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I met up with Jade and Mandy tonight and drank delicious spritzers and ate far far too much sensational spicy Chinese food. Only when I got home did I realise I'd forgotten to take my penicillin tablet half an hour before I ate, and would have to wait 2 whole hours more before I could take it and go to bed.
So I began playing through some of my favourite hip hop tracks and bopping and strutting around my bedroom. It has been ages since I've had energy to expend superfluously on such wholesome foolishness! Anyway after about 45 mins, just as I decided to mix it up a little and delve into the Doobie Brothers (you heard me), my housemate Mandrew yelled the fantastic news that he had just made golden syrup dumplings and there was a bowl full for me. Despite being more than full, I sat down and voraciously tucked into my dumplings. Only after I had completed finger-scraping the bowl did I realised I would have to wait another two hours! I have set my alarm.
However, there is still time for a little Stevie. One of the upsides of this penicillin (the first being that I have the energy to do everyday things, like dance around my room, and write about it afterwards) is that it is tending not only to my sore throat, but seems to be tackling my chronic croakiness - that Mel has always attributed to my mythical nodjools - so that I can sing-along with gusto. What joy!
Oh oh Run To Paradise just came on!
Having gone 5 days now without the power of speech, or the power to do much at all due to the Lurgy Which Was Even More Dreaded Than The Last Lurgy which struck me down on Saturday, I have an awful lot to get off my chest: How crapped off I am about all the friend's birthdays I missed; How worried I am about how behind I'll be at work, and that my new workmates might just think I've got a head cold and am taking the piss, because they're not aware that taking a day off work is something I basically never do, let alone a taking a whole week; How spending a whole week at home Doing Nothing is a goddam effing waste of a week; the horrors of the Royal Melbourne Emergency Room on Grand Final night; How even though red jelly and fresh mango is a delicious slippery breakfast, I secretly wish I could just chomp down some vegemite toast; The importance of cuddles in times of crisis; How, even as the penicillin needle pierced my rump in excruciating pain several days in a row, I hoped that the nurse would reflect that I had a good bum; How Nature really kicks you in the nuts by making you look like a side-show-freak when you're sick, so that on the day that you can sit up in bed and think about getting up, you look at yourself in the mirror and promptly go and live in a hessian sack.
Still, I think instead I'm going to write about what I was planning to write about before I got sick. I'm going to write about Hollywood Paternalism in the movie Taken.
Obviously, Taken is a pretty one-dimensional vehicle for making Liam Neeson look like a tough guy. Which notion it clinches when he takes 6 bullets in the back and yet is unscathed, just like the Terminator. The basic premise of the movie is this:
Young American Virgin goes off to Paris for a holiday to stay with friend's family. On arrival learns that friend has lied and they have an apartment all to themselves. Naive girls share cab with first cute guy who asks, who also happens to be a Bad Guy. Within 20 minutes Bad Men have broken into the apartment and abducted both girls for their own dastardly ends (ie prostitution ring). Liam, luckily, just happens to be an ex-CIA 'preventer' (read: assassin) who goes to Paris to brutally hunt down the Bad Men and bring back his virginal daughter.
The film has lots of graphic violence, as well as lots of disturbing images of young girls forced into heroine use and prostitution in pretty dire circumstances. Now to me, the idea of showing these images of all these morbid young innocents would be to provide justification for Neesons's unstoppable violence. But the only thing that disturbed me more than those images (which truly disturbed me, more on this later...) was that the film was resolved when the daughter was rescued, with not a tear shed for the friend who'd been brutally raped and OD'd (it is charmingly implied that Neeson's daughter lived because of her valuable virginity making her a pricier commodity [what is this, the Middle East?!], whilst her dirty tramp friend probably had it coming), or all the countless young girls Neeson was quite comfortable about leaving behind to lives of torture.
