Philoillogica

Globe and Mail coins new term, but still can't shake sexist language

I suppose I should be grateful for small favours.  The Globe and Mail's article on recent trends of the single parent family has a headline that reads "More Canadian parents going it alone", seemingly admitting that parenting is frequently a joint affair engaged in by both mothers and fathers.

And yet, the blessedly-unagenda'd headline is smashed into aggrieved fragments with the article's first paragraph:

The number of single mothers in Canada rose nearly 70 per cent over the past two decades, while the number of men going it alone as the head of the family doubled, Statistics Canada said Tuesday.

Ah...the poignant, belittling power of the phrase "single mother" and the tedious notion of the male position of "head of the household" together at last, thankfully offered in close conjunction so that any halfwit might see women's latent inferiority.  Yummy.

As for the article itself, I'm fairly ambivalent.  Echoes of the above sort of knee-jerk jerkiness from the daily filter through the rest of the piece, though it introduces the usefully stigma-free phrase "lone parent":

In a new report, the government agency said there were 555,000 women between the ages of 25 and 54 acting as the lone parent to children under the age of 18.

In 1981, that figure was 330,000.

Similarly, the number of lone fathers nearly doubled to 119,000 in 2001, from 62,000 in 1981. By 2001, fathers headed one in six of all lone-parent families in Canada.

One in six single-parent families is HEADED by a man, yet women ACT as the lone parent to the other five.  Maybe I'm too picky, but I just can't quite shrug off the connotations of author Terry Weber's chosen language.

As is expected, the income rates for lone mothers are half of what a lone father makes - $19K vs $38K, though there is some good news on the education front:

In 1981, 46 per cent of lone mothers had not completed high school. By comparison, 42 per cent of mothers with spouses hadn't finished high school.

By 2001, just 17 per cent of lone mothers were without a high-school diploma.

Now if only we could do something about the Globe and Mail's level of education - surely they can afford to be a bit more tolerant in their language?

break out the cham-pahn-ye

Children's Chrismas letters to Christopher Walken

via BoingBoing.

An early Christmas gift for the patriarchy-blamers, now in child size

Just a note: I Blame the Patriarchy has moved, and devoted fans of Twisty Faster may follow the varied adventures of the spinster aunt at her new address, from which I shamelessly stole this delightful image.

And speaking of ventricles, The Globe and Mail brings today's chortling readers this delightful tidbit that makes the cockles of my wizened, black heart pump with glee:

London  — Barbie, beware.

The iconic plastic doll suffers mutilation and “torture” at the hands of some young girls, according to research published Monday by British academics.

“The girls we spoke to see Barbie-torture as a legitimate play activity, and see the torture as a ‘cool' activity in contrast to other forms of play with the doll,” said Agnes Nairn, one of the University of Bath researchers.

“The types of mutilation are varied and creative, and range from removing the hair to decapitation, burning, breaking and even microwaving.”

Of course, the fact that the researchers' subjects are young girls means that this sort of recognition of the inanimate nature of unobtainably-bodied plastic figurines is naturally moralized in a typical gendered hysteria.  Instead of merely destroying Barbie, the girls are "torturing" and "mutilating" her, manipulating their property in indecorous versions of play approved neither by Mattel nor the society that thinks a female toy is useful only for undressing:

“The meaning of ‘Barbie' went beyond an expressed antipathy; actual physical violence and torture toward the doll was repeatedly reported, quite gleefully, across age, school and gender.”

While boys often expressed nostalgia and affection toward Action Man, the British equivalent of GI Joe, renouncing Barbie appeared to be a rite of passage for many girls.

“The most readily expressed reason for rejecting Barbie was that she was babyish, and girls saw her as representing their younger childhood out of which they felt they had now grown,” Ms. Nairn said.

“It's as though disavowing Barbie is a rite of passage and a rejection of their past.”

Girls rejecting the babyish notions of womanhood in favour of a more nuanced, complex understanding? What a catastrophe!

<snicker>

UPDATE: Oh, now the CBC's trailing the story like a good little mule.  Notice the new headline: "Girls often 'torture' Barbies, researchers say," aggravating where it cannot inform. 

What's that, CBC?  Many young girls like to mutilate and "torture" Barbie dolls, including popping off their heads and microwaving them, a British study suggests?  Oh, NO!  This is terrible!  It must be a high percentage of little girls who behave in such a violent manner, right?

Researchers at the University of Bath have been analyzing the effects of product branding and marketing on more than 100 children aged seven to 11.

Um - 100 children, CBC? the survey was of 100 children? YOU'RE PUSHING A SENSATIONAL STORY ABOUT GIRLS ON THE BASIS OF A SURVEY OF ONE HUNDRED????

