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Everybody Poops

Dear Millicent,

While the holidays are over, perhaps the perfect gift for Valentines Day is the Caganer, a key figure in Catalan nativity scenes, and a kind of shameless Waldo. Caganer, if you couldn’t guess, means “shitter.” He appears elsewhere, as well:  in Dutch, “the little pooper,” and, my favorite, “the breech loader” in German.

These friendly bum-barers symbolize fertility and equality.  Wikipedia lists possible reasons for the Caganer’s placement in the manger scene (usually tucked away for kids to find), with this included in the list:  “The idea that God will manifest himself when he is ready, without regard for whether we human beings are ready or not.”  I have so many questions about this statement.

The Caganer also takes on the form of world leaders.  While the Obama “Yes We Can!” model is popular, my favorite is the Queen of England, mostly because I have never considered her suits as two pieces (I figured them more as dresses with jackets).

I like the idea of these little memento cacares/viveres as V day gifts. Forget the hoopla and the romance: you give this to your friends and lovers, and they will take notice.  They will thank you for this refreshing look at humanity, and digestion.  They will probably say “fuck roses! this is awesome!”  They might not sleep with you, and it might start a below par conversation about the time they lived in Northern Spain, blah blah blah, but, you win.  You win the Valentines Day workshop!

Or, perhaps these little guys aren’t the soul of a valentine, as much as a perfect symbol for the doom that will soon be upon us all: the movie Valentine’s Day and it’s impending franchise. Maybe as swag for the movie they could offer caganers of  the assembly of stars in the film. What strong thighs they would have from posing!

These little Caganers also come in the form of nuns, the Pope, Angela Merkel, Santa, and others. I tried to find one of Julia Roberts, to no avail.

I leave you with this Catalan toast:

Eat well, shit strong and don’t be afraid of death!

Fair enough,

CF

PS: “Yes we can!” as new inspirational laxative motto?

PPS: While “Everybody Poops” is a popular children’s book, I encourage you to sing it to the tune of REM’s “Everybody Hurts.” It’s fun.

(Thanks to Bernard Rudofsky for bringing these heinies to my immature attention)


Hallo darling:

Scientists have developed a test that diagnoses preeclampsia. As the daughter of a woman who had preeclampsia (then known as toxemia) not once but twice, I’m grateful. Hurrah.

In not entirely unrelated news, here is an octopus escaping through a one-inch hole.

Dear Carla Fran,

We know what glamorous undercover Russian spies were like from the movies, but what does today’s American anti-American spy look like? A March 2008 government report on data collected by PERSEREC tracks data on spy behavior over the last 60 years. Its findings: today’s spies are badly paid, more likely to be women and more likely to be disgruntled than spies of yore.They’re older, better educated, drink less, and go easy on the drugs. Only 1 of the 37 American spies in the post-1990 cohort is known to have used illegal substances (compared to 44% in the 1980s.)

It ends with 11 case studies in which names are named (apparently the 11 in question were already a matter of public record). On the sad end of the spectrum we have Timothy Smith, who seems to have been mentally ill, alcoholic, or both. He stole sensitive information, put it in his storage locker and, when caught, admitted to investigators that he wanted to steal  “valuable classified materials” in order to “take revenge on shipmates who had mistreated him,” and he would “possibly sell them on the Internet to terrorists.” Another guy walked out of the National Security Agency with boxes of classified documents on his last day. He got caught when his girlfriend reported him.

It’s not thrilling stuff.