The whole film turned on the wrong justification. It wasn't a film about a girl getting trafficked. It was a film about an assassin getting revenge. The girl's sexual slavery wasn't portrayed as abhorent because she was a human being deserving rights and agency, she was simply Neeson's property, stolen by some other men to be their property, then taken back. This was captured best in the scene where Neeson confronts the Bad Man running the slave racket, and the Bad Man tries to reason with him, saying "Hey, it's just business. It's not personal." And Neeson replies "It's personal to me" before shooting him as many times as his gun will allow. At this point I wanted to scream "It's personal for your daughter you stupid ape! And every one of those girls getting repeatedly raped. THAT'S who it's personal for! Can we PLEASE at least MENTION that it's personal for them too?" But no, it was only a problem because it was Neesons's problem. Once his daughter was safe, there was no need to feel 'personal' about the ongoing trafficking of women. As it was this film could have been about a car, or a jewel, or a top-secret new military weapon, or anything at all that would provide a Bad Man vs Liam Neeson set-up.
I give those titties Four Thumbs Down, Hollywood.
The other thing that this movie made me reflect on was how very personally outraged and upset I felt about the images of these trafficked women, and how this was due to a direct sense of identification with them. Not that I've been trafficked, obv., but because they were women and I am a woman. Or more pointedly, because the reason for their exploitation was simply that they were women. And I am a woman. My reaction to these scenes was so powerful I felt as sickened and outraged as I imagine I would were someone to actually try to do this to me. Which is probably a good thing. But it did make me reflect on group identity. And while I can see all the benefits and strengths of group identification, I was felt that I was also motivated by something profoundly selfish, ie 'This could happen to me!'
I was thinking about it in relation to the cyclist who was killed on Swanston St a few weeks ago, and how all those cyclist rallied. I think that the rally was a really good thing and if anything gets those ridiculous buses off Swanston street I, as a daily cyclist, will be forever grateful. But what I did find a bit weird were some of the notions coming through on that day that cyclists were grieving more than other people, they were more upset by this girl's death. Not because they knew her, because most of them didn't. Many other people also died in Melbourne that day. Cyclists and non-cyclists both didn't really skip a beat over them either. But I think this reaction occurred to this one particular death because it could have happened to them. And because cyclists in Melbourne are generally of a mind-set to get themselves noticed, which in itself is no bad thing. I don't mean to suggest that their outrage was somehow ignoble. Nor my outrage at the trafficking of women. But I do sometimes think it would be good to untangle our altruistic motivations from our more self-perserving ones, and if they align, maybe that's just a bonus.
I am now aware that my brain is dribbling in many tangential directions, and am going to eat some more jelly and go back to bed.
Today has been my last official 'freelance' day. I am a full-time researcher, basically as of now. I had a list of things to do today as part of wrapping up my work for my last client. Here are all the things I did instead of doing those things:
- slept in, a lot
- scratched the dog's ear (a lot... she loves it...)
- showered, breakfasted
- gargled extensively (I have a throat infection at the moment which I'm relying on to excuse my excessive sleep in)
- checked my email
- checked my other email
- sent a few emails
- checked facebook, replied to messages
- read the fail blog
- read engrish funny
- read every article of interest on The Age online
- read my Herald Sun horoscope
- vacuumed
- did all the dishes
- cleaned the top of the stove
- watered the garden (with grey water)
- walked the dog
- went to the shops, got a coffee, bought some fruit, a pie, and collected my antibiotics from the chemist
- ate my pie
- did some work (about an hour's worth)
- had a cup of tea and cake with a friend
- fooled around with said friend
- played backgammon and drank whisky with second friend and brother
- rang my friend Lucy to discuss our impending holiday
- rang my friend Mel to dicuss our impendig holiday
- drank a bit more whisky
- watched 3 episodes of The Office
- ate lasagna
- made cup of tea
- blogged
Upon reflection this has been some of my best procrastination ever. Good procrastination to me is comprised of a series of finite manageable tasks that are done from your own home (or the location in which you 'ought' to be being productive on something else). Going out to meet a friend for lunch, or going to a movie: any of these things all involve a degree of throwing in the towel mentally, with regards to your intended workload. Whereas I managed to convince myself all day that each thing I was doing would only take 20mins or so and then I would be straight back to work. I went out to get lunch, but I brought it home and ate it by my computer rather than sitting in a cafe with my book as I desperately wanted to (in fact that was just about the only time that I got anything done so it's just as well). Each of my bouts of socialising were constrained by the fact that the other person had to be somewhere else at (insert time in semi-distant future) and so I was able to tell myself that it was definitely a finite break and therefore ok. Also, most of the things I partook of were fairly useful tasks that I could easily justify at another time, so at least I have some small scope for not feeling too lazy.
