Yes, what happened to Lara was horrible, by all accounts. There’s no question. And when I was in Libya, I was groped by a dozen men. But why is that more horrible than what happened to Tyler or Steve or Anthony — being smashed on the back of the head with a rifle butt? Why isn’t anyone saying men shouldn’t cover war? Women and men should do what they believe they need to do.

I don’t think it’s more dangerous for a woman to do conflict photography. Both men and women face the same dangers.

Addario is one of four NY Times journalists who were recently captured and released in Libya.

He was supposed to have been indicted in June. His father had been hacked to death in his own bed with an ax the previous November. His mother was similarly brutalized and left for dead with her husband but survived. On the last Monday of that August, after several months and many investigative twists, turns, and fumbles, there sat the son—the prime suspect—in my literature class, the first class I would teach for the semester.

Women: in case there was any doubt in your mind, the media this month would just like to remind you that men hate you. Reading my usual feeds over the last couple of weeks has been one installment after another of victim blaming and rape apology. As far as journalists assigned to cover these things go, it’s like the 20th century never even happened. Women victims are pushed off the page, relegated to the margins, and, when they are mentioned at all, insulted and blamed for their own abuse.

The most egregious example is the NY Times coverage of the lengthy and premeditated gang rape of an 11-year-old girl in Cleveland, Texas. James McKinley, who wrote the article, chooses to focus the piece on the devastating effect this crime has had…on the Texas community. He includes three quotes for the article. The first is a quote about how all those poor boys (the 18 males, from middle-school-aged to 27, who gang-raped an 11-year-old over a period of hours in two different locations, and taped it, the better to brag about it later) were going to have to live with this the rest of their lives. The second quote is about how the child dressed like a young tart. And the third quote is about how the child’s mother let her run around by herself.  To be fair to the reporter, it looks like the town of Cleveland truly is entirely populated by horrifying shitheads.  Still, the way the article was framed did not question the residents’ interpretation of the events:  ”…how could their young men have been drawn into such an act?”  he muses.

Of course, other media outlets have reacted strongly to this mind-blowingly backwards coverage, but the Times has not apologized or taken the article down. They did publish a single, rather mild letter that rebukes the reporter for his victim-blaming, though it doesn’t mention the bizarre ‘oh, those poor boys,’ slant to the story.

As always, The Onion is not so much a parody of the actual news as it is a parallel.

Also in the Times, Anna Holmes writes that the Charlie Sheen fiasco is notable (or par for the course) in that before, when Sheen was merely physically and psychologically abusing women, he was a celebrity in good standing, but now that he’s going around bashing his employers, coworkers and Hollywood generally, something must finally be done about him.

Finally, the New Yorker’s Talk of the Town section features a sympathetic, humanizing profile of Mike Tyson, pigeon trainer. Mike Tyson is often the subject of these sorts of cuddle-fests, because the contrast of a violent, meaner-than-spit boxer enjoying various gentle, emotional activities or fake-crying or whatever is a hilarious juxtaposition that requires no effort to think up. Mike Tyson’s most notable violent act is that he once bit Evander Holyfield’s ear during a boxing match. People don’t gloss over this about him – it is always referenced when he does guest cameos in movies, and is dutifully mentioned here in the pigeon profile.

Oh, Mike Tyson is also a convicted rapist. But nobody ever mentions that. It wouldn’t be fair to Mike.

So, I’ve directed your attention to Lazy, Self-Important Book Reviewer in the past, but can I just take a minute to emphasize how awesome I think she is? She is really, really awesome. This woman lives in Canada somewhere and reads books and writes, and rides her horse (that her now-husband gave her instead of an engagement ring), and skies, and otherwise, she just sits around being awesome. For example, New York Magazine mentioned her blog in its approval matrix and so she got all this traffic and attention, and so what does she do? She immediately posts this:

AT THE RISK OF REPEATING MYSELF, I UN-FOLLOW FOR THINSPO (GET HELP) AND ANTI-CHOICE RHETORIC (CHECK YOURSELF).

And when a bunch of people un-followed her in response, she said, and I quote, “WORTH IT!” She is so great. Also, this! She’s basically everything I’m always sort of trying to be, except she’s actually good at it. Also, I agree with her about EVERYTHING (including Anne Tyler), with the one minor exception of that I am not Team Hughes at all. And also, this! That’s some truth, right there.

On the other hand, this woman’s blog is the total opposite of Lazy’s, but I love her, too. I don’t know how I came across her blog, and I have no idea who she is or what she’s talking about, but I think she’s some sort of Swedish television personality, and so far as I can tell, she spends all her time putting on poofy dresses and going to parties and events and eating stuff and drinking a lot. I like her because I think she is adorable – adorable! – and I want to look just like her and enjoy things as much as she appears to, or at least manage to give off that impression (but I can’t, obviously, because fun exhausts and depresses me). Once, I even tried to put on some white eyeliner like she wears, but I looked absolutely deranged, even for Williamsburg. I doubt I could pull off that cake hat, either, but it really makes me want to be her friend.

