Hell on High Heels

Trigger warning: Mentions of abuse, rape, and murder. Musician Dave Grohl once very wisely espoused, “I don’t believe in guilty pleasures. If you like something, like it...Don’t think it’s not cool to like Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic.’ It is cool to like Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’! Why not?...That whole guilty pleasure thing is full of shit.” Normally this is a train of thought on which I can easily get on board. Three Christmases ago, I shamelessly requested Rod Stewart’s holiday album Merry Christmas, Baby, which I did indeed receive (and I listen to it all year ‘round, thank you very much). I love the Disney movies Bambi and The Princess and The Frog, along with some real stinkers (yes, I do mean The Room). My other hobbies include eating entire bags of mini chocolate-covered donuts in one sitting and watching four or five episodes of Gilmore Girls in a row on Netflix. These are all relatively harmless idiosyncrasies, though some physicians may disagree. However, there is one instance where the pleasure I derive from a certain something is very much of the guilty persuasion. Beyond their insanely catchy riffs and oft-pantomimed guitar solos, the '80s glam metal band, Mötley Crüe, is, bluntly, incredibly sexist and misogynistic. Usually it’s the genre of rap that’s singled out and criticized for these particular sins, but let’s be perfectly honest: that’s just good ol’ fashioned racism. Eighties’ hair and glam metal is rife with both, and these shortcomings are wholly and repeatedly verified by various song lyrics and accompanying music videos, several of which were banned or censored for reasons ranging from nudity to depictions of murder. Mötley Crüe also happens to be one of my favorite bands. I’ve seen them in concert twice and am contemplating a third time; I own several albums and a couple t-shirts; and when I need motivation, they’re one of my go-to choices. It’s become a habit of mine to crank them in my car and belt out “Wild Side” when going to and from job interviews, listen to “Live Wire” and “Kickstart My Heart” when I’m working out, and any other song that strikes my fancy even when I’m baking cookies or writing. Hi, my name is Amy, and I am a terrible feminist.

Improve Hate Crime Reporting

RICHMOND – With support from 10 state legislators, Equality Virginia, an advocacy group for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender Virginians, urged the General Assembly on January 20th to pass laws prohibiting discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity.At a press conference, James Parrish, executive director of Equality Virginia, said many LGBT individuals face hardships.“LGBT individuals can still be fired from their job – or not hired at all – based on their sexual orientation or gender identity,” Parrish said. “They can also be discriminated against as they seek a place to live.”He spoke the day after the Senate General Laws and Technology Committee defeated a proposal (Senate Bill 917) to add sexual orientation and gender identity to the state’s fair housing law and to stop landlords from discriminating against tenants who are LGBT.Last week, the Senate Courts of Justice Committee defeated SB 799, which would have broadened the definition of “hate crime” to include “a criminal act committed against a person because of sexual orientation or gender identification.”At the news conference, Sen. Barbara Favola, D-Arlington, said the bill would have given law enforcement agencies more data for addressing crimes against LGBT Virginians.

Grave Reminders

The groundskeeper putt-putted up to me on his tractor and cut the motor. “Looking for anyone in particular?” he asked.

Actually, I was in the cemetery looking at tombstone art and epitaphs, but that’s the way it is in those places: “Who” usually takes precedence over “what.” Most cemetery visits arise because of the people buried there, and famous cemeteries base tours on their famous people, from Jefferson Davis to Marie Laveau.

The resting places, however, are also open-air art galleries, with gravestones and memorials displaying art rich in symbolism, often going beyond the traditional ones of faith (crosses, stars of David, angels, etc.). These artworks can reveal more about the person buried, more about those left behind, and more about the times in which they lived.

The heyday of memorial art in America was the late 19th century, and finding these symbols is easiest in a cemetery heavy in dates from 1850 to 1900. Gravestones of this era were truly stone (granite and marble) rather than the more modern bronze plaques, and families were eager to have the mason personalize the marker. Christian crosses are most common, and other godly symbols are numerous: angels (carrying one to the afterlife), chain links (the trinity), open books (the word of God), an anchor (Christ) and the eye of God. In addition, there are other types of symbols.

Continuous Disservice on a Day of Service

In case you forgot, today is Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. The holiday is in honor of Dr. King's birthday and is always set on the third Monday in January (which can be on or around the time of his real birthday, January 15th). On this day, I believe even Dr. King would be more than willing to give back to the community as a birthday celebration. Many cities across America organized service events in honor of a man who spent his life serving.