The other side of the spectrum is more novelesque, but neither is it exactly the stuff of which James Bond films are made:

Weinmann joined the Navy at age 22, an idealist and outspoken patriot, hoping for a promising naval career that would build on his conventional middle-class start in life. However, a series of disappointments in his first year soured him on military life, and diverted him into ill-considered, increasingly desperate crimes. Once in the Navy, he found there were no openings in the linguist rating he wanted. He settled for a Fire Control Technician rating on a nuclear submarine, but he hated the petty corruption he found in the intensely competitive struggle for advancement, and the indifference he felt the officers showed to the junior men. Next, his fiancée broke up with him, and at her parents’ insistence, moved to Switzerland to go to school. Weinmann decided to desert from the Navy that he was coming to hate, and to follow his fiancée to Europe hoping she would take him back. He carefully planned his escape and used his computer skills to leave with saleable assets. Stealing a laptop computer, he downloaded files from classified databases onto CDs he thought would be saleable, and he stored other classified files on external disk drives and memory cards. He took his life savings of $7,000 and deserted. Weinmann left in July 2005 and flew to Vienna, Austria, where he lived for the next 8 months. Knocking about the city, mocked by acquaintances with whom he shared his amateurish spy plans, eventually he entered the Russian Embassy in Vienna and handed over his four classified manuals for the Tomahawk cruise missile system to the duty officer, who assured Weinmann that he would be back in touch with him.
When he realized he had given away his only resource and gotten nothing for it, Weinmann decided to return to the United States, fly from there to Russia, and defect (McGlone, 2006). Since his name appeared on a deserter’s list, he was arrested at the Dallas Ft. Worth, Texas, airport on March 26, 2006. At his court martial, he pled guilty in a plea bargain to desertion, espionage charges including failure to secure classified information, making electronic copies of classified information, and communicating classified information to a person not entitled to receive it, as well as larceny for stealing and destroying the laptop. Two other espionage charges relating to attempts he made to sell classified information in Bahrain (before he deserted his sub) and Mexico City, Mexico (on his way back to the United States), were dropped in the agreement. Weinmann was sentenced to 12 years in prison, a dishonorable discharge, and forfeiture of all pay and benefits. He would be eligible for parole in 4 years (Amos, 2006b). In the judgment of an examining psychiatrist, Weinmann was “immature, impulsive, and impatient,” unable to respond to life’s downturns with resilience, and under the impression that he did not have to follow rules (Amos, 2006a).

The whole report is available here. Some key excerpts:

If You Are A Spy These Days, You Are Probably Old and Married

Most espionage by Americans is committed by men, but there have also been
several women in each of the three cohorts studied in this report. Before 1990, most spies were white, while since 1990 less than half have been white. Since 1990 American spies have been far older than earlier cohorts: 83% were 30 years or older, and 46% were more than 40. It appears there has been a “graying” of the American spy in the recent past. Recent spies have had more years of schooling and held more advanced degrees than earlier cohorts. Recent spies are twice as likely to be married as single, and have been predominantly heterosexual.

You Probably Don’t Wear A Suit or Have a Badge

During the two Cold War periods, equal numbers of civilians and members of the military engaged in espionage, while since 1990, 67% of spies have been civilians and only 33% have been members of the uniformed military. More individuals with jobs not typically associated with espionage, including a boat pilot, housewives, a truck driver, and two translators, have recently engaged in espionage. Since 1990, more persons have held Secret-level access, and fewer persons have held Top Secret access compared to the two Cold War periods. The proportion of those individuals who held no security clearance has increased steadily over time: from 20% before 1980, to 28% during the 1980s, to 37% since 1990.

You Are Poorer, Though Possibly More Principled:

Since 1990, American spies have been poorly paid. The proportion of those who received no payment at all increased from 34% before 1980, to 59% during the 1980s, and to 81% since 1990. Two factors seem responsible for this striking trend: during the 1980s, more spies were intercepted before they were paid, while since 1990 more spies have acted from divided loyalties and have refused payment.

You Do it For the Cheap Thrills. And/Or You Are Disgruntled.

The third most common motive for Americans to commit espionage is
disgruntlement. The proportion of Americans whose spying was prompted from disgruntlement was 16% in the early period, dropping to 6% in the 1980s, and rising again to 22% in the recent period. Smaller percentages of American spies held four other typical motives for espionage: ingratiation, coercion, thrills, and recognition or ego.