–
Image via.

The more of these discussions I have . . . the more I realize one important difference between America, or rather Washington, and the Czech Republic, or rather Prague.  Here people enjoy politics; in our country they don’t.  Here they really enjoy talking about politics; in our country they merely complain about it.  Here politicians, scientists and academics, journalists, and other important people appear to stay fresh the whole day, and perhaps they say the cleverest things in the evening.  In our country, by the evening, such people are either tired or desperately trying to catch up on work, or they’re drunk or just glad to be home watching television with no need to talk to anyone. . . . Why is it we Czechs are always so harried?  Always so irritated?  Why are we always complaining about something instead of doing a decent day’s work?

- Vaclev Havel, To the Castle and Back

Maybe I should move to Prague…

When I was a kid, I remember how every time I was introduced to anyone who knew my parents, that person would say things like, “Oh my God, I can’t believe how big you are!  I knew you when you were just a tiny, little thing, and now you’re this big!  How the time flies!’

And I always thought it was really boring that people said this same thing over and over again whenever they saw a kid.

But now, as more and more of my friends breed and put pics of their kids on Facebook all the time – and it is shocking; as soon as you’re used to the idea of someone having a baby, you realize that it’s an entirely different baby and the baby you were getting used to is now the three-year-old standing behind the current baby, like, not only did that person have a baby, but they even up and did it again – I now realize what that was all about, people saying that, because I am always really wanting to say it, too.

You see, what they meant wasn’t really, “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re so big!” but rather, “Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m going to die!  I can see it now; it’s coming really, really fast!”

I don’t think I fully appreciated Aimee Mann before, but I sure do now.  @#%&*! Smilers might as well be called “Songs For a Plateau.”  I’ve been listening to it all week. 

Semi-related, if there’s one thing my generation seems to have proven, it’s that the best possible way to ensure a person will be totally worthless is to give them limitless options.

I received a free copy of The Sun magazine, and while I don’t much care for it overall, there’s a great short piece by some guy named Sparrow entitled “How I Went Punk.”  It’s written in diary form, and it’s about a 56-year-old hippie suddenly getting really into The Clash:

How can I be more punk in my life?  I live in a Victorian house next to a small forest, and much of my day is taken up by spiritual practices and physical exercises for my aging body.  For me, being punk doesn’t mean dyeing my hair purple; it means courting intensity.  When I sit on my meditation cushion, I must close my eyes with flaming conviction and be ready to meditate unto death.

I would like to hang out with this guy.

And Halloween is really a one-two punch of fun fascism because, in addition to being told that you must have fun, you are also told how you must dress for it.  This whole idea of needing a day in which everyone agrees to look crazy so that you can feel comfortable dressing up is beyond me.  Isn’t the whole point of costuming yourself to stand out and be noticed?  Why demand that a unified front screen you?  Grow some balls, people.  Someone recently was saying that Halloween as a concept is pointless for anyone who’s a performer/ex-performer – remind me if that was you, or you know who was saying it, because you/they phrased it really well, and now I can’t remember.    

Anyway, I really enjoyed this Sloane Crosley article about how Halloween in NY is the new New Year’s:

Beyond dressing-up, it’s that creeping pressure to do something insanely fun for Halloween. This is a trickle-back attitude from New Year’s. What a smack in the face of fun. Other holidays don’t have this problem. The words “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” invoke turkey, familial dysfunction and airport security. It’s a sincere question, not a fishing expedition. Never has someone said “I’m going to my aunt Hilda’s house in Wooster” and been met with a “That sounds great. When are we leaving?”

I don’t know why I’m bitching, really, because I have some awesome plans for Halloween this year (although no costume, unfortunately – I’m thinking I will wear a few slips, black my eyes, rat up my hair and go as Helena Bonham Carter in something).  On Sunday, I am going to see THE DRESDEN DOLLS, and I am SO EXCITED! 

Also, despite all my protests above, last year I participated in a group costume that was probably the greatest Halloween costume ever.  Someone else thought it up and someone else put it together – all I had to do was put it on.  If that were the case every year, I’d have no problem dressing up.  Anyway, we were sexxy Dharma initiative and we were amazing.  Regard:

Related Articles

• Bobbing for a Lost Apple (opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com)

I enjoyed this article about a rent-a-friend service.  I’m not at all surprised such a service exists now, and also, of course, various people are absolutely obligated to react to it as if it is the next horribly scandalous step up from rainbow parties and ritual sacrifice, but as someone who has routinely moved to an entirely new location where I have no friends or contacts, I can certainly see the use of such a thing.

