsi movie town. You know, these days just about every city’s movie theaters are sewn up in one monopoly or another, just like the phone and the cable and the power, and most of those chains of theaters have exclusivity deals with one soft drink vendor or another, which means when you sit down before the previews and they show those dam’ slides where there used to be a blessedly blank screen (or, if you’re really old, or really classy, a closed curtain), basically, those slides are brought to you by either Coke or Pepsi. And we live in a Pepsi town. Which means we get peppered with, among other things, Britney trivia. —No Bob Dole trivia, though. Oddly enough.

One of the slides (she’s standing to one side, jeans hanging low enough you can see the red waistband of her thong creeping up over her hips, a Pepsi symbol dangling from her navel piercing, a truly unpleasant this-is-the-fifteenth-goddamn-time-we’ve-tried-this-fucking-shot-when-will-you-bozos-get-it-right grin screwed tightly to her chipmunked face) informs us that Britney was the most searched-for celebrity online last year.

“Yeah,” sniggers the Spouse. “But in what context?”

(By the way: Christina Aguilera isn’t nearly as popular as Britney. Nice to have such an objective measurement, isn’t it?)

Dominique Swain is the latest to pose nude for PETA. She is, as the press release reminds us (more than once) the star of Adrian Lyne’s remake of Lolita . And we all know what Lolita was about, don’t we? —Aside from the doomed affair between decadent post-war Europe and young, brash, amoral America.

In the ad, by the way, of course, Swain stands naked before a blackboard, in a classroom, her blond hair held back with what I imagine is a fetching schoolgirl’s headband.

•

Oh: and I never knew Emmanuelle ran into Lolita. “In the meantime innamora of Emanuelle a local child, Lolita, which, not content to flirt with feminine its idolo, stretches to imitate it in all until replacing it near its numerous corteggiatori.”

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Dan Savage blames it all in at least some small part on genetic programming. And while as usual I find his advice sharp and pithy and sensible (when, that is, he isn’t writing on politics), I must admit I find most evolutionary socio-biological psycho-babble to be utter hooey. —After all, we have to look at the fact that the school of “barely legal” and “borderline underage” porn he’s referring to is a relatively new phenomenon. One can trace it, I think, to a number of factors: the explosion of “niche porn” brought about by the internet; the relative permissiveness of the Clinton era, with regards to the porn industry; the drilling down age-wise of marketers, targeting ever-younger strata of the demographic, and dragging behind them like a dead weight the truism that sex, even hidden, even subtextualized, sells; the lemming-like unthinking drive to Save The Kids, drawing up sides and lines in the sand, with the concomitant fetishization of that Magic Age 18 (18 By Seconds!).

Of course, all of this is feeding off a basic drive, somewhere deep down in there, but it’s a drive as much conditioned by the society around us as encoded in our genes (those who seek Causes would be well-served to brush up on feedback loops). After all, the first time I ever saw an issue of Barely Legal (and it wasn’t that long ago, you know), I was instantly taken aback. Eww. And yet— (Repulsion. Attraction. Sacred. Profane.)

Genetics?

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Young & Stacked. Barely Legal. Finally Legal. Cheerleaders. Candy Girls. Just Come of Age. Just 18. Purely 18. 18Eighteen. Ripe. Rookies. Babyface. Tight. Virgins. Hawk.

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Before S11 changed everyone’s priorities, Mark Cromer wrote an amusing and disconcerting little article about some of the restrictions the pornographic video industry was imposing on itself due to the shadow cast by then-incoming Attorney General John Ashcroft. (Who, by the way, just recused himself from the Teapot Dome scandal—I mean, the Enron investigation—and, have you noticed, still hasn’t caught a break in the anthrax investigation.) It’s interesting to note that, with all the concern over vegetables and urination and blindfolds and coffins and women in any sort of distress whatsoever, not one word is said about the barely legal schoolgirl hitchhiker-in-pigtails gee-mister-it’s-so-big school of scenarios.

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Nor do we want to forget the boys.

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But go further; dig deeper. Younger. Look at the real monsters we’re trying to cordon off, here, so we can enjoy our Pepsi ads in peace without troublesome nagging doubts; echoes of evil, no good, very bad, nasty little thoughts.

And in case you want to know if your thoughts were safe, or evil and no good and very bad and nasty: a country-by-country and state-by-state listing of Magic Ages. —Also: if you’re wondering how long it’ll be till Mary-Kate and Ashley are no longer considered jailbait hereabouts—

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Yes, there are things to worry about out there. To pick a few at random. There’s also a lot of ignorance, stupidity, and hysteria. To say nothing of overreaction. Yes, there are some terrifically creepy things in the world—which, I hasten to add, are perfectly legal. (How on earth will you outlaw the one, yet allow proud parents to show off vacation snaps of their kids at the beach? Or at dance recital? Or dressing up like Britney Spears?)

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Provide an objective, legally binding definition of “lascivious” that is fair and just and can be applied across the board without reservation or exception. You have thirty seconds; go.

