Tina Fey’s Bossypants

To best enjoy Tina Fey’s memoir Bossypants: 1. Have a couple of margaritas. 2. Be a female, 3. aged 40-ish, 4. who’s well-educated and career-minded, 5. with a kid or two. Now, these are general guidelines, and you can slide on one or two of these requirements, but don’t skip the margaritas (that’s just good policy.) It’s not that readers who don’t fit this description won’t enjoy Bossypants. It is funny as hell, and Fey doesn’t skimp on anecdotes from her stints at Second City, Saturday Night Live and 30 Rock. Anyone will respond to those segments. But there is a reflective tone to the memoir which I think adult women in particular will relate to, as Fey examines how her experiences as a young woman and later as a mother shaped (and continue to shape) her ambitions, neuroses and successes.

Fey’s initial stories about her working-class upbringing and time spent in the trenches of the service industry humanize her enough that we’re willing to follow her when she turns her attention to the challenges of celebrity. She relates these stories by paying particular attention to anxieties most women will recognize. For example, I’ve never had to endure a professional photo shoot for a glossy magazine (and that’s really okay with me), but Fey describes the experience with such frankness and humor that anyone who’s ever had her picture taken will feel reassured.

“Somebody will put up a makeshift wall by holding a full-length mirror next to an open loft window, and you will strip down naked. You must not look in that mirror at your doughy legs and flat feet, for today is all about dreams and illusions, and unfiltered natural daylight is the enemy or dreams.

When you inevitably can’t fit into a garment, the stylist’s assistant will be sent in to help you. The stylist’s assistant will be a chic twenty-year-old Asian girl named Esther or Agnes or Lot’s Wife.

…at this point in time her job is to stuff a middle-aged woman’s bare ass crack into a Prada dress and zip it up. In my case, Esther and I are always mutually frustrated when zipping up the tiny dress. Esther is disgusted by my dimply flesh and her low status. I’m annoyed that her tiny hands lack the strength to get Pandora’s plague back into the box.”

Fey never shies from the fact that being a woman has shaped her experiences and successes. She’s up front about her feminism, but she’s not a cookie-cutter feminist. She challenges women to resist victimhood and plunge on with their ambitions, even in the face of sexism. One particularly funny segment of Bossypants details Amy Poehler’s arrival at SNL and exposes the sometimes subtle, unspoken sexism of the entertainment (in particular the comedy) industry:

“Amy (Poehler) was new to SNL and we were all crowded into the seventeenth-floor writers’ room, waiting for the Wednesday read-through to start. There were always a lot of noisy “comedy bits” going on in that room. Amy was in the middle of some such nonsense with Seth Meyers across the table, and she did something vulgar as a joke. I can’t remember what it was exactly, except it was dirty and loud and ‘unladylike’.

Jimmy Fallon, who was arguably the star of the show at the time, turned to her in and in a faux-squeamish voice said, ‘Stop that! It’s not cute! I don’t like it!’ Amy dropped what she was doing, went black in the eyes for a second, and wheeled around on him. ‘I don’t fucking care if you like it.’

…With that exchange, a cosmic shift took place. Amy made it clear that she wasn’t there to be cute. She wasn’t there to play wives and girlfriends in the boys’ scenes. She was there to do what she wanted to do and she did not fucking care if you like it.”

I can’t say I love Fey’s advice to women facing workplace sexism, however:

“So my unsolicited advice to women in the workplace is this. When faced with sexism or ageism or lookism or even really aggressive Buddhism, ask yourself the following question: ‘Is this person in between me and what I want to do?’ If the answer is no, ignore it and move on. Your energy is better used doing your work and outpacing people that way. …

If the answer is yes, you have a more difficult road ahead of you … don’t waste your energy trying to educate or change opinions. Go ‘Over! Under! Through!’ and opinions will change organically when you’re the boss. Or they won’t. Who cares? Do your thing and don’t care if they like it.”

I agree that trusting our own competence is definitely the most valuable response to sexism in the long-run, but sometimes (as Poehler demonstrates) calling others out on their assumptions is valuable and lets people know you’re not showing up just to ferry their coffee.