Aw, forget it.  It's like shooting fish in a barrel. 

PhD burden, #326: the Ulysses S. Grant proposal

America's 18th president was also useful in a hypothermia emergency.

Having just spent the last three weeks sacrificing my toothsome, spifftacular self on the altar of “pleaseohpleaseohpleasegive me money”, I would like to offer my patient readers the grant proposal that, upon the advice of my supervisors, did not get sent on to the Sobriquet Library.

* * *

Over the course of a two month fellowship at the Sobriquet, I propose to do a bit of research for my thesis, which I should have done sometime before I hit thirty-five. I don’t think it’s reasonable for any of you to ask me for a more specific promise than that, because, I mean REALLY – have any of YOU tried to write a dissertation? It’s not like putting coins into a pop machine or something. It’s, like, WORK and stuff, with a whole lot of finicky footnotes and tracking down of musty documents and submitting chapters to a crotchety fellow who says “Okaaaaaaaaaaaaay...but you really need to ground this in volumes one through eighty-seven of The History of the Book in Britain.Why don’t you read those and get back to me after the weekend?”, a fellow who twirls the corners of his moustache with a Post-Modern sneer before jetting off someplace for a port-swilling orgy of nefarious academic posturing, leaving you in his office holding a hundred pages of heart-bursting agony while undergraduates pop by and tell you what a fantastic professor he is. Even after you kill one to roast for supper (with thyme and a bit of braising, even a psychology major can taste divine), you still don’t feel better, and have to commit yourself to a fervent weekend of smeared note-taking before dripping a handful of someone else’s thesis into the word-processed incarnation of your body, mind and spirit.

So it’s gonna take me awhile, that’s all I’m saying. 

So anyway, here’s why I think you should pick me.

First of all, I look adorable in blazers, especially the military kind that’re incredibly popular right now and available in every sweatshop-shilling, cheap knockoff-hustling, minimum-wage paying, Eaton Centre rental. You know the kind with all the buttons? As I figure it, this characteristic of mine can come in real handy for your library, now that the president has authorized the NSA to spy on Americans without warrant. I know that you’ve got a bunch of suspicious looking manuals like On the making and use of a staffe (STC2 3118) and appealingly-dirty ballads like how a bruer meant to make a cooper cuckold and how deere the bruer paid for the bargaine (STC2 22919) that could easily lead to your phones being tapped and a bevy of black, technology-clad supermen crashing through the windows, wreaking all kinds of messy havoc on the carpets and necessitating a thorough vacuuming.  But naturally, my military insignia will prevent just this kind of outrage, the doublewide, neckless, uber-soldiers passing the Sobriquet right over once they spy my brassy exterior shining brightly in the reading room. Think about it. 

Secondly, I’ve heard that the Sobriquet is filled with geriatrics, and I have to say, I’m great with old people, especially the kind that wear acrylic sweaters with pearl buttons and imitation tweed hats. I play canasta like a thing possessed, and do not refuse musty, unwrapped peppermints that have been sitting in the bottom of purses for decades and smell faintly like Vapo-Rub. I let those who qualify for senior citizenship lick their finger and wipe smudges off my face without wriggling away in horror, and I have been known not only to listen contentedly but ASK for stories about road trips from the 1950s, making me an endearing and obedient mascot. Plus, I’m hungry for dinner at 4:30pm too.

Thirdly, my thesis topic sounds far more impressive than it is, confirming that I’m a sparkling dinner conversationalist by virtue of never actually being allowed to speak. Because of its ubiquitous and mundane subject matter, everyone thinks they’re an expert in my field and therefore feels encouraged to offer me recommendations at length about what I should be doing and when, for how long, with which methodology and upon the advice of this or that long-dead and musty bugbear. I endure such advice with a gritted, but nonetheless pleasant smile, and have learned patiently how best to control my flaring nostrils. The end result is that people feel like they have helped poor, silly little me by the end of the meal, and then they get to retire to the lounge with a smug, assured feeling of contented self-aggrandizement.  

Fourthly, even though you do not tend to have many masquerade balls at the Sobriquet, I think it is fair to mention that I’m a dreadful but enthusiastic dancer who makes up for her inadequacies in the promenade with a zealous commitment to costume, often charming other, more introverted, souls into a camaraderie of bedecked, bespangled and even beribboned attires fit only to parade about in a post-Restoration manner while gently grasping expensive glassware by the stem.