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What can I say? It’s a liminal borderland, a twilight zone, an envelope, a shiny, candy-like hot-button. Lord knows I’m more fascinated by the phenomenon itself than any of its products. —But for all the crepuscular murkiness, there’s still a black thread and a white thread I can hold up and tell the difference between: communication cannot be restricted, not in any medium. Thoughts, fancies, fantasies, ideas: these must be allowed free expression. It goes without saying, of course, that any time any actual person is harmed, coerced, exploited—but what do these words mean? And how? “Harmed.” “Coerced.” “Exploited.” “Person.” It’s already getting dimmer. We’re entering the realm where we need to look at each case, each incident, piece by piece, on its own terms, find out what really happened, and why, and how; there is no one sweeping piece of legislation we can pass that will keep us and our children safe from the horrible things that can happen in the world.

—Then, there never, ever was.

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The alternative, of course, is a world in which expression is limited and regulated so as not to risk setting off the lowest common denominator, wherever that bar might be placed. Where it’s perfectly legal to download all the Britney videos you want, but illegal to write about or discuss in any meaningful way the sex that fifteen-year-old kids will go on having. No matter what the Supreme Court says.

•

You might, of course, argue (if you were so inclined) that I (and my ilk) am part of the problem. (If you were so inclined, I doubt you’d be reading this, but. Yes, yes: hello, choir.) I, of course, would be taken aback, and say things about tossing not only the baby but the mother and the tub and the crib and the diaper pail and the talcum powder out with the bathwater. —It is not just important, it’s vital to remember that Jessie James, say, is not a fifteen-year-old girl; she is a fictional creation, an eidolon, a symbol, a caricature, a broadly drawn pastiche, a chimera, a scalpel, a microscope. A smattering of words well- or poorly chosen scattered on the screen. (Am I being disingenuous? Perhaps. But she is no more what she seems to be than Carter MacLeod is, say, me. So there.)

—Rather, of course, like Britney Spears herself: chaste kinderwhore; vestal Vegas virgin; pro-abstinence sexpot; the Mickey Mouse slut who’s waiting for marriage. A fictional creation, a symbol, an eidolon; a scalpel that slices through contradictory whorls of our swirling, conflicted culture and turns up neat and awful and enlightening and unsettling patterns for us to peer at and poke around in and pontificate upon. She’s far more interesting viewed that way than, say, as a singer.

I mean, I’d much rather listen to Tegan and Sara.

 

A quickie.
Thursday, 22:51

Yeah, yeah. Workin’ on some other stuff. Some of which will appear here tomorrow. (Yes. I do prep work. Sometimes. Sometimes, like now, it’s just on the fly.) So here’s something I’m still reading myself, but is too fucking cool not to pass along to those of you who don’t read MeFi and haven’t already heard about it (ancient though it may be): the amazing syncretistic mythology of Miami street kids.

 

Yours is a Very Bad C&D Letter.
Tuesday, 19:03

These guys (being the Berkman Center for Internet and Society and everybody’s favorite watchdogs of liberty, the EFF) have a brilliant idea: provide a clearinghouse to register and record the effects of cease and desist letters throughout the internet, to try and document who’s doing what to whom, and why, and what’s getting muzzled as a result. It’s not fully operational yet, but a hearty cheer for them nonetheless: hip, hip, everbody.

On the other hand, Joseph Crosby (General Manager of the DoubleTree Club Hotel Houston) just doesn’t get it.

 

Damn straight I’m bent.
Tuesday, 15:43

Yeah, I know. More politics. But it’s not that the personal is political, baby; everything’s political. Aw, yeah.

Maybe we should clear up Pakis, first? Yes, Paki as a slur is mostly restricted to Britain and Canada; I might have been misspeaking when I hinted yesterday that most Americans were, indeed, quite aware of its sensitivity as a term. Yes, Paki can indeed be a term of familiarity, even endearment; to compare it with “nigger” is to miss aspects too large to be called nuances, but nonetheless gives you an idea. “Pakistan” itself is something of an acronym, a made-up name dating back to the proposed creation of an Islamic state to counterbalance the Hindu state of (then, presumably) Hindustan: “P” for Punjab, “A” for the Afghan border states, “K” for Kashmir, “S” for Sind, and “tan,” well, it’s complicated. (If I recall correctly, they also thought of calling it [the vague region where Pakistan sits today] “India,” because most of the delta of the Indus flows through Pakistan; instead, what everybody thought would be called “Hindustan” bagged the name “India,” to the surprise of most.) —So there’s no immense weight of history behind the derogatory implications of Paki, really; there’s just, you know, thirty or forty years of foul-tempered racist Brits and Canadians working hate and disgust and distaste and disdain for poor shiftless lazy foul-smelling funny-sounding jibber-jabbering weird-food-eating infidel immigrants into two harsh, clipped, biting little syllables: “Paki.”