If you get a chance, I recommend supplementing Bossypants with Rosanne Barr’s recent article in New York Magazine. Both women discuss sexism in the entertainment industry, but Barr’s response is both more strident and more potent. Perhaps Barr’s unwillingness to compromise as a writer, actress and comedian (and ultimately as the boss of her own show) cleared a somewhat smoother path for the Tina Feys, Amy Poehlers and Kristin Wiigs of the next generation.

Fey’s comic timing and original point-of-view are fantastic, and I giggled through most of Bossypants, but long-form prose isn’t exactly her strong suit. Transitions tend to be slight or non-existent, her chapters tend to end abruptly, and her organization is inconsistent. It’s clear Fey spends most of her time writing short sketches and screenplays, as the book’s funniest moments are the lists like “The Mother’s Prayer for Its Daughter,” which includes hopes such as:

“May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.”

and

“And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister,
Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends,
For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.”

Charmingly, Fey isn’t afraid to expose her own insecurities in the interest of honest reflection, and it’s these insecurities which resonate throughout Bossypants. But I believe the specificity of Fey’s point-of-view prevented even open-minded Mr. Irises from enjoying even the funniest bits I read aloud to him. He’s not a nearly-40-year-old woman writer, terrified of having her picture taken, with a working-class background and young daughter, for example – hence my recommended-reader qualifications. Perhaps I should have plied him with margaritas first? Nah. I think I’ll keep both the margaritas and Bossypants to myself (or share them with my girls.) After all, he has Woody Allen.

You Seem To Be On Fire

If you have been watching my Twitter feed, you may have noticed I’ve been fighting with my work-in-progress and so far it’s winning. Ugh. Thus — no new post this week. No worries, I’m working on it. In the meantime, my latest piece “You Seem To Be On Fire” is up at Smartly Chicago, if you’d care to have a look. Back with something super-amazingly-fantastic ASAP — well, maybe.

Weekly Round Up

While I wrestle my newest post-in-progress into submission, I thought I’d share some of the most intriguing/thoughtful bits of webby goodness I’ve come across this week. Some newish, some older, in no particular order:

First, I’m hosting the Downtown Throwdown Poetry Slam and Coffee Binge at Blackbird Cafe in Valparaiso on June 3rd. Click through for details, and then tell me you’re coming to read, ’cause I really want you to.

Second, Meet Laurie LaGrone at Fooleryland. Ms. LaGrone writes terrifically smart, funny pieces for Smartly.com (among other things) and her blog has way more.

Next, if you’re into positive sexuality, I give you Violet Blue, author, editor, educator. Her racy site is not appropriate for those under 18 or easily offended, but awesome for everyone else. I particularly enjoyed her recent podcast, How to Flirt With Geeks. (No, I’m not flirting with anyone, Mr. Irises. You’re the only geek for me.)

Also, I discovered the results of the Women in America study, released by the White House in March. It’s a lengthy PDF, but well-organized and pretty clear. Worth a look.

Finally, this is not new but it’s wonderful: the It Gets Better Project, founded by sexuality columnist Dan Savage, works to send positive reinforcement and hope to young LGBTs. Take the pledge, make a video, tell everyone you can.

Smiling at Strangers

2000irises: Smiling at Strangers

This piece originally appeared on Smartly Chicago:

Smiling at Strangers

At 21, with just $600 in my pocket and the full wind of naïve bravado at my back, I moved to London alone. This dumb fearlessness served me quite well in London, but not without cost. London aged me, taught me fear, and gave shape to my own limitations in a way I’ve been working to undo ever since.

One night, about 11 pm, I was walking the 2 ½ miles from SoHo back to the hotel in Paddington where I lived and worked, when I was approached by an elderly man. I walked the same route several times a week, and by then I knew to be alert and careful: walk purposefully, head up, never make eye contact. Never, ever smile at strangers. Aside from the plentiful homeless, no one ever said a word to me on the street. I was justifiably leery when the man stopped me, but he only handed me a bloom – just the bloom – of a small red carnation and said “Cheer up, love, night’s still young.” Then he smiled and continued on his way. I cradled that flower in my hand all the way back to my tiny room. I hoped it would live for a while, but you know it didn’t.