Fifthly, I’ve been informed that my body temperature while sleeping is enough to warm a small household. In the event that one of the other Sobriquet scholars falls into the ocean, a la the Captain in the Voyage of the Mimi PBS special (starring a very young Ben Affleck!) and suffers from hypothermia, my superior basal temp will warm them to normalcy in no time at all – a valuable addition to your first aid capabilities as necessary in these troubled times as a defibrillator. You can never be too careful, after all – as they say, hypothermia is the “silent killer”.

Sixthly, I do not eat brazil nuts, leaving plenty of brazil nuts for all the other scholars.  

Seventhly, I know all the words to the ‘found a peanut’ song, which may be used to scare away book-nibbling rodents and attract small, delicious children who are much lower in cholesterol and trans-fats than braised psych major in jus.

In conclusion, my presence will offer a lively and much-discussed addition to the Sobriquet dramatis personae, and I sincerely hope that you will consider my application for fellowship with all the spirited nonsense that you refused to endow upon me last year. I still don’t think that the white powder was all that offensive, really, and hope that you appreciate the icing sugar more this holiday season, knowing the sweet spirit in which it was affectionately addressed.

Till death do us Parti Québécois

Sarah: Will you love me forever?

Sandor: No.

Sarah: How about for the rest of our lives, then?

Sandor: No. Just for the rest of YOUR life.

Marking ... nearly ... complete ... must ... let Internet ... know ... I'm ... still ... alive

I am a Space-invader. I will happily recruit the help of friends to aid me in getting what I want. I have no tolerance for people getting in my way, and I am completely relentless until any threats or opposition are removed. I try to be down-to-earth, but something always seems to get in the way. What Video Game Character Are You?

CP24 to rape victim: how cool was your rape?

Not only is it bad enough that an idiotic Toronto judge has let a man walk free from a rape charge with the defense that he can't be held responsible for his actions because he was asleep at the time, but CP24 has decided that only "women's rights activists" would find such behaviour troublesome:

If you haven’t heard of Sexomnia, you’re likely not alone.  After all, it’s not even present in medical textbooks. 

But the bizarre medical condition, which causes one to act out sexually while they're asleep, was rousing outraged women’s rights activists on Tuesday, after a man who admitted to having sex with a women without consent walked out of court a free man.

The circumstances of the case are crystal clear: John Luedecke, the accused, fully admitted that he raped the victim.  He fully admitted that he even put on a condom before the rape.  He fully admitted that he knew about his supposed "condition" of "sexsomia" from its appearance in FOUR of his prior relationships (his ex-girlfriends testified on behalf of the defense that Luedecke had sex with them while he was asleep), and regardless of his known propensity to act out sexually in his sleep, he chose to "crash" after a party in the proximity of sleeping women. 

Despite all of these undisputed facts, Justice Russell Otter ruled that Luedecke had not committed a crime in his raping of the victim, because his actions weren't "voluntary."  Apparently having a mental disorder that is potentially fraught with harm to others does not give pause to Justice Otter, who did not impose conditions on Luedecke such as treatment for his illness or status as a sexual offender.  If Luedecke's specious mental condition is not a fraud, he is as much of a danger to society as any pedophile - every time he sleeps he has the potential to do anything with carte blanche as far as the law is concerned.  What Justice Otter has done is given Luedecke (not to mention any other man who can get himself diagnosed with "sexsomia") a license to rape.

But CP24's story seems more interested in the circumstances of this supposed condition than the dangerous outcome of the trial, opening and closing its article with the sensational novelty of the disorder.  "It's so new, medical textbooks don't list it!" they gush, willfully ignoring that the victim of the crime was forced to have sex with the side show of the accused against her will.

In all fairness, we do get a little bit of "objectivity" from CP24.  In giving us the victim's side of the story, we learn that "Upon hearing the verdict, the victim left the courtroom in tears."

Of course, immediately this "objectivity" is destroyed in the next two paragraphs that implicitly suggest that the sex was consensual and the victim engaged in risky behaviour, but really, what else should a drunken woman expect?

The woman, who remains anonymous, met Luedecke at a party in 2003. Both were drinking and had apparently decided to crash there overnight.

The woman fell asleep on a couch, and reportedly woke up to find the man having sex with her. She pushed him off, then told police she’d been raped.

"Both were drinking", ergo, the woman's memory of the events are flawed and suspect.  Note that the man's are not.

"Reportedly" - the woman's testimony is called into question by this qualifying adverb, even though the accused's story corroborates hers.

"Having sex with her" - he was raping her, and doesn't deny that he did, but it only becomes "rape" once the victim decides she didn't enjoy it.  That's when she tells the police.

One wonders whether or not Luedecke would've been acquitted without restrictions on his behaviour had he raped a child in his sleep, or committed a bank robbery, or built a bomb that killed someone.  Somehow I don't think so.