It is nearly impossible to make friends as an adult, at least in this country, at least in my experience.  If you’ve never had to try it, here are the problems you run into:

For one thing, people do not talk to each other, or at least people don’t talk to me.  I never understand it when others rhapsodize about how easy it is to meet people, how everyone’s so friendly and outgoing.  Perhaps I give off some uncomfortable vibe I’m not aware of, but my conversations with strangers are never successful.  They usually go about like this:

Stranger:  ’Hey, is anyone sitting here?’
Me:  ’No.  Go ahead.’
[Long, awkward pause, carefully avoided eye contact on both sides.]
Me:  ’Have you heard this guy read before?’
Stranger, jumping as if I’ve just announced I have recently really gotten into cannibalism:  ’What?!  Oh.  No.’
[End of all possible conversation forever.]

This is what happens if you go to readings or mingle-events or shows or craft’s fairs or volunteer events or whatever trying to meet people:  other people hang out with their scads of friends, trying to strike up a conversation with a stray will likely get you maced, and before very long, a bizarre and smelly old, old, old man will begin a conversation with you from which you will never escape.  You will spend your entire night listening to a very, very old man’s political conspiracy theories and theories on women and he will lean far too close into your face and you will go to the bathroom and then sit in a far-away place and he will come over and find you and sit by you there, too, and when the event is finally over, he might even follow you to the train station.  True, sometimes he is younger, sometimes he is female, sometimes the drift of his conversation varies, but always, always he is obnoxious and boring and completely deaf to social cues.  I mean, avoiding this old man alone is reason enough to rent-a-friend:  to buy some out of work actor two beers to come to the reading with you and sit next to you and make jokes with you all night.  If you met that same unemployed actor at the event and tried to strike up a conversation with them in the old-fashioned way, they’d probably piss themselves from the social impropriety of it all.

I think my generation has been raised to be overly suspicious of strangers and the implied message we’ve internalized (if you wind up talking to some loser, everyone will think there’s something really wrong with you) is making it really difficult for all of us to meet new people.

In fact, I’ve paid hundreds of hundreds of dollars to make friends.  On the dotted line, I was paying for improv classes, but you know what I really didn’t need at the time?  Improv classes.  And some classes, you drop you hundreds of bucks and get there, and then you spend weeks doing something you’re not that interested in with a bunch of people who never go to the bar after class, because they need to get home to their families.

Also, like the rich getting richer, those with friends get more friends.  Once you manage to make one friend, you’re pretty much out of the woods.  It’s a lot easier to meet new people when you’re out with friends you already have than when you’re out by yourself.  In our society, unattached people are viewed with suspicion.  People are rightly afraid that if they’re nice to you, they’ll never get rid of you (see:  old man above).  But when you have friends along, other people know they’ve nothing to fear from talking to you – you won’t demand a commitment at the end of it all – plus these other people don’t find you crazy, so you must be alright.  So really, if you don’t have any friends, then renting a friend might enable you to meet new, actual friends.  Sort of like a wedding band gets guys hit on, because, hey, some woman thinks they’re worth sleeping with.

I’ve always made friends the same way:  I pony up for classes I don’t want until I locate a likely target, and then I force myself on them.  I invite them places and invite them places and invite them places, and I invite myself places with them, and when I meet their friends, I do the same with their friends, and I just keep at it until somehow I am in the midst of their friend group, even though I’m the only one who didn’t go to college with them all.  I’ve done it twice now, in two different major cities, in the exact same way.  It works for me, but it takes about 6 months to a year, plus money and time for whatever classes, and I can certainly see how some people would prefer to just pay $25 or so for a stranger to come to the movies with them.

On an only slightly related note, the article above has some people spouting off about how a “friend” you have to pay is no “friend” at all, which obviously.  This has become a trend in cranky cultural commentary lately, with the most frequent lament being “thousands of Facebook ‘friends’ aren’t really friends at all!”  Well, no shit.  Nobody thinks they are.  People who complain about this are saying, ‘I define a friend as someone with who you have a long-lasting, personal and caring relationship over a period of years based on mutual respect and shared experiences, and I will apply that definition to any usage of the word ‘friends,’ no matter how casual or commercial, and cry the end of civilization accordingly.’  We all still know what a friend is.  Nobody really thinks a blog ‘friend’ is a friend in the sense above, or that a rented ‘friend’ is, either.  By ‘friends,’ Facebook means ‘networking contacts,’ and this rent-a-friend site means ‘companions’ or ‘people you can pay to go to dinner with you, so that you can enjoy yourself and not have to feel like a self-conscious loser the whole time, and that’s fine, even if these people are clearly not going to attend your wedding or your funeral.’  It means, basically, escorts from back before escort became a coded term for prostitute (was there such a time?  There was, right?).  There is a need for a paid, platonic companion, and I can think of many situations where it would be helpful to pay for a fake date, in order to make a social situation less awkward for any number of reasons (for example, even after you have friends, sometimes showing up somewhere with a “date” is a quick, easy, no-hurt-feelings fix to a brewing problem, but somehow, you never have a date to bring just when you really need one).