As soon as the man spoke to me, I realized I’d been walking about London for months with a fierce, cold expression on my face. This ferocity ran so counter to my ordinary cheerful, friendly nature that it disturbed me. I had to consider if my love of London was really worth such a sacrifice.

This transformation began as soon as I arrived in London. Fresh off the airplane, I settled into a window seat on the Tube with my considerable luggage flowered around me. I donned my earphones and cued up my portable CD player (cutting edge technology in 1994.) A man took the seat across from me. As he sat down, I looked up and smiled – just a polite “hello” smile. He smiled back, and I looked out the window.

A moment later, he tapped my arm and smiled at me again – a huge, inviting grin. I smiled weakly, nodded, and pointedly went back to looking out the window. A few minutes later he tapped me yet again and smiled. This time I didn’t respond, but I knew he was staring at me, grinning like an idiot. I hoped he would get off the train soon. Then he touched my knee. I frowned and shoved his hand away.

I resigned myself to hauling my luggage off at the next stop to wait for the next train. When we slowed for the station, I stood up, but he stood too. Then he leaned down and kissed my cheek. I was too astonished to react. I just stood there, horrified, frozen. Finally, another man realized what was happening. He shouted “Hey!” and loverboy dashed off. This was the moment I realized I might have gotten in over my head.

You would think I’d have learned my lesson after that, but I didn’t. All over London, men reacted very differently to me than any American man ever had. While, thank God, no one else ever touched me, I’m not used to drawing strangers’ attention, and it took me far too long to figure out what I was doing wrong. I was smiling at strangers.

Perhaps I overcompensated then, disconnecting from others completely in exchange for an imagined invisibility. The old man made me realize I wasn’t invisible at all – just afraid and angry: angry at myself for having been naïve, angry at the world for being dangerous for women. I wanted independence so badly that I fooled myself into believing I was invincible, and when I realized that wasn’t true, I mourned.

I still miss my stupid moxie, the beautiful illusion that I could do anything at all – the same necessary, optimistic lie we still teach our daughters. I would get on that plane to London again in a heartbeat, but if I did so now, I would have to take my fear with me. Heavy luggage indeed.

photo by d’n’c

Swamplandia!

Mr. Irises and I have a longstanding tradition which I never thought was unusual until I mentioned it to friends. We read books aloud to each other. I don’t know when we started doing this, probably over 15 years ago, and I can’t say how many books we’ve shared. Many. We read the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy aloud. All seven Harry Potter books. The Chronicles of Narnia. So many more: The Blind Assassin, Tender is the Night, Love In The Time of Cholera, The Secret History, The Keep, etc. I can’t possibly remember them all. Over the past few years, though, we’ve become very spotty about reading together – small children can be so inconvenient. (Stop scowling. That was a joke.) In any case, we kept promising to get back to reading aloud. A little over a month ago we decided to give it another go and chose Swamplandia! by Karen Russell. What a fantastic book to come back to.

Swamplandia! is the story of the Bigtrees: a strange, insulated family living on an isolated island in the Ten Thousand Islands region of the Everglades. The Bigtrees have owned and operated the Swamplandia! alligator-wrestling theme park for two generations, but when its star attraction, Hilola Bigtree, dies of ovarian cancer, the park falls on hard times. That’s just the beginning. What follows is the tale of a fractured family, founded on a manufactured history, struggling to survive as their self-delusions unravel.

The book is primarily told through the recollections of Ava Bigtree, who is 13 at the time of the story. She’s been so thoroughly insulated from the mainland that the only “ordinary” people she has ever met are the service people and tourists who come to Swamplandia!. She aspires to the magnificent strength and bravery of her mother, Hilola, and after her mother dies, Ava takes it upon herself to rescue her family from ruin. However, a scrappy 13-year-old who understands alligators far better than she understands people is an extraordinarily vulnerable person. She shows amazing courage, but her blind faith is a terrible liability.

We also spend a good deal of time with Ava’s older brother, Kiwi – a 17-year-old who only wants to escape the confines of the island and go to school like a normal teenager. He reads voraciously and counts himself a genius, but when he defects to the mainland, he learns the hard way just how little he knows. Like Ava, Kiwi has no idea how to interact with other people. As he discovers just how much of his family’s life is a fiction, he becomes more even devoted to them while scrabbling for his own independence.