But most people will only serve on days oriented towards service such as MLK Day, the Thanksgiving season, and the Christmas season. Once that's over, many people stop caring until the next holiday. If you're financially stable, it's easy to donate a few books to low-income families, volunteer for a day at a soup kitchen, or repaint the walls inside a nursing home. And there's nothing wrong with doing any and all of those things, and I hope you consider participating in at least one of them. But for long term results, long term dedication and presence is required. Especially in improving education and promoting true equality.

As a future teacher, I already feel the pinch of eventually having to buy many of my classroom supplies, even if I went to a privileged school. The struggle of getting some parents actively involved in their children's lives. So what would it be like to teach in a district where a child couldn't even afford the supplies required to fully engage in their learning environment? To live in a school district that continuously fails to provide an education that would help low-income students leave the situation they're in?

And how did they become that way in the first place?

During the 1950s, groups of similarly structured housing clustered into what we call the suburbs. The new suburban environment was (and still is) a happy medium between the city and the rural setting. It also provided a place for many whites at the time to settle after refusing to live among the rising African-American presence in the cities. This grand exodus of the white population to the suburbs became known as "white flight" and sparked another trend of injustice towards all minorities. leaving the area with a socioeconomic disadvantage. Without the presence of a middle class, the pool of tax money the cities once got had been slashed, and cities fell into urban decay. In a 2008 study of the spacial dynamics involved in white flight, a survey indicated that "White respondents tend to rate integrated neighborhoods as substantially less desirable than predominately White neighborhoods" (Crowder and South 793). So even in modern society, underlying racism still haunts us. People don't like stepping out of their comfort zones, but their comfort comes at a cost.

The Unbearable Whiteness of Oscar

I got up early and turned on ABC in hopes of seeing the announcement of the nominees for the 87th Annual Academy Awards. Aside from mentions of Dick Poop, it went pretty much as everyone expected. Reporters had to get up earlier than normal, the announcers lifelessly announced the choices (again, 5:30 a.m. PST), and critics such as myself immediately judged the proceedings based on what was and what wasn’t nominated. And boy, do I have things to say about this.Now, to be fair, getting upset about award show nominations the day they are announced is generally a bit ridiculous. Most of it is just a person looking at the list and judging it for not being to their standards. Yes, things are going to be left off the final list, but it would be too complicated if every conceivable nominee was in the running. There were 83 submissions for the Best Foreign Language Film category and 79 songs were up for Best Original Song. So yes, Lana Del Rey won’t get an Oscar nod this year, but it’s not worth caring that much about. Honestly, I’m really glad there’s eight nominees for Best Picture instead of nine just to make things simpler.There are honestly more important things to worry about when looking at the Academy Award nominations. Namely, the fact that the Academy is 94 percent white and 77 percent male. Believe it or not, that tends to play a big deal in what gets nominated and what doesn’t. For the most part, it means that there can be a lack of representation in the proceedings. This is mostly an aspect that is brought for the major awards, particularly acting. It’s been sixteen years since all twenty acting nominees were white.What is important going into this Oscar race is to look at how the decisions are made and what greater implications are presented through this. I’ll examine the major awards and then look at miscellaneous snubs in order to analyze why the nomination list turned out as it did.

The Intrigue of the Welsh Lighthouse

It was the spring of 2014, and the cold late-May rain steadily fell on the roof. I was slumped in my seat, looking out of the foggy window through my lack-of-sleep haze, headphones blasting Bratmobile into my ears.

I was sitting in one of the countless trains that speed on the railway system through England, Wales, and Scotland. My destination was Cardiff, Wales, but my great fatigue and hunger made it so that I couldn’t get excited for anything about the city where my grandmother went to college, except for eating food and falling asleep.

I was with my very best friend and her mother, and we were on a low-budget trip through southern Great Britain and Ireland. I had been most adamant about visiting Wales, for I am a quarter Welsh and I was curious to see the extent of Wales’ differences from England.

The train sped past the beginning of a calm expanse of water. My friend’s mother was talking to several different Welsh strangers on the train, while my friend and I kept to ourselves and thought about food. This was a common theme throughout our travels, for my friend and I were rather shy, while her mother was open and interested in talking to all sorts of people.

I was brought out of my Bratmobile-and-Welsh-landscape-view reverie by my friend telling me to look out the window at the lighthouse.

It looked as if it just grew naturally out of the water, and it didn’t seem like there was any land around it. It was just sitting there, the water smooth and calm like glass all around it. It was white, and short compared to all the other lighthouses I’d seen in the United States.

