In honor of the July 4th birthday of our Chief Craftiness Correspondent, Kym, we’re sharing a few gems from her latest webcomic: Cap’n Curmudgeon and Crew.
Confession: I’ve only seen two Hitchcock movies, The Birds and, tonight, Vertigo. But that seems sufficient to grasp the innovative themes that define Hitchcock’s oeuvre: Shrieking, well-coiffed blonde ladies, swatting away seagulls and/or Jimmy Stewart’s unwelcome advances.
Vertigo begins with a mysterious conversation between recently retired Detective Johnny-o Scottie Ferguson (yes, you read that right) and his old college buddy, ThinStache McBritishson (…I maybe blanked on that guy’s name).
“Yo,” says ThinStache, “I might be boning a ghost.” And Johnny-o’s all, “naw, brah, that can’t be right” until he sees this maybe-ghost and then also wants to bone her.
But fast-forward through that nonsense, because I’m here to tell you, the only thing worth taking away from this film is a perfectly healthy and natural obsession with Midge Wood.
Midge is a career woman, lifestyle guru, compassionate soul, and all that is right with this world.
It’s 1958, and Midge has forsaken the expected path of housewifedom. Not that she didn’t have offers. In fact, in college, she broke off her three-week long engagement to Johnny-o.
Liberated from the shackles of societal expectations, she’s a fashion illustrator livin’ the dream.
The Dream, of course, entails an adorable, if slightly messy, Beat Era-flat in San Francisco. With a tiny bar!
And a Karmann Ghia.
AND THESE AMAZING GLASSES.
Beyond the superficial, Midge is also responsible for the only (intentionally) hilarious moment in the film. She holds her own in witty banter with Scottie-o Johnny (?? I give up). She’s a loyal friend, up to the point of literally catching him when he passes out (due to–spoiler alert–THE VERTIGO).
Midge only falters with a brief, cringe-worthy “why doesn’t this boy like me” meltdown. Pull yourself together, girl. We can split an It’s It.
Lest I detract from the Master of Suspense(tm) Hitchcock, I will refrain from commenting further on plot points. Besides Midge, Vertigo flaunts some incredibly chic Edith Head costumes, indulges in a trippy dream sequences by legendary illustrator Saul Bass, and captures the most improbable ghost of all: readily available San Francisco street parking.
3 out of 5 stars. One million stars for Midge.
A Step by Step Guide Through TransHollywood’s Manufactured and Misguided Reactionary “Step by Step Guide Through Jared Leto’s Trans Ignorance”25 Jan
I was casually scrolling through my Newsfeed on Facebook when I saw my friend Sammi had posted a link to this blog entry. I read the post. And then I read the post aloud to my roommate. And then I took to Facebook to alert Erin that I felt a response coming on… And here it is.
The original title for this post included the word “misdirected,” but that would imply that TransHollywood’s (TH) argument in this post was heading productively in a direction. TH’s rant disguised as a “guide” is a reactionary, counterintuitive protest that is as alienating as it is misguided. According to their Tumblr, TH’s mission is “changing culture by ending transgender shaming in TV, Film, and Comedy. Direct education and activism.” As an actual teacher whose primary job it is to educate college-aged students, I must say that there is a “teachable moment” to be had here, and while that moment was allegedly missed in the publicity surrounding Dallas Buyers Club, it’s completely lost in this post by TransHollywood “Social Club,” which seems as exclusive to sympathetic cisgender persons as trans roles are to trans people in Hollywood. As a member of the LGBT community, I’m in that stage of my life where I realize that much of my early activism was unproductive because I was “making mountains out of molehills,” as any member of my Southern family would say.
I do not find it my job to defend Jared Leto or the production team of Dallas Buyers Club. Nor is my goal to delegitimize the very real and largely invisible struggle of trans persons in our society. My goal is to point out the unproductive and adversarial practices in our community (LGBT, to be clear) that perpetuate stereotypes and create new obstacles to equality, visibility, and social justice. While TH’s mission statement is noble one–and a mission I support–its approach in this case is counterproductive and its anger misplaced.
Recently, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day has morphed into a national day of service. While we rightfully exalt Dr. King’s call to service, our mainstream American narrative shamefully strips Dr. King’s political messages of their revolutionary, and incredibly relevant, edge.
Think back to what you learned in elementary school about the Civil Rights movement of the 1950s and 60s, and how Dr. King was portrayed. When compared to Malcolm X, King is framed as the less threatening half of the Civil Rights Movement (despite the fact that, during his lifetime, the FBI saw him as a very real threat, as evidenced by 17,000 pages of files on King). In our collective amnesia, we can claim King’s vision was fully realized, thanks to the benevolence of some white folks in DC passing civil rights legislation.
It is not only inaccurate, but disrespectful, to simplify Dr. King’s message and to leave it safely in the past. We must celebrate the phenomenal achievements of Civil Rights activists of the 50s and 60s, while recognizing that their fight for racial and economic justice is far from over.
“The truth is that with all of my faults I remain a perfect human. Not in the way that photoshopped models in magazines are perfect but in the fact that the miracle of human life exists within me and pulses through every inch of my human body. Every scar, flab, stretch mark, and section of dimpled flesh comes together to give me the power to be who I am. I write papers with these stubby dry fingers; read and research social problems with my dark-circle/crows feet ridden eyes; I speak to survivors of domestic violence and their children with these cracked lips. More than these physical imperfections I have an incredible brain that equally troubles me with forgotten memories, jumbled speech, and terrible math skills and still makes me who I am, all of those things combined.”
-Our friend Madison, who has been documenting her journey towards better physical – and mental! – health here
Warning: Spoilers ahead.
There were a few reasons which factored into my decision to read Veronica Roth’s Divergent series. Most of them have to do with the Hunger Games, starting with:
1) This still from the Divergent trailer when I went to see Catching Fire:
That is some Hot Young Adult Necking. The books are basically more of this. And I’m super happy with that. Because the main character, Tris, and her boyfriend Four (yes, Four) generally play it safe. (Look – I’m not gonna go after-school special on you about teenagers having sex, but this way, the reader doesn’t have to worry that Tris is gonna get some dystopian future STD or lose her dystopian future baby when she jumps out of a train, which she does A LOT. And, duh, this is Young Adult fiction. It’s not going to get too graphic.) Sorry, I’m distracted by all the softcore dystopian future necking… and those tattoos. Just look at those tattoos.
A new year is like a new birth: Confused, naked, crying, and covered in various bodily fluids, we embark on an exciting new journey. But it’s gonna be a good one, because LadyParts is back, y’all.