Other characters in Swamplandia! include the third Bigtree sibling: Osceola, a 16-year-old with a predilection for interludes with ghosts; Sawtooth Bigtree, the aged patriarch; Samuel (Chief) Bigtree, Sawtooth’s fervently delusional son who has raised his children to be fiercely loyal to their family and proud of their home; and The Bird Man, a spectral figure who ostensibly controls the avian life of the swamp. And Russell describes that swamp with such throbbing detail that it too becomes a quasi-sentient being, pulsing with life, both sustaining and treacherous.

Russell writes so beautifully that at twenty-nine, she’s already been singled out by The National Book Foundation and the New Yorker for her prodigious talent. Have a look at Swamplandia!’s opening sentences:

“Our mother performed in starlight. Whose innovation this was I never discovered. Probably it was Chief Bigtree’s idea, and it was a good one – to blank the follow spot and let a sharp moon cut across the sky, unchaperoned; to kill the microphone; to leave the stage lights’ tin eyelids scrolled and give the tourists in the stands a chance to enjoy the darkness of our island; to encourage the whole stadium to gulp air along with Swamplandia!’s star performer, the world-famous alligator wrestler Hilola Bigtree.”

Swamplandia! is thoroughly original, magical, and deeply suspenseful. Unfortunately, it highlighted one of the perils of reading aloud – it’s impossible to read a whole book quickly, especially when the writing is this rich. One can’t stay up all night, plunging desperately through chapter after chapter. After weeks of mounting tension, though, Mr. Irises and I finally caved in to the pressure and spent three hours straight reading the harrowing last 80 pages, desperate to reach the resolution. It didn’t disappoint. It’s already won the Bard Fiction Prize, and I think we can expect to see this book on more of 2011’s short lists of best fiction. Read it and tell me what you think.

The Perils of Listening In

This piece ran on smartly. Chicago on April 25, 2011:

Remember the last time you were sitting in that café, minding your own business, chatting with a friend? You were completely focused on one another, catching up on recent events, sharing traumas and victories, emotions, fears. It was a wonderful conversation, wasn’t it? Personal and satisfying, meaningful, refreshing.

Yeah. I remember that too. I was listening the whole time.

I possess the dubious superpower of Super Hearing. (Imagine concentric red lines emanating from my ears.) I’d rather have Super Strength or Eidetic Memory, but I suppose I’ll take the hand I’m dealt (or ears, if you will.) I haven’t yet used my power to thwart criminal masterminds, but I totally will if the opportunity rises.

Like most superheroes, I have a love/hate relationship with my super ability. Generally, I use it for good. After all, Super Hearing can be practical and useful. For example, when I waited tables, I always “magically” knew what my guests needed before they asked. Imagine the tips! Later, as a teacher and professor, I easily discerned whispered conversations, the rustle of passed papers, the pucka-pucka of cell-phone keypads. A glance in a student’s direction usually sufficed to bring them around. You can also easily imagine how handy Super Hearing can be for a mom.

Beyond its benefits to maintaining order, though, Super Hearing can be vexing. You see, I can’t turn it off. There are many, many conversations I just don’t want to hear. For example, recently I’ve been unwittingly privy to:

* “She thought it was hidden, but I found her diary under her mattress. She called me a bitch.”

* “I’ve been clean since I got out of prison, but it’s hard. I’m lonely a lot.”

* “Oh yeah, she’s hot. I’d love to get my hands on that ass.”

Ewwwww.

All this wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t also ridiculously empathetic – another “talent” I can’t turn off. Sometimes others’ whispered confessions and harrowing stories bring me to tears or inspire such fury, I have to escape to the safety of my car and cry. There have been times when I’ve heard things so awful I’ve considered whether or not to contact authorities. Occasionally, with students in genuine need, I have intervened, but mostly I keep my nose out of other people’s business.