You Just Say No

From 15% of spies between 1947 and 1970 known to have used misused drugs or used illegal drugs, the proportion jumped to 41% during the 1980s when the spy population shifted to younger, lowranking military men. Since 1990, only one of the 37 individuals is known from open sources to have used illegal drugs, Alcohol Abuse and Gambling. From a high of 30% between 1947 and 1979, the proportion of those known to be suffering from alcohol abuse declined to 24% during the 1980s, and to only 8% since 1990. Gambling addiction among American spies also declined over time to no instances in the group that began their espionage since 1990.

In sum, being a spy is a lot like being a graduate student or a freelancer: you’re poor, older than you should be, disgruntled and underpaid. Plus, you’re bored and boring.

The More You Know.

Fondly,

M

Style. Comfort. Value.

I was putting away laundry this week and realized that I have 75% more pajama pants than real pants.  Looks like the world has an answer for living-room-ladies like me:

Excellent marketing, but I think my mom has been wearing these for years. And, aren’t pajama jeans already everywhere in the form of denim leggings? I do like the commercial’s emphasis on how busy we are, because people like me who are actually going to watch this thing are obviously successful business women who just hate restrictive waistlines; we are so busy marking up our planners by vases of tulips. But,  these genius pants will streamline closing that international deal and keeping up with RuPaul’s Drag Race. I also didn’t know that brass rivets meant “some European designer” got his hands on my pants.

As a side note, there seems to be a wave of denim coming. Have you seen anybody wearing denim with denim lately? I suspect it will be like the mustache of 2007.

(via the Fuggers)

Found these great episodes about street fashion, “On the Street with Bill Cunningham,” up at Youtube—-there are so many more! (Thanks Put This On!)

This one also makes me giddy:

As Mr. Cunningham says, “Get out and enjoy it!”

PS: While watching, Mr. Carla Fran asked if Carol Burnett was narrating.

Melissa Silverstein has been gathering reactions to Bigelow’s DGA win and Oscar nom from other women writers and directors in the industry.  The views seem split between general congratulations, and cautious expectation (or lack of). Here are a couple of highlights that address the yellow screen and women’s stories vs. stories:

  • “Most offensive: Embedding in the gossipy “Exes Issue” is the not so subtle implication that she’s riding on Cameron’s coat tails.  Those of us who know better must fight back!!!  Yes, she’s a babe.  Yes, she’s got great legs.  Yes, she was once married to James Cameron.  But, guess what: THE HURT LOCKER is a riveting film that’s 97% Fresh, Bigelow has Lifetime Achievement, & oh yes, women hold up half the sky!”  Jan Lisa Huttner, The Hot Pink Pen
  • ” Not to take anything away from our previous female best director nominees, Sofia Coppola, Jane Campion or Lina Wertmueller, but their nominated movies, though hardly chick flicks, were fairly woman-centric. Each of those three nominations was special and historic, and someday a woman director will win for a “woman’s story” … But in a sense, they only got the collective female foot in the director’s door, helping to pry it open a little further, but still getting stuck on the vital part of getting through it [emphasis mine]. For male Academy members to vote for a woman in this category, I think she has to have made a movie in a traditionally male genre. She has to wow them by doing something they thought they owned all rights to. Bigelow is their woman.” Mary Pols, Time.
  • “I’m not sure that it will extend to female directors in general. As is usually the case in situations like this, Bigelow will be seen as some sort of extraordinary exception to the “common knowledge” that woman can’t make good movies, or aren’t interested in making movies other than rom-coms. I hope I’m wrong about that. I won’t be surprised if I’m not.” MaryAnn Johanson, Flick Filosopher
  • “Bigelow’s status as a potential first-ever best director winner certainly helped, but I don’t think her journey makes the road any easier for female directors going forward.” Katey Rich, Cinemablend.
  • “Womens movies” are often movies only aimed at women, whereas men are sort of allowed to dwell in any territory, women’s stories, men’s stories, films about race, action, romantic comedies – women are kind of expected to only tell stories about women for women.” Sasha Stone, Awards Daily
  • “This is hugely meaningful to me and I hope is the start of a modern, boot-up to the very strange boys club that is Hollywood.” Rachel Feldman (as a sidenote, she studied with Grace Paley!)
  • “But…even if Bigelow does win Best Director (as well as a Best Picture Oscar as producer), I don’t know what really changes if anything in the way Hollywood studios operate. Men will continue to own the “auteur” mantle and get greenlit to direct studios projects far more than women.  Women who want to direct feature films will still have to come up through the indie ranks. Bigelow herself is considered an anomaly among women directors, in that she typically directs “guy’s films” that have a lot of action and/or violence and feature brawny male leads, which is probably playing a part in why everyone is going ga-ga over “The Hurt Locker,” as opposed to “An Education” or “Bright Star.” Also, let me say that I have NO PROBLEM with a woman director helming films that would typically be associated with her male peers. Bigelow and other filmmakers like Mary Harron and Mimi Leder built careers on bucking “chick flicks” and I say good on them. No one questioned Martin Scorsese for directing “The Age of Innocence.”’  Faith Pennick.
  • “If there’s specific resistance to women making movies, I just choose to ignore that as an obstacle for two reasons: I can’t change my gender, and I refuse to stop making movies.” Kathryn Bigelow.