The ridiculous thing is that I could easily just do this work on the weekend, except that I am going away with a bunch of friends and am determined to finish it before hand. I plan to do all the easy bits now, and finish the rest early in the morning.
While the prospect of doing work now is depressing, I just read over my list again and felt not only a degree of pride at my fine procrastinatory effort, but also that it's been a pretty good day!
Hehem.
It would start with two really heavy, really tangy, steaming fresh slices of thick white sourdough. The top of the sourdough would not be dusted with flour (as they sometimes are); it would be supple with a delicate yet firm crunch to it.
On one slice of the sourdough would be a generous squishy layer of saggingly ripe brie cheese, probably a Kind Island Black Label or similar. On the other, a thick yellow smear of good quality, salty butter and over that a cheeky smattering of cranberry sauce, ideally homemade, but any good brand would suffice.
Then the sandwich is filled with turkey slices that have been finely carved from a roasted bird so that they maintain the original texture but are still juicy and moist. Round it out with crispy, dark green baby spinach leaves (at least half an inch thick) and salt and cracked pepper. Consume.
Mmmmmmm.
When I was a lass I worked at the deli at Daimaru, and I and the other girls who worked there would often play this game: describe your perfect sandwich, it being the perfect game for adept deli staff and the ideal way to fill in the hours prior to lunch. The Daimaru deli had huge quantities of pressed and cured meats, beautiful ham on the bone that we would hand carve, and four metres of cheese cabinet. Plus dips, olives, delicious crackery things and more, much more!
I hadn't thought about my Perfect Sandwich in a while, but was inspired by reading my friend Nat's rules of sandwiches the other day. The sandwich above was the sandwich I couldn't go past back then. It particularly lends itself to the week after Christmas. But now that I think about it, there are many more perfect sandwiches, and I think that the purely imaginary construction of sandwiches is a pastime worthy of further attention, so I shall revisit (always remembering that the key to a truly great sandwich is in the details).
I have also been known to while away many an hour contemplating The Perfect Pie and The Perfect Sausage. These too, I shall return to, especially as the weather is improving and the sausage (read: bbq) season is about to commence!
Last night Leanne and I made good on a long-held plan to hire and devotedly watch The Jane Austen Book Club. We knew it wasn't going to be great, we were hoping for schmaltzy and good. And it was. It was very schmaltzy - I cried twice, secretly - and mostly it was good.
I was especially pleased that our new and excellent housemate Matt and my friend Leith were also there and stayed to watch it. I enjoy watching men cringe at the more obvious parts of chick-flicks, and enjoy it even more when they get right into it and tear up alongside you. Brendan declared it too girly and went home (probably to watch When Harry Met Sally for the 400th time. Hehe).
Now, I am not going to give anything like a serious critique of the film, and should also point out that I haven't read the book which it is adapted from. I have however read all the Jane Austen novels, some several times, and I felt that the story of this film ignored most of the more salient aspects of a Jane Austen novel. These aspects could be condensed for our purposes as follows:
Upstanding heroine who remains faithful to her values in the face of others' weaknesses and the trials of life? Absent. There were many heroines, each representing an aspect of a Austen heroine, but I only felt like two of them were tested, and only one of them passed. For the most part I felt that the characters didn't develop that much. They moved forward in their lives, but not necessarily as a result of personal growth.