Instead, I compensate. I never leave home without my iPod because I don’t want to hear your hushed argument with your boyfriend, your regressive political views, or your cell-phone conversation with your divorce lawyer. I don’t want to know the details of your sex life, drug habits, medical issues, bank account balances, or relationship with Jesus. I always wear my noise-canceling earphones in the café, in doctor’s waiting rooms (deadly), in the library, on public transportation – anywhere bored people are prone to chit-chat.

Originally, I cultivated my Super Hearing. As a young child, tuning in to others’ voices served me well if things got dicey. But I no longer need this skill. Voyeurism holds no allure for me. I’d happily trade my Super Hearing for, say, Time Travel or Super Speed. Super powers never come free though. As Spiderman, Batman and Catwoman have demonstrated, there’s always a cost.

I imagine old age will eventually dull the constant din of other people’s voices, especially as I’ve spent the last twenty-five years listening to loud music through earbuds. In the meantime, know that I honestly don’t want to eavesdrop, but if I’m sitting nearby without my earphones on, I’m listening.

smartly. Chicago post #1

Have a look-see at my first post for smartly. Chicago. I’ll repost the essay here in a day or two.

Adapt or Die

I’m not normally a fan of the action film. Testosterone-drenched, glamorized violence does nothing for me. Generally, action movies are ridiculous at best, boring at worst. Yes, boring. I don’t care enough about pumping soundtracks and squealing tires to sit through a plotless parade of scantily clad women and sweaty men. Yawn. Action movies rarely show any inspiration or creativity, and the inevitable, endless regurgitation of sequels only waters down the already-bland content. Fast Five, for example.

Then, occasionally, an action movie comes along which surprises me. This year, it’s Hanna. If you haven’t seen Hanna yet, you really, really should. Hanna’s director, Joe Wright, is most widely known for his literary adaptations of Atonement and Pride and Prejudice. (He recently announced he’s tackling Anna Karenina next.) Hanna is nothing like his previous work, but it retains crucial elements of his auteur style, in particular, his focus on complex female characters and their social environments. In a recent interview with Morgan Denno, Wright said, “I think most action movies have a very dubious socio-political point of view. It’s all about the glorification of violence and women becoming objects. I wanted to make an action movie that had a moral and a socio-political conscious.” [sic]

Hanna (Saoirse Ronan) is unlike any film heroine in recent memory. She’s s teen girl who’s been raised in the arctic wilderness, trained by her father to be an assassin. Sure, she kicks ass, but that’s a tiny part of why she’s so compelling. She’s lived away from civilization for most of her life, and despite her fluency in several languages, she doesn’t understand people or society. When it comes to relationships, motivations, falsehoods, love, she’s totally at a loss. This vulnerability balances out her fearsome fighting skills. Hanna has the innocence and self-preservation instincts of an wild animal – a comparison Wright sets up in the first scene. Hanna must kill her nemesis before she is killed, but her real challenge is to learn how to exist and survive among other people.

It’s notable that Hanna is not the only woman in this film. Unlike almost any other action film, the leads in Hanna are primarily women, none of whom are hypersexualized. (For comparison, check out what Joe Wright has to say about Sucker Punch.) Cate Blanchett plays Marissa, the CIA agent out to destroy Hanna and her father.

Jessica Barden plays Sophie, the “typical” teen daughter of the vacationing family that Hanna temporarily latches onto. And Olivia Williams plays Rachel, Sophie’s affectionate mother who tries to show Hanna kindness and protection. In contrast, only Eric Bana as Hanna’s father, and a truly sinister Tom Hollander have significant male roles. (Oh Mr. Collins, No!)

Hanna features gorgeous fairy-tale locations, fantastic cinematography, solid, terse dialogue, and amazing acting. What especially intrigued me, however, was the thematic question about mother-daughter relationships. Mothers populate this film: Photographs of Hanna’s dead mother haunt her throughout the movie. Hanna’s grandmother also appears briefly, and challenges Marissa to consider her position as a mother. (Watch Blanchett’s mouth and throat twitch when she admits she has no children.) Rachel is a surrogate protective figure, and Marissa, of course, is the anti-mother. Significantly, Wright doesn’t moralize about or idealize these mothers (or non-mothers) one bit. Instead, he presents complex characters in impossible situations and lets us consider how these mother-daughter relationships are relevant.