But just because “most” Americans might not appreciate this nugget of cultural trivia does not excuse our President from failing this; he’s supposed to know, or supposed to be surrounded by people who know, how to prevent looking like an idiot by stepping in the middle of delicate negotiations and tossing around an insulting racial slur. —Failing that, he ought to acknowledge his error and give some clue that he’s aware of its gravity. Not throw up his hands and proclaim ignorance. (Rather: his handlers throw up their hands and proclaim his ignorance. Thankless task, you ask me.)

Certainly, the American press isn’t peeping about this (yet) (so far as I’ve seen). But Americans are certainly talking about it. Just do me a favor? Don’t call him an “ignorant hick.” It’s an insult to hicks.

But this is minor, of course, compared with, oh, for starters (leaving off the attempt to, you know, just ignore the Clean Air Act)—John Ashcroft. (Caught those anthrax terrorists yet? Have you tried looking through your list of campaign donors?) —His latest outrage occurred back in October, but the media was too busy trying to figure out what was different in the wake of S11 to let us know. Basically: he’s ordered the blocking of most Freedom of Information Act requests from American citizens. I— I— Words fail me. If this—man—serves a full four years as Attorney General, I’ll—I’ll— Feh. Words fail me.

Some have suggested the recent foofooraw over “not over my dead body will they raise your taxes” and bringing to justice those who “espouse philosophies that are terrorist or bent” is a sign that “the other side” has shaken off its post-S11 malaise. Whatever. The more the merrier. Louder is better. —Me, I’m just doing what Press Secretary Ari Fleischer told us “all Americans” need to do:

I’m watching what they say. I’m watching what they do.

(Heck. Even librarians are starting to make some noise.)

 

Speak for your own damn self.
Monday, 22:34

I mean, I knew “Pakis” was a slur. You knew “Pakis” was a slur. Just because the White House says our President didn’t know “Pakis” was a slur doesn’t mean “Most Americans are unaware of the sensitivity of the term.”

Oh. And you heard that anyone who “espouses” a philosophy that’s “terrorist and bent” will be brought to justice, right? First Amendment? What?

“White House defends use of ‘Pakis.’” Jesus. I wouldn’t want Scott McClellan’s job for anything. —Well. Except for the whole current lack-of-income thing.

Bent?

 

Fucking Machines III: Bringin’ the buzz.
Monday, 20:09

Well, hell. Since I’m all amped about industrial design and all (I still salivate when I see this, you know), here’s a link to a) a nice enough British site for naughtiness supplies, which has b) a new line of, of, marital aids? massage tools? anti-hysteria devices? aw, heck: frickin’ vibrators designed by this or that nattering nabob of industrial design. Fun, happy, and eager to be picked up and played with. (I think the Bone looks the best of the lot, but hey.) Rather like— Well, hell. You know. This.

 

Premature gratification, or, Fucking machines, take two.
Sunday, 22:28

iWalk? Heh. Not at all. It’s this. The picture’s teeney, but what do you expect for a scoop? inadvertent leak? odd-ball PR stunt? from (of all places) Time/Canada; there will, of course, be much bigger pictures everywhere tomorrow.

Oh, I want one. Oh, man. Do I want one.

Amended Monday, 01:29

Turns out it was an inadvertent leak; Time has yanked Time/Canada’s link, redirecting everything to their funky-new-iMac-less regular front page. Ah, well. You’ll doubtless see all you could possibly want of it tomorrow, if you so choose.

If not...

(Linked from Time/Canada; we’ll see how long it stays viable.)

 

Parse this.
Sunday, 19:59

“Hey,” says the downstairs tenant. “You missed it. Bush just made himself a one-term president.”

I peered at his TV screen. “‘Not over my dead body will they raise your taxes,’” I read off the crawl.

Jesus.

(Myself, I think he was supposed to say: “Not even over my dead body will they raise your taxes.” Not that I give all that much of a fuck.)

 

Phenomenally good.
Sunday, 12:28

The Royal Tenenbaums, that is. And it’s not just The Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, either. It’s everything Ellen Raskin ever wrote; it’s all those books, the ones I read in the 4th and the 5th and the 6th grades, it’s all those funny and viciously witty and miserable kids who lived in those magical cities—only it’s them twenty years later, melancholic, past their primes, heart-achingly lost, still wandering around somehow in that New York City that only existed the day before yesterday. You know. The one where Woody Allen filmed Manhattan. Except in color. And with different music.

 

For the record, then.
Sunday, 09:24

It’s funny, because it’s true. —Me? Um. I’ve been to a Ren Faire. I love comics. I insist on subtitles in my anime. I once played in a live-action Call of Cthulhu game. (It was a dinner party.) I disdain Heinlein. I’ve been paid for my writing; just not for anything I’ve done involving science fiction or fantasy, and even if I did once write something sort of set in the Trek universe which had some sex in it, I swear to God it’s not what you’re thinking. I can’t draw. And I think the idea of a synthetic language is neat, but. And, um. Buffy.

—At least there’s always the furries.