But isn't sexsomia fascinating? That's far more interesting than the boring old story of a raped woman any old day!

People who like this sort of thing will find this the sort of thing they like.

Commiserating with one of my PhD peers last night, we both came to the solemn realization that we will never be given the opportunity to read for pleasure again.

As we stood in his carrel hefting the tomes of the Canadian literary canon, weighing Not Wanted on the Voyage against The Diviners against Surfacing against The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz, Adam shifted the books around his bookshelf with the jocularity of a three-card Monty dealer. 

"Find the lady, find the lady," I thought, as he palmed Margaret Atwood across the desk, slipping her in between Ondaatje and Davies.  "One, two, three, nothing up my sleeve.  Easy as pie. Find the lady and win."

"Fifth Business was pretty good," Adam said. 

"When you're done," I said, "You should read World of Wonders.  It's even better."

As Adam and I stood there in uncomfortably close proximity, me with one foot literally out the door, him practically straddling his desk as we valiantly tried to chat without inadvertently engaging in a consummation of our relationship (ah, the joys of the carrel!), I was struck with yet another longing for a past life that slipped by without ceremony.

I'm not going to be reading any more Canadian literature in furious quantities, nor Romantic poetry, nor Medieval lyric, nor modern drama, nor randy eighteenth-century verse.  The moment for taking a course in the American novel has long past, and there seems to be no future opportunities for doing so anywhere visible on my career horizon.  Somehow, by finishing my course work and declaring my specialties, I've whittled my field down and enclosed it with hedgerows, clearly demarcating where I stand knee-deep in the texts of the Renaissance.

I can wave to Adam four fields over as he wades through his own puddles of the modern novel, but I don't think I'll ever get the chance to visit there. 

No, I've made my flower-bed, and now I'll have to sow and weed it for the years to come, defending my hedgerows from the rioting Oxfordian peasantry and offering toothsome, homegrown delicacies to the crown in return for her hoped-for patronage (read: tenure).   This isn't to say that I don't like my field best of all - I do, I'm just struck by the sudden realization of what I've lost.  Reading the Books section of the Globe and Mail or the Guardian, I find myself missing the long drink of narrative that novels have and suffering from their fierce omnipresence. 

"Have you read this?" someone will ask in a bookstore, holding up a G-G Award winner.  "It must be lovely to read all day long." 

"Er, no," I'm forced to say.  "Have you read Erasmus' Praise of Folly?  It was huge in 1509."

"But aren't you in English? You must've read a lot of the classics.  I just read War and Peace.  What did you think of it?"

"Er, I don't," I say, blushing.  "But the ballad of Protestant martyr Anne Askew is fabulous.  I highly recommend it."

This is always the most embarrassing conversation for an English specialist to have: an admission of what you haven't read.  It's even developed into a graduate student drinking game called "Humiliation", where you declare a classic work you've still not read, and everyone who has read it has to take a swig of their beverage.  Even in a crowd of my Renaissance peers, I can still win with Macbeth (I've been saving it for a rainy day). 

And from the looks of it, I'll be kicking ass at "Humiliation" for years, lobbing David Copperfield and Pamela and Ulysses and Vanity Fair at my friends as they feebly toss the Faerie Queene my way. 

So I'm feeling a bit morose this week, realizing that the more I read, the more I'll never have a chance to read. 

Of course, my embargo on the modern novel ("modern" here, meaning anything post-1660) means I'm spared this sort of thing:

And he came hard in her mouth and his dick jumped around and rattled on her teeth and he blacked out and she took his dick out of her mouth and lifted herself from his face and whipped the pillow away and he gasped and glugged at the air, and he came again so hard that his dick wrenched out of her hand and a shot of it hit him straight in the eye and stung like nothing he'd ever had in there, and he yelled with the pain, but the yell could have been anything, and as she grabbed at his dick, which was leaping around like a shower dropped in an empty bath, she scratched his back deeply with the nails of both hands and he shot three more times, in thick stripes on her chest. Like Zorro.

Personally, though, I'm rooting for Marlon Brando:

In a moment Annie was on his side, Madame Lai was like a plant growing over him, and her little fist (holding the biggest black pearl) was up his asshole planting the pearl in the most appreciated place.

"Oh, Lord," he cried out. "I'm a-comin'!"

Though, truth-be-told, the late Brando is probably not going to be "a-comin" anywhere anytime soon, least of all to pick up his award.  Maybe that's why I'm rooting for him: I seem to have a thing for dead authors, all lined up nicely in furrows of well-tilled soil. 

'Course, I've never encountered one who writes about pearls being inserted into bumholes before, but I'm sure that's just because I haven't read enough.