One doesn’t ordinarily expect such subtlety or philosophic consideration from an action movie. In his Vanity Fair interview with John Lopez, Wright explained, “Paul Greengrass showed us with the Bourne films that it’s possible to make an action film with a political, social conscience. I liked that idea of making an action film that was the opposite of misogynistic, gun-loving bullshit. Something that could entertain, first and foremost, but also have a social conscience.” Well done, Mr. Wright. Hanna is beautiful, well-written and masterfully executed.

Oh yeah, it’s also fast-paced, loaded with cool weaponry and impressive fighting, and set to a kicking soundtrack by the Chemical Brothers. No car chases though. You’ll have to (gulp) see Fast Five for that.

Ink Stains and the Brainy Girl

In honor of Dilbert creator Scott Adams’s recent coming-out as an asshat (be sure to click through and read Adams’s original post!), I thought it might be therapeutic to take in some truly wonderful, original, creative comics by and featuring brainy women.

If you haven’t spent much time exploring the almost infinite world of web comics, it can be somewhat daunting. In the interest of avoiding another Irene Adler-sized post, I’m only going to tap three examples here, but consider this the first in a series of posts about web comics. The traditional comics publishing world may still be a boys’ club, but online, anything goes.

I credit my first recommendation to my supersmart and oh-so-cutting-edge friend Ifreet, who is a kind of awesome magnet. She always finds the coolest stuff ages before I do. I literally keep a notepad out when she’s around because she’s always pointing me to things I need to see, hear and do. (I still owe her my first-born child to pay off my Sassy Gay Friend debt.)

–Lately, Ifreet has been raving about 2D Goggles or The Thrilling Adventures of Lovelace and Babbage by Sydney Padua. I cannot second her rave enough.

In 2D Goggles, Actual Real Life friends Ida Lovelace and Charles Babbage – Victorian mathematicians, scientists and engineering vanguards — team up to fight crime (by which they mean street music and poetry.) Some of the best things about this comic:

1. It’s pretty: Frenetic drawing style paired with keen composition, technical know-how, and an eye for meaningful detail.
2. It’s funny: Sassy dialogue, pop culture references and bad puns aplenty.
3. Footnotes: Oh yes girls and boys, Padua is good at research, and she really, really wants us to get her in-jokes. I get smarter with each installment. (I cannot say the same thing for Dilbert. *ahem*)
4. Hyperlinks: Wanna learn more? Padua hyperlinks like a maniac: primary sources, secondary sources, visual inspirations, tangentially related nonsense, completely unrelated nonsense – it’s all here for the clicking.

The nice thing here is you can begin at the beginning and you don’t have thousands of comics to read through before you get to the newest installments. The episodes run concurrently, and each has its own arc.

–Next up is Bite Me! by Dylan Meconis.

Ifreet may have told me about this little gem, too, but I kind of forgot and later rediscovered it on my own. What’s it about? Glad you asked. It’s about Vampires! and the French Revolution! It’s sophisticated, funny, and has some kick-ass lady vamp types.

I’m a sucker for kick-ass lady anythings, really. Buffy is a personal hero. But, honestly, I’m suffering from vampire burnout. Too much Buffy, perhaps. More likely too much Twilight, Vampire Diaries, Being Human, etc. I’ve always been a fan of the vampire trope, but it’s pretty much circled the drain since Anne Rice. Thankfully, Meconis avoids falling into the current “tortured vampire” cliché – the one that pits the “I’ll eat anything that moves” vampire against the “God I love/resent/desire fragile humanity” vampire. The vampires here are mostly cool with being vampires and are on the run and having fun. Flying heads! Funny Hats! Robespierre! Go vampires go!

Ms. Meconis began this comic in high school, because she had, as she says, “a burning desire to simultaneously make fun of A Tale of Two Cities and Interview With the Vampire.” She actually completed Bite Me! in 2004, and now publishes a newer web comic called Family Man, which I also highly recommend.

–And finally, we have Subnormality.

