So here I am, writing on our crappy second tier laptop because Eric decided he should install the new OS Leopard on mine, a matter of a few moments, he promised me, which is instead due to take two hours, with me on scary deadline, and I'm sitting here thinking about Michael Cieply. And thinking, men are mysterious and strange. Also, often, asshats.
So the New York Times wants to do an article on the next generation of "chick flicks," based, in part, on the release of the film of
Julie & Julia. Who do they choose to write this article? Do they choose, oh, say, I don't know, a woman? Do they choose someone, um, insightful? Or do they choose a condescending regular from the cultural desk, an "insider", which means, among other things, that he's an ex-"producer" whose sole credit, according to IMDB, is a TV movie called
Alley Cats Strike, about "a group of hip retro teenage outsiders who become involved in an interschool
bowling [incredulous italics mine] rivalry"?
I have not seen
Alley Cats Strike, but as an honest observer of male-oriented films, I think I can safely say that it is clearly a striking example of low-grade Lad-Flick - "if Hollywood still permitted the term."
I mean, Jesus, I don't know where to begin. How about with "female-oriented romantic films"? Now, to be fair, this is a minor point that just gibes with a current irritation of mine about the spate of articles about the mysterious "Woman Voter," as if we were some strange exotic bird to be watched and courted, rather than MORE THAN HALF OF THE GODDAMNED ELECTORATE. But that is not entirely observant Mr. Cieply's fault. And perhaps it is only New York Times-style stuffiness that leads him to define chick-lit - as if it were some up-to-the-minute new phenomenon rather than a phrase that entered the lexicon an ice age or so ago - as "books written for, and often by, professional women in their 20s.... [with] covers... bright and fluffy, with amusing illustrations...and an outlook... unabashedly feminine."
Unabashedly feminine. Yes, we females are so silly and dear with our femininity and whatnot. Ho ho, pip!
I say again. Asshat.
And he can call me a secretary, fine. I was. It's irritating, but accurate.
But to write of the movie as being about me and the "cooking enthusiast" Julia Child?
COOKING ENTHUSIAST?!!! Pardon my french, but what the FUCK?!
I don't consider myself a raving old-school feminist, but this article makes me want to honestly observe male-oriented body parts by ripping them from male bodies.
