ferngirl

poetry, gender, cats, and such

80 notes

socimages:

Eating meat is funny and sexy; don’t stop eating meat!

By Lisa Wade, PhD

Activist Carol Adams has famously argued that the common phenomenon of sexualizing meat products is designed to make us feel better about eating animals. One of the ways it does this is by making it funny.  She explains:

Uneasiness becomes sexual energy… and everybody knows what to do about sexual energy.  You can laugh at it, you can talk about it, it reduces whoever is presented to an object.  And so it makes it okay again.

Sexualizing meat also turns the object of consumption, the animal, into a willing participant.  Sex takes two and, even when one partner is objectified, there is a desire.  If not “want,” it’s a “want to be wanted.”

If the meat wants you to want it, then you don’t have to feel bad about eating it.  As I’ve written before, “this works best alongside feminization, as it is women who are typically presented as objects of a lustful male gaze.”

The ad above, in which roosters flock to Carl’s Jr to ogle and lust over chicken “breasts,” is a disturbing example.

Thanks to @wegotwits for the link!

Lisa Wade is a professor of sociology at Occidental College and the co-author of Gender: Ideas, Interactions, Institutions. You can follow her on Twitter and Facebook.

Filed under vegetarians meat sociology chicken carls junior advertising sexualizing objectification

1 note

Point Taken.

After a busy, busy few weeks teaching, reading, and attending the Tin House Summer Writer’s Workshop, I really need to get back to writing.

Point Taken.

After a busy, busy few weeks teaching, reading, and attending the Tin House Summer Writer’s Workshop, I really need to get back to writing.

Filed under writing

28 notes

kvetchlandia:

Vladimir Mayakovsky     1914
Your thought, 
Fantasizing on a sodden brain, 
Like a bloated lackey sprawling on a greasy couch, —
With my heart’s bloody tatters, I’ll mock it again. 
Until I’m content, I’ll be ruthless and galling. 
There’s no grandfatherly fondness in me, 
There are no gray hairs in my soul! 
Shaking the world with my voice and grinning, 
I pass you by, — handsome, 
Twenty-two years old. 
Gentle souls! 
You play your love on the violin. 
The crude ones play it on the drums violently. 
But can you turn yourselves inside out, like me 
And become just two lips entirely? 
Come and learn— 
You, decorous bureaucrats of angelic leagues! 
Step out of those cambric drawing-rooms 
And you, who can leaf your lips 
Like a cook turns the pages of her recipe books. 
If you wish— 
I’ll rage on raw meat like a vandal 
Or change into hues that the sunrise arouses, 
If you wish— 
I can be irreproachably gentle, 
Not a man — but a cloud in trousers. 
I refuse to believe in Nice blossoming! 
I will glorify you regardless, —
Men, crumpled like bed-sheets in hospitals, 
And women, battered like overused proverbs. 
A Cloud in Trousers [Part 1] 
You think malaria makes me delirious? 
It happened. 
In Odessa it happened. 
"I’ll come at four," Maria promised. 
Eight. 
Nine. 
Ten. 
Then the evening 
turned its back on the windows 
and plunged into grim night, 
scowling 
Decemberish. 
At my decrepit back 
the candelabras laughed and whinnied. 
You would not recognise me now: 
a bulging bulk of sinews, 
groaning, 
and writhing, 
What could such a clod want?
A clod wants many things.  
The self does not care 
whether one is cast of bronze 
or the heart has an iron lining. 
At night the self only desires 
to steep its clangour in softness, 
in woman. 
And thus, 
enormous, 
I stood hunched by the window, 
and my brow melted the glass. 
What will it be: love or no-love? 
And what kind of love: 
big or minute? 
How could a body like this have a big love? 
It should be teeny-weeny, 
humble, little love; 
a love that shies at the hooting of cars, 
that adores the bells of horse-trams. 
Again and again 
nuzzling against the rain, 
my face pressed against its pitted face, 
I wait, 
splashed by the city’s thundering surf. 
Then midnight, amok with a knife, 
caught up, 
cut him down –
out with him! 
The stroke of twelve fell 
like a head from a block. 
On the windowpanes, grey raindrops 
howled together, 
piling on a grimace 
as though the gargoyles 
of Notre Dame were howling. 
Damn you! 
Isn’t that enough? 
Screams will soon claw my mouth apart. 
Then I heard, 
softly, 
a nerve leap 
like a sick man from his bed. 
Then, 
barely moving, 
at first, 
it soon scampered about, 
agitated, 
distinct. 
Now, with a couple more, 
it darted about in a desperate dance. 
The plaster on the ground floor crashed. 
Nerves, 
big nerves, 
tiny nerves, 
many nerves! –
galloped madly 
till soon 
their legs gave way. 
But night oozed and oozed through the room –
and the eye, weighed down, could not slither out of 
the slime. 
The doors suddenly banged ta-ra-bang, 
as though the hotel’s teeth 
chattered. 
You swept in abruptly 
like “take it or leave it!” 
Mauling your suede gloves, 
you declared: 
"D’you know, 
I’m getting married.” 
All right, marry then. 
So what, 
I can take it. 
As you see, I’m calm! 
Like the pulse 
of a corpse. 
Do you remember 
how you used to talk? 
"Jack London, 
money, 
love, 
passion.” 
But I saw one thing only: 
you, a Gioconda, 
had to be stolen! 
And you were stolen. 
In love, I shall gamble again, 
the arch of my brows ablaze. 
What of it! 
Homeless tramps often find 
shelter in a burnt-out house! 
You’re teasing me now? 
"You have fewer emeralds of madness 
than a beggar has kopeks!” 
But remember! 
When they teased Vesuvius, 
Pompeii perished! 
Hey! 
Gentlemen! 
Amateurs 
of sacrilege, 
crime, 
and carnage, 
have you seen 
the terror of terrors –
my face 
when 
I 
am absolutely calm? 
I feel 
my “I” 
is much too small for me. 
Stubbornly a body pushes out of me. 
Hello! 
Who’s speaking? 
Mamma? 
Mamma! 
Your son is gloriously ill! 
Mamma! 
His heart is on fire. 
Tell his sisters, Lyuda and Olya, 
he has no nook to hide in. 
Each word, 
each joke, 
which his scorching mouth spews, 
jumps like a naked prostitute 
from a burning brothel. 
People sniff 
the smell of burnt flesh! 
A brigade of men drive up. 
A glittering brigade. 
In bright helmets. 
But no jackboots here! 
Tell the firemen 
to climb lovingly when a heart’s on fire. 
Leave it to me. 
I’ll pump barrels of tears from my eyes. 
I’ll brace myself against my ribs. 
I’ll leap out! Out! Out! 
They’ve collapsed. 
You can’t leap out of a heart! 
From the cracks of the lips 
upon a smouldering face 
a cinder of a kiss rises to leap. 
Mamma! 
I cannot sing. 
In the heart’s chapel the choir loft catches fire! 
The scorched figurines of words and numbers 
scurry from the skull 
like children from a flaming building. 
Thus fear, 
in its effort to grasp at the sky, 
lifted high 
the flaming arms of the Lusitania. 
Into the calm of the apartment 
where people quake, 
a hundred-eye blaze bursts from the docks. 
Moan 
into the centuries, 
if you can, a last scream: I’m on fire!
—-Vladimir Mayakovsky, “A Cloud in Trousers, Prologue and Part I” 1915

