Last night the Emmys were on. I watched them for some stupid reason. Ok ok, I like white wine drunk shouting at the television. Clearly the Emmys don’t even deserve my vitriol, since it seems the Academy just sort of gives ‘em out at random: Jeff Daniels for Best Male Lead in a Drama? Took you idiots 50 years to give one to Bob Newhart? Who let Neil Patrick Harris make a creepy joke about how the Deschanel sisters resemble Thai twin prostitutes with magic ping pong ball-shooting chooches? Did Seth MacFarlane kill NPH and now he’s wearing his skin around like Michael Myers in Halloween? Worse things have probably happened - *cough* - Oscars with Franco.
All day the majority of the crap coming over the twitter transom has been some fucking sweaty hand-wringing over R. Kelly headlining day 3 of Pitchfork Festival. Of course there’s also the requisite shaming by the opposing side of being the “morality police,” which jeez who let you in here grandpa? And god, surprisingly enough, it really is mostly white dudes doing the yapping. A lot of people bringing up that there’s always been “troublesome” art. Many make the banal point that that’s what ART is for. Fine.
Obviously as a white, middle-aged lady from a relatively privileged up-bringing, my opinion about Kanye West’s Yeezus is nearly irrelevant. However, I’ve got ears that work and I’ve given it more than a few listens so fuck it, Imma talk about it. For one thing, it’s a hell of a lot more interesting than Magna Carta Holy Grail because, shit, Jay, a list of Lambos does not a record make. You could as well as be rapping about the AARP or Metamucil, you’re so settled and well and long in the tooth. So back to Yeezus. As most of the music critics have already pointed out, it is simultaneously compelling and repellent, sonically and lyrically.
Angelina Jolie cut off her tits because if she kept them she’d probably get cancer. She wrote an op-ed in the Times about it. And now, obviously, idiots on Twitter are expressing their opinions. The Awl has a nice round-up of those of the male persuasion who feel completely justified yakkin about a stranger’s breasts and the “embedded implications” of her actions.
THAT’S what kills me about this. I mean, I expect garden variety sexism:
"Poor Brad Pitt! Why bother marrying her now??"
"RIP Angie’s tittays: 1975-2013 :("
"At least she’s gettin fake ones - go DOUBLE D Ang!"
You can discard these creeps. It’s the concern-trolling mansplaining ones that are the real douchebags. These guys feel the need to point out that poor women don’t have access to these types of procedures or that this isn’t a “real” battle against cancer because you can’t win if you have to cut things off or that this doesn’t count as “real” news, whatever the fuck that is. These men don’t think they’re being casually misogynist. They think they’re entitled (entittled, lol.) to these opinions.
FYI! Beware discussing people’s parts (sexual or not) IF YOU YOURSELF DO NOT OWN THEM. It’s shitty enough that she has to address her medical issues in a public forum. It’s admirable that she is. Really looking forward to all the upcoming speculation about the size of her new rack and how well her next red carpet dress fits in US Weekly.
If some celeb had prostate cancer and lost a nut and publicly discussed the procedure, would women publicly discuss how hopeful they are that he get a new ball or how tragic it all is and how he will never be the same or that wasn’t the “correct” way to fight cancer? MAYBE, I can imagine it now:
"I hope Brad Pitt gets a new nut, he’ll be nothing without them."
"His best feature, those balls."
"I loved how hairy and low-hanging they were."
"God, maybe he’ll go up a size!"
"If only. I’d suck on those all day if I could."
NOPE! Would never happen. And if it did they would be ASSHOLES and they would be publicly shamed. I love balls as much as the next woman (actually I probably like them a lot more than most women), but I will tread as light as fuck when talking about ball cancer, a subject I know next to nothing about. I’ll just stick to doing what I do best - tea-bagging.
Formerly hard-drinking, foul-mouthed, misanthrope Mark Maron wrote a piece in the New York Times about his “desperate, stupid, emotional” search for the perfect pair of pants. Remember Buzz Bissinger’s weird, suicide note via Gucci addiction from last month’s GQ? Why are all these “manly” men writing about their fashion obsessions??