Cheers,

CF

I Haven’t Recovered

as 

Just found out that Tilda Swinton is planning a remake of Auntie Mame; which is probably the best movie EVER. They say are going to make it modern and super commercial.  That’s all fine and good as long as SWINTS does it right, which she tends to do.  I wonder if she’ll use her own wardrobe?

Oh, how I wish I could have been in that development meeting.   Just the idea of such a thing happening is like champagne where my blood used to be.  A very happy circulatory system indeed.

The Offices

Dear Millicent,

Looks like Ricky Gervais will appear as David Brent on the American Office.  I am not excited, unless Gervais and Merchant write the script, and even then, am still hesitant.  Do I want to see where Brent is all these years later? Almost—-but I like his eternal limbo of having a good date and telling Finchy to fuck off.  He could happily stay there, and the British Office can always float miles above it’s American counterpart, and I would never complain.  Plus, if the two mix, it means that they recognize each other, and we have to admit they both exist in the same universe (which the Onion nicely realizes, here).  I’m afraid it’s a cheap trick and not a power match.  The bar is so high here, and the fall would be hard to watch.

I wish it were Gareth instead.

CF

The Yellow Screen

Dearest,

The conversation about women in Hollywood has been LARGE–over the past few months it has become a mainstay, perhaps as part of the ramp up to the Oscars.  I now know how many female directors there are, how few female writers, the installation that is Nancy Meyers, etc.  This kind of prominent conversation is good, and being savvy about the entertainment industry (which I certainly spend more hours with than any other intellectual pursuit or activist cause), feels quite empowering…I care about international maternal healthcare, but pressuring change in the high-monied, massively influential biz almost seems more important.  Skewed? Probs.  Picking Paramount over mamas doesn’t sound right.  The fantasy in my head is that if the deep pocketed studios reach a tipping point and respect women, then all other successes will follow. 

Which brings me to Charlotte Perkins Gilman.  I was reading her explanation for writing “The Yellow Wallpaper,” which basically says she went mad in the confines of domestic ladyhood, and got her pen out as a cure.  Totes feminist, and now a classic teaching text.  The same goes for Kate Chopin’s The Awakening (often taught because of it’s unabashed perspective of the female experience, and again, it’s a short novel), and “The Storm.”  These texts are celebrated as examples of women claiming their voices, but ultimately, they get stuck there.  They lean so heavily on the great revelation that a woman is three-dimensional, they become cardboard cutouts of desire, empowerment, and frustration.  They don’t live in the canon in the same space as Virgina Woolf, who has a seat at the table as big as Joyce’s and Faulkner’s. 

And so, as we are in full-on Oscar season, and Kathryn Bigelow is the favorite, with her giant gold Director’s Guild of America plate shining so brightly.  Unlike Perkins and Chopin, she is not relegated to telling women-only tales, and I hope there is a renaissance abrew (or a naissance if it didn’t happen in the first place?).  The trick is to not make this a quick trend that can be marked as the time women said things in Hollywood–an easy reference, teachable moment. 