kvetchlandia:

Vladimir Mayakovsky     1914

Your thought, 

Fantasizing on a sodden brain, 

Like a bloated lackey sprawling on a greasy couch, —

With my heart’s bloody tatters, I’ll mock it again. 

Until I’m content, I’ll be ruthless and galling. 

There’s no grandfatherly fondness in me, 

There are no gray hairs in my soul! 

Shaking the world with my voice and grinning, 

I pass you by, — handsome, 

Twenty-two years old. 

Gentle souls! 

You play your love on the violin. 

The crude ones play it on the drums violently. 

But can you turn yourselves inside out, like me 

And become just two lips entirely? 

Come and learn— 

You, decorous bureaucrats of angelic leagues! 

Step out of those cambric drawing-rooms 

And you, who can leaf your lips 

Like a cook turns the pages of her recipe books. 

If you wish— 

I’ll rage on raw meat like a vandal 

Or change into hues that the sunrise arouses, 

If you wish— 

I can be irreproachably gentle, 

Not a man — but a cloud in trousers. 

I refuse to believe in Nice blossoming! 

I will glorify you regardless, —

Men, crumpled like bed-sheets in hospitals, 

And women, battered like overused proverbs. 

A Cloud in Trousers [Part 1] 

You think malaria makes me delirious? 

It happened. 

In Odessa it happened. 

"I’ll come at four," Maria promised. 

Eight. 

Nine. 

Ten. 

Then the evening 

turned its back on the windows 

and plunged into grim night, 

scowling 

Decemberish. 

At my decrepit back 

the candelabras laughed and whinnied. 

You would not recognise me now: 

a bulging bulk of sinews, 

groaning, 

and writhing, 

What could such a clod want?

A clod wants many things.  