One of my friend’s mother’s new acquaintances told us a little bit about it (most of it I can’t remember, for it was so long ago). He told us that it had been for sale for a while now, and that the price was exactly £1, about $1.50 USD. One could buy it as long as one had the resources to maintain it, one couldn’t buy it and then let it fall into disrepair and abandon it as soon as it wasn’t fit to live in anymore.

My friend and I looked at each other, exchanging meaningful glances. We both wanted to buy it. It was only £1, after all!

Returning to Manhattan from the Woods

January is rough for lots of us; it’s cold, we spent all our money on the holidays, it’s hard to adjust to a work schedule again, hard to say goodbye to loved ones and leisurely days spent eating whatever we want. Yes, January is a quiet month. Someone told me once that if January were a color, it would be blue.

For me, January has an added layer of post-holiday blues: a serious “home for the holidays” hangover, where the ghosts of Christmas past and present and future linger, uninvited and inappropriate and utterly at odds with the date on the calendar.

I realize that the holidays have been over for most people for a while now, but I only just got back to New York City, and I just got back from Del Norte County, California: a place that couldn’t be farther from New York City either physically or spiritually. It’s the place I went to high school, fell in love for the first time, joined the abstinence club, and did a lot of other ridiculous things – like driving my car into a table that was inside a building, driving my car into a fence, and driving my car into a dirt road in the mountains where no one could find us, to kiss for hours and look at the stars.

Del Norte County is a place where people wear plaid and beards without irony, tack the Confederate flag on the back of their pickups, and listen to the country station non-stop. It’s a place where people deer-hunt, prospect, surf, kayak, fish, whale-watch, and live off the grid. It’s a wild place. A wooded place. An isolated place that, this time, took me 35 hours to reach via plane and car. It’s the place about which my mother always said, though she loves it and still resides there, “You can’t stay here. You will go to college.” You will go out of the woods, and into the world.

Her town has maybe 500 people. My borough has maybe 1.7 million. When I am there, I am lonely for people. When I am here, I am lonely for trees.

When I visit my mother and step-father for Christmas, I am also visiting the woods. Literally. Figuratively. We sit together, drink wine, and unwind the spool of our desires, struggles, and history through conversation, and all the while the trees outside rustle in the wind, listening.

There’s a bay tree on the top of our hill that I’ve sat in and talked to for eighteen years now, ever since we moved there. It guards the waterfall that we only have in the winter. It guards most of my secrets. It saw my first kiss, and the mountain lion that could have eaten me alive when I was fifteen. It survived my ill-laid plans for a tree house as well as several epidemics of Port Orford Cedar root rot. I hope it will survive me, survive the plans upriver to install a nickel mine that would destroy Del Norte County as I know it. I hope that bay tree will be around to watch the sun turn red.

The Ladystache Diaries

I've bleached it. I've waxed it. I've tweezed it. I've burned it off with chemicals.Why?Let's start at the beginning: I've had noticeably dark hair on my upper lip since almost as far back as I can remember. Chalk it up to heritage—I’m half Mexican, half Italian, and as such am just a hairy person, period. I know I wasn't born with it, but I do remember that kids at school started making fun of me for it around age six, and I first started bleaching it at seven. My sympathetic mom bought the bleach—which I know sounds like a mild form of child abuse these days, but rest assured, it just broke her damn heart that other kids were making fun of me.I still remember the way the bleach smelled and the way it felt; the entire experience: Mix part A with part B, stir with a tiny plastic spatula and spread the grainy mixture over the affected area. Sitting on the closed toilet lid in the back bathroom as my mom crouched down and applied it; the unnatural smell stinging my nose hairs and traveling what felt like all the way into my brain. We did this every two weeks, or whenever roots started to grow in.And the bleaching didn't even work. I mean, it did bleach the hairs, but once you're known as "Mustache Girl," this is your moniker forever. Especially, as in my case, there was a sizable portion of kids from the neighborhood who were zoned for the same schools as me, and whom I saw nine months out of the year–every year—from kindergarten to college acceptance. It would have been impossible to become anything other than Girl With A Mustache, although I’m sure the fact that I was just a weird, awkward kid didn’t really help my social standing either.I eventually found some friends, but the upper-lip-hair-related comments didn’t cease. Somehow it became OK to not necessarily make fun of me (except for one guy who was cool with it—thanks for giving me a lifetime of complexes, Jeremy Celaya), but to just verbally let me know that I had a mustache. My classmates always phrased it the same precise way: "You have a mustache." I don't know if they thought they were doing me a favor, or if they were just kids being the assholes that kids are, but still, it’s kind of astounding how they all felt it was totally OK to just tell me this, to my face, as if I had no idea it was there. Had their moms not taught them good manners?!It was especially tough when I thought I'd made a new friend, and, even at age 13 or 14 or some other age where these burgeoning adolescents really should have known better, I'd be standing outside of a portable after school—the light just soft enough to highlight my then-girlstache—they'd stare for a second, and as a total non sequitur, say to me . . .