Gilman and Chopin probably deserve more; they were bold women who wrote daring things, but they are also a warning. My fingers are crossed that Hollywood gets its Woolf on, its Munro, its Rhys, its Smith.  Bigelow could be just that.

Yours,

CF

Dear Millicent,

Forgive my absence–I have been afloat in a Netflix sea, as well as the Baltic (seriously! Was in Denmark: I have seen more full length fur coats than I ever imagined possible in this life).  As I woozily recovered from jet lag and a stodgy January, I leaned heavily on my Netflix, which is where this odd matchup comes from.  Both are movies that wear their hoodies on their sleeve: one to great irritation, the other to surprising depth.  I have given them this imaginary fistfight because I think they started with similar intentions, or at least are depending on a similar audience (more hoodies).  In the past, we have talked about the line between preciousness and charm, the twee and the supple, and I think we have it again here: the firecracker and the real deal.

VS.

The Puffy Chair is a mumblecore film (a term I just learned last week, and am not sure if it is a noun or an adjective).  According to Wikipedia, it is a niche that arrived in the early 2000s focusing on twenty-somethings figuring out their lives, often played by non-actors with improvised scripts.  This sounds like a horrible idea, and something that would get my hate on in only the way that very special things can.   But it’s fantastic.  I think I feel about mumblecore the way most reviewers treat Avatar: I cannot believe it didn’t piss me off.

The Puffy Chair focuses on a guy going to pick up an Ebay purchase with his girlfriend and his brother.  Nobody is exactly likable, but neither is anybody a full-on loser.  The film doesn’t rest on charm, and does a smart job of acknowledging how annoying and subtle the privilege of middle class youth is.  The questions are big, and the narrative is strong and littered with all the prevalent real life propsetting of a modern un-Meyers project.  But, there is only one dick joke, and no unrealistic tidiness or mess.  There are so many places this film could sag or break, and it just doesn’t do it.  It leans to the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind side of human emotion, but with no tricks to brightly illuminate the path.  While I love Kaufman’s well turned tricks, what we have here is another kind of naked animal, and it looks just like us.

I’m worried that as I yap about TPC, you will give it a try and sigh loudly in disgust.  The cute voices, the clean Adidas sneakers, the fact that it starts in NYC…all I can say is that the characters get weak, humiliated, and unmasterful in their lives, and those sneakers don’t protect a soul.

And then, there is Paper Heart, which I had expected to be charming and realistic, the new take on the romance.  I happily sighed as I watched the promo in the theaters, but upon arrival, I couldn’t watch more than 20 minutes of it (thus my critique is under-informed, yet sure).  The firecrackerness of it made my stomach churn.  Instead of an envelope of a generation being pulled open, soft guts out, this movie is sealed cellophane.  Are you in your twenties and a comedian in Los Angeles? If not, these house parties and unmade beds are not for you.  Since everybody is a a little unglamorous, you are supposed to have one of two reactions: if you are trying to get out of your small town: I want to live there like them; and if you are currently in high school:  They are just like me, the future is where it’s at,  and love is a poky little thing that can happen. It is almost this generation’s Reality Bites, but a little more offensive because it believes in its mission. From the twenty minutes I could stomach, the shaky camera and real life interactions were only people saying things out loud, proud of their voice.

The titles sum up the distinction: Paper Heart is so wispy and pitch perfect–who wouldn’t want to see that movie? And thus you get a package of youth in love that is all glitter (with the glitter being that there is no glitter).  Whereas The Puffy Chair is one of the most un-enticing titles I have heard in a long time, and yet, like it’s film, it is honest and successful in its representation. There really is no glitter.  Mumblecore might have fallen on that hardest of narrative tricks: the navel-gaze that is interesting to other people, and a realism that elevates the audience through specificity.

Yours,

CF

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