Eat the red couch

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

You know the nice thing about being a woman in weblogging, especially if you frequent the ‘weblogging as topic’ or technology lists, is that no one listens to you anyway, so you can damn well say what you want. The guys, on the other hand, take it all way too seriously because they’re listened to–well, if they’ve learned how to ‘pump the tire’, so to speak, they are–and they want to go down as someone wise, with it, and prescient.

I read in Dave Rogers weblog his quote from Shel Israel’s take on what Nick Carr had to say on innocent fraud:

The other thought is that maybe you should reflect on just quitting your blog. You don’t like the blogosphere. You certainly don’t seem to like those of us who are dedicating lives and energy to its promotion, and–don’t be offended by this Nick–we really won’t miss you a whole lot if you just sit down and shut up.

Now, I could respond in depth, like I’ve responded elsewhere this week, hopefully with something learned sounding and impressive but then I thought: why waste my time? Why not just have some fun, and say whatever the hell I want and we’ll all have a giggle, which is probably a lot better use of our time anyway.

So, here’s a brain teaser: what sentences can you derive from the following words: Shel Israel, blog evangelist, naked conversationist, tells Nick Carr to sit down shut up.

Here’s my first:

Shel Israel is a doo-doo bird

Pretty good, eh? I have more. For instance, here’s one that’s a nod for Mr. Seth FinkLEStein, in honor of him being subscribed (”OHMIGOD I’m subscribed!”) by Mr. Israel, blog evangelist:

Shel Israel is a doo-doo bird

I know, am I hot or what?

Nick Douglas, in comments, threatens to wag these boys’ valley because this whole thing is SO ONE DAY OLD. Since he’s been so damn good this week, with this and this, and oh god, I loved this, I have one just for him:

Shel Israel is a doo-doo bird

I know, my Mom said I had a cunning way with words.

La Shawn Barber manages to convert ANY topic into an anti-liberal rant, usually sprinkled equally with comments of faith and the virtues of a Darwinian philosophy of survival of the pricks. This, is especially for her:

Shel Israel is a doo-doo bird

You’re applauding, aren’t you? I can hear you. You love it, don’t you? You want more. Well…

Ethan, long time masochistic follower of the Bb Gun, also wrote on the whole innocent fraud thing. Being as he’s not attending Mike Arrington’s party tonight (”What? Why not? Everyone who is anyone will be there. Well, maybe not people in North Dakota. And Nick Douglas. And probably not Nick Carr.”) because he just attended FugIT, deserves one of his own:

Shel Israel is a doo-doo bird

Stop it! Stop it! You’re making me blush! A girl can handle only so many compliments. OK, OK, one or two more.

Lance, you’re A-List. And Shel?

Shel Israel is a doo-doo bird

Kent Newsome author of the shot heard round, well, the block tracks much of this including a comment by Hugh MacLeod, who has been mean again. Bad, bad, Hugh. If you don’t stop, we’re going to make you drink that wine you keep hawking.

Newsome points to (and writes some damn fine comments in) the original post that seems to have started this latest, where the author tells Seth to stop wallowing in his disillusionment. Survival of the pricks, indeed.

Kent, this one is just for you:

Shel Israel is a doo-doo bird

I better stop now, or you’re going to hurt yourself, laughing at my brilliant and witty sentence reconstructions. Time for you to have fun. Feel free to drop your gems in the comments; or in the pond, wrapped around a rock, if you prefer. Whatever you do, don’t sit down, and don’t shut up.

Have a happy weekend. Do something real.

Diversity History

What a wonderful treat

Monthly I get a fresh batch of downloads at eMusic. I don’t have the largest plan–the most I can download is 20 at a time. Usually this is enough for an album with maybe a few experimental downloads from unfamiliar groups. I think it will be years before I manage all the jazz downloads I want.

Last weekend when I went looking, I found an incredible collection: the complete works for Ella Fitzgerald when she was recording with the Decca label. The British label JSP is re-releasing a mix, and it includes probably some of her finest singing.

I’m not sure which is my favorite; probably “Baby, it’s Cold Outside”, with Louie Jordan. No, perhaps it’s “Black Coffee”. I can’t tell — it’s one good song after another. And quality, too. No scratches, good faithful reproductions.

I listened to it last weekend while I walked, and lost myself in another era–my favorite era. I softshoed past the cardinal, the titmouse, and the robins, while they looked on in seeming interest. No one else was about, of course. I’m only insane when I’m alone.

I would give anything to have been born in the 1920’s. Yes, there was the Depression, but whether it was because of the Depression or despite it, this was a time rich with exploration and strength–even for women. Especially for women.

Back in the 1920’s, 30’s, 40’s, a strong woman was someone to be looked up to and admired. Jean Harlow, Joan Crawford, Katherine Hepburn, Virginia Woolf, Elizabeth Taylor, Eleanor Roosevelt. You could be a feminist without having to carefully explain to the guys around you that it really didn’t mean you wanted to emasculate them. These women were honorary man feminists according to Lenore Levine. I don’t particularly agree with this designation, but I do like her description of today’s Nicey-Poo feminism:

Nicey-Poo Feminists have taken the sensible idea that women should be supportive of other women, and distorted it almost out of recognition. That is, Nicey-Poo Feminists believe that feminism means never saying anything controversial (at least in their own circles), and never saying anything about another woman that isn’t nice.

Nicey-Poo Feminism has been promoted by the new new Ms. (post-1990). This magazine is afraid to print anything which any segment of their audience might find offensive. After all, if they actually said anything mischievous or funny, their circulation might increase. (A fate they seem determined to avoid at all costs.)

The clothing of that long ago time reflected the personalities of the women. Many of the suits were tailored, severe, with padded shoulders and angular lines. The women who wore them seemed unbending in their resolve–determined and capable. Yet the gowns were fragile and light, and flowed behind the woman as she glided with exquisite grace and femininity across the dance floor. And the hats–I can only wish for a hat with a net dropping down to teasingly cover half my face; me peeping out through the netting in a move both coy and bold–we just can’t do this today. Butt cracks peeking out from pants too low is not the same.

During this time, women fought for and won the vote, admission to college, and demanded entry in fields normally restricted to the men. These were not quiet women, willing to demurely wait for someone else to pave the way. But they weren’t all of a kind–they couldn’t be classified as ‘feminist’ and ‘mother’, because many were both. And more. What extraordinary set of events happened to make women into what we were during this time? And what can we do now, to re-capture it?

If I was born in the 1920’s, I would have been in my late teens and early 20’s during World War II. I would like to think I would have volunteered to serve–as a pilot, surveyor, or radio person. Who knows? Maybe I would have been Rosie the Riveter.

Anyway, these were my thoughts while listening to Ella. It’s a rare collection of songs that can completely repaint your world.


I’m not Okay

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Don’t come towards me. I’m not okay.

When did okay stop being a word? Every spellcheck in every application I use now tells me okay is not a word. OK is a word. But OK is an acronym for okay. Isn’t it? Or was I brought up wrong?

When did towards stop being a word? The checkers will accept toward, but not towards. So I cowardly give in and have eradicated (that’s a word, isn’t it?) towards from my vocabulary. Still, toward doesn’t feel right.

I wonder how many other words I use that mark me as being from a certain era, place, culture, and socioeconomic background. I am only now aware that I write with an accent.