The Dude Goes to Chinatown

I promised it, and now I’m delivering. I saw Inherent Vice right before the Golden Globes, and boy did I need a movie like that on my mind before going into that awards show. I’m not saying that I needed to feel high in order to watch that ceremony, but I needed something like it to get me through the four hour special. I needed to remind myself that there are good movies out there, and that they might not necessarily get recognized at a mainstream award show. It’s a shame, but it means I get the chance to evaluate a film and think about what is worth recognizing it even if the Hollywood Foreign Press Association doesn’t.Inherent Vice is adapted from the Thomas Pynchon novel of the same name. It stars Joaquin Phoenix as Doc Sportello, a private eye living in the fictional Gordita Beach of Los Angeles in 1970. His ex-girlfriend, Shasta (Katherine Waterston), comes to him with a case. She suspects her lover is going to be committed to a mental asylum by his wife and her lover, and she wants Doc to do something. However, Doc ends up getting tangled in a much larger conspiracy and runs into various characters across L.A, including a cop who hates hippies (Josh Brolin), a man on the run (Owen Wilson), and a drug addicted dentist (Martin Short).The film is a stoner’s version of film noir. It’s a detective story, set in the dark underbelly of Los Angeles, except it’s far past the era noir is usually set in and everyone is on drugs. Yeah, there’s a lot of drug humor in this film. Weirdly, it’s not used for really cheap jokes and is played pretty realistically. The majority of characters in the film smoke (or in one case, eat) marijuana, and a few characters snort cocaine or shoot heroin. This is often used to show how addictive these people are and gives an idea that some of them might really be more hedonistic than they would admit.It’s easy to see why these people would be so hedonistic. The film is set right at the start of the 1970s, and the era of peace, love, and understanding was over. The Manson murders are referenced quite a bit, so it’s clear that the hippie movement is losing steam. A lot of the hippie characters come off as really lost and confused. They turn to narcotics and other pleasurable activities, but there’s really no reason to. They’re not making a stand or challenging society, they’re just smoking pot because they want to smoke pot.

The New New Yorker

I don't remember where and when I discovered the photography blog Humans of New York (HONY), but now I know I couldn't go throughout the year without following the thousands adventures. It's a simple concept; a man with a camera roams the streets of New York City, asks them about their personal lives, and posts them to his blog. It's kind of creepy if you think about it, and under normal circumstances would. Yet many comb every street, avenue, boulevard, and alleyway to have their picture taken and their voice heard. To date, over 11 million people devour the compilation of NYC's "ordinary", vivacious, and adorable citizens. It showcases advice from the young and old. Each entry is as unique as the people in each photo. Sometimes they are humorous, other times heartbreaking. HONY captures the frustrations and concerns of our time. Though occasionally more familiar faces appear, HONY specializes in the power of authenticity and doesn't discriminate.

Brandon Stanton, the curator of thousands of stories and photographs, hardly sees himself as anything extraordinary. His beginnings, like so many he captures in his blog, are quite humble. While studying history at the University of Georgia, Stanton unknowingly began his career after taking out $3,000 in student loans and placing a bet on Barack Obama in the 2008 election. Shortly after he was given a chance at trading bonds for Gambit Trading in Chicago. When he became suddenly unemployed, Stanton took his camera and turned his hobby into a profession with one goal in mind. "I thought it would be really cool to create an exhaustive catalogue of New York City's inhabitants, so I set out to photograph 10,000 New Yorkers and plot their points on a map" as Stanton puts it on the"About" page of his blog. Since then, he has become NYC's unofficial historian, traveled the globe (including his extended project in Iran), and supported charitable organizations. His project has spawned hundreds of similar photography projects such as Humans of Richmond and many others based off of locations and cultural ties. Recently, Stanton's collection of favorites have been published in book form by the same title for those, like this individual, that enjoy the crisp smell and touch of a physical book. The HONY book became a #1 New York Times bestseller in November of 2013 and later, the adaptation for children (featuring adorable children) titled Little Humans was also made available.