Subnormality is the kind of comic where you read through all the panels, and then you have to go back and look closely at the art because it’s peppered with funny, sad, lovely details you probably missed the first time. Most of the episodes are one-offs, but Subnormality does have a recurring character in the form of a 3000 year-old sphynx. She wanders around a modern metropolis trying desperately to understand why people live and feel the way they do. She bumps up against contemporary social constructs and wonders why human beings’ priorities are so screwed up. It’s sharp at times, almost cynical even, but mostly Subnormality is poignant and has a very curious, quite gentle approach to talking about human frailty. “Sexier Than” actually made me cry. (Yeah, I’m a sucker.)

The artist/author of Subnormality is Winston Rowntree – the pseudonym for a guy who earned my eternal devotion by plainly declaring, “I’m downright feminist.” Many of the characters in these strips are women, and he writes women well. He writes men well, also. And sphinxes. And monsters. And so on. Mr. Irises introduced me to Subnormality, and it’s only loyal gratitude that keeps me from writing Winston Rowntree daily love letters. Well, that and my pride.

If you’re interested in exploring further, here are just a couple more sites where you can find other female-friendly web comics:

Girlamatic.com

and

Feministe’s 10 Webcomics You Should Read

If you have more suggestions, I’m all ears.

The First Lull

It was inevitable. Writing work kicked up, I was asked to organize a poetry reading, and I missed a blog week. Sigh. I had such good intentions. Anyway, this is me checking in, rather informally, to give an update on my current projects and send out feelers, without a fully-fashioned post. I hope to be back next week with something more ambitious.

As I said, I spent a bunch of time last week organizing and publicizing a Poetry Reading/Open Mic I’m planning for South Shore Arts. It’s at the Crown Point Community Arts Center {Map} on March 25th, 6-9 pm. This event coincides with the final days of the (M)others exhibit, on display until March 26th. I’m still interested in hearing from poets who would like to be added to the reading list before the open mic sign-up starts. Everyone is invited. Everyone.

I’m also compiling an email mailing list for anyone who’d like to stay up to date on literary events in Northwest Indiana, so if that’s you, drop me a line.

Two other events occupied my attention last week. On Wednesday, I heard Jill Alexander Essbaum read her poetry at Valparaiso University’s Brauer Museum. She writes beautiful, lyrical poems with sometimes shocking, definitely evocative themes: sex, death and religion — often all at once. She’s warm, down-to-earth, funny, self-effacing and clearly proud of her work. If her name is new to you, I recommend her to your attention.

The other wonderful, wonderful, wonderful event I enjoyed last week was Thursday’s live broadcast of the National Theater’s production of Frankenstein.

Click Here for the Trailer

I’d read a few reviews, but I always take reviews with a mountain of salt. I rarely agree with them. (Brainy women like to make up their own minds.) None of the reviews prepared me for how much I’d love this show. It’s disturbing, harrowing, and uncomfortable. The murderous creature is the hero of this production, and we cannot help but sympathize with him even as he commits horrible crimes. (For perhaps the first time?) we hear his voice, experience his agony and loneliness, and feel his suffering. If we cannot excuse his actions, at least we understand he acts out of despair and rage.

This show could easily have been a ridiculous melodrama, and in the hands of lesser lead actors or a more timid director, it would have been. Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller are amazing, though. I can’t overstate this. They make this production possible. Watching a man thrash about and screech for ten minutes should be mind-numbing, but instead it is engrossing. The newborn creature’s tension and discomfort enters your body and chest right in those first moments of the play, and there it stays for the next two hours.

Visually, the play is remarkable. The lighting is of course really, really cool, but I also loved the rotating stage floor, the brilliant colors, the use of scrims and the slanted floor of the Frankenstein mansion. I did have some reservations about the plotting which is odd at times, even while it makes narrative sense. (We just don’t get enough of Victor’s point of view to appreciate his struggles and motivations.) The dialogue is a bit heavy-handed in places, too, double-emphasizing the play’s themes verbally when subtlety would work better. Some of the supporting cast seemed a bit off as well. But overall Frankenstein rocked. The play is being re-broadcast soon (the dates vary,) with the lead actors switching roles. Find out when it plays near you on the National Theater Live US Venues site. If you get a chance to see it, absolutely do.

So, that’s it until next week when I write something pithy and deep. Possibly. Or maybe not.