Delightful ensemble of hilarious characters? Absent. Everyone was meant to be a bit of a winner in this film and this was one of its failings. It lacked some of the realism of an Austen novel, where not everyone is good, not everyone is happy, and people make compromises out of pragmatism more often than not. This was particularly telling in the ending, in which everyone in The Jane Austen Book Club had found love simply through reading the books of Jane, even if finding love hadn't appeared in their character arc at all throughout the rest of the film. Jane Austen had much more to say about life than simply that falling in love was good.
Unstinting Hero? Tick! There was only really one male character of any depth and he was an excellent example of an Austenesque Hero, although he could've had a few more demons. He was persistent in his pursuit of his object of desire, yet remained gentlemanly to the end. Yay for him.
Generous lashings of wit, with a mere lacing of cynicism to drive it home? Nope. The Jane Austen Book Club lacked any of the delicious stylings that make an Austen novel feel so voyueristic, as though the whole world is a legitimate source of entertainment. Mr Bennett captures it best when he says "well well, what do we exist for but to make sport for our neighbours, and to laugh at them in our turn" (or words to that effect). The Jane Austen Book Club didn't offer any grander insights into the human condition.
The best bits of the film were when the characters were discussing the books themselves, and disagreeing with one another over various characters' motivations. So in the end, the characters of Jane Austen remained far more interesting than the characters of TJABC itself.
Next time I want a chick flick, I should just go and read Persuasion again. I wont though. I'll hire Enchanted.
I was sitting at the tram stop on Elizabeth street just now, waiting for the 57 to take me to Spinifex, and an unbelievably adorable Asian-halfie aged about 4 was sitting next me with her Mum on the other side, sucking on a very sticky looking pink lollypop and staring at my tattoo. She reached out to touch it and her Mum (an example of the kind of parenting I wish I saw more of in public) gently asked her not too because her hands were sticky and I (the lady - hee!) probably wouldn't want to get sticky.
I shrugged and said that I didn't mind, and the child and I exchanged a solemn look that meant we understood each other and everything was chill, and then she informed me with a smile that I had a very pretty flower in my hair (earlier this morning I had jubilantly declared it Spring by plucking some of the neighbours' lavender and ceremoniously shaving my legs). She had little fake flowers on her hair clips too so I told her that we both had pretty flowers on today, and she grinned at me and we were firm friends.
This child and her mother ended up sitting opposite me on the tram, and the child was singing some unintelligible song that had repeated 'dinging' of a bell throughout. She informed her mother, and the riders of the tram at large, that she was going to sing some other songs about bells, and then proceeded to sing a mangled interpretation of Jingle Bells about 6 times in a row. I did not find this annoying, and on the contrary found the whole thing pleasantly amusing. Hormones can do weird shit to a girl.
The Age Online, that most wonderful site of endless procrastination, today published an article entitled "Polygamists* Live Longer".
My thoughts:
Really? Wow. How utterly surprising and simply darned wonderful for them. I bet aristocrats and people with slaves and those enlightened adult men who still live with their mothers and subsequently never have to cook or clean or care for themselves (let alone another) probably do too! I wonder if anyone's done some similar research within cultures that don't acknowledge marital rape? Or fathers that don't acknowledge their children. That would be illuminating! Gosh, it just makes you think how much most of us are neglecting men. Frankly, we could all be doing more for men's well-being. Like stripping on command, and performing handjobs on public transport (the confinement is perfect for it). Honestly, there are just so many ways in which women could demean themselves for men, why stop at polygamy for a few extra years when we really ought to be shooting for male immortality?
Okay, so channelling Catherine Deveny a little bit and apologies for ranting, but for fucks...
Horrifyingly, there was no mention of women's life expectancy/quality of life/existence in this insightful piece of reportage.
* As far as this article is concerned, Polygamists = Men