The self does not care 

whether one is cast of bronze 

or the heart has an iron lining. 

At night the self only desires 

to steep its clangour in softness, 

in woman. 

And thus, 

enormous, 

I stood hunched by the window, 

and my brow melted the glass. 

What will it be: love or no-love? 

And what kind of love: 

big or minute? 

How could a body like this have a big love? 

It should be teeny-weeny, 

humble, little love; 

a love that shies at the hooting of cars, 

that adores the bells of horse-trams. 

Again and again 

nuzzling against the rain, 

my face pressed against its pitted face, 

I wait, 

splashed by the city’s thundering surf. 

Then midnight, amok with a knife, 

caught up, 

cut him down –

out with him! 

The stroke of twelve fell 

like a head from a block. 

On the windowpanes, grey raindrops 

howled together, 

piling on a grimace 

as though the gargoyles 

of Notre Dame were howling. 

Damn you! 

Isn’t that enough? 

Screams will soon claw my mouth apart. 

Then I heard, 

softly, 

a nerve leap 

like a sick man from his bed. 

Then, 

barely moving, 

at first, 

it soon scampered about, 

agitated, 

distinct. 

Now, with a couple more, 

it darted about in a desperate dance. 

The plaster on the ground floor crashed. 

Nerves, 

big nerves, 

tiny nerves, 

many nerves! –

galloped madly 

till soon 

their legs gave way. 

But night oozed and oozed through the room –

and the eye, weighed down, could not slither out of 

the slime. 

The doors suddenly banged ta-ra-bang, 

as though the hotel’s teeth 

chattered. 

You swept in abruptly 

like “take it or leave it!” 

Mauling your suede gloves, 

you declared: 

"D’you know, 

I’m getting married.” 

All right, marry then. 

So what, 

I can take it. 

As you see, I’m calm! 

Like the pulse 

of a corpse. 

Do you remember 

how you used to talk? 

"Jack London, 

money, 

love, 

passion.” 

But I saw one thing only: 

you, a Gioconda, 

had to be stolen! 

And you were stolen. 

In love, I shall gamble again, 

the arch of my brows ablaze. 

What of it! 

Homeless tramps often find 

shelter in a burnt-out house! 

You’re teasing me now? 

"You have fewer emeralds of madness 

than a beggar has kopeks!” 

But remember! 

When they teased Vesuvius, 

Pompeii perished! 

Hey! 

Gentlemen! 

Amateurs 

of sacrilege, 

crime, 

and carnage, 

have you seen 

the terror of terrors –

my face 

when 

am absolutely calm? 

I feel 

my “I” 

is much too small for me. 

Stubbornly a body pushes out of me. 

Hello! 

Who’s speaking? 

Mamma? 

Mamma! 

Your son is gloriously ill! 

Mamma! 

His heart is on fire. 

Tell his sisters, Lyuda and Olya, 

he has no nook to hide in. 

Each word, 

each joke, 

which his scorching mouth spews, 

jumps like a naked prostitute 

from a burning brothel. 

People sniff 

the smell of burnt flesh! 

A brigade of men drive up. 

A glittering brigade. 

In bright helmets. 

But no jackboots here! 

Tell the firemen 

to climb lovingly when a heart’s on fire. 

Leave it to me. 

I’ll pump barrels of tears from my eyes. 

I’ll brace myself against my ribs. 

I’ll leap out! Out! Out! 

They’ve collapsed. 

You can’t leap out of a heart! 

From the cracks of the lips 

upon a smouldering face 

a cinder of a kiss rises to leap. 

Mamma! 

I cannot sing. 

In the heart’s chapel the choir loft catches fire! 

The scorched figurines of words and numbers 

scurry from the skull 

like children from a flaming building. 

Thus fear, 

in its effort to grasp at the sky, 

lifted high 

the flaming arms of the Lusitania. 

Into the calm of the apartment 

where people quake, 

a hundred-eye blaze bursts from the docks. 

Moan 

into the centuries, 

if you can, a last scream: I’m on fire!

—-Vladimir Mayakovsky, “A Cloud in Trousers, Prologue and Part I” 1915

Filed under poetry cloud in trousers vladimir mayakovsky

99 notes

socimages:

Banal nationalism: the relationship between the 4th of July and the profound sense of national pride that inspires people to enlist into war.
By Lisa Wade, PhD
In his book by the same name, Michael Billig coined the term “banal nationalism” to draw attention to the ways in which nationalism was not only a quality of gun-toting, flag-waving “extremists,” but was quietly and rather invisibly reproduced by all of us in our daily lives.
That we live in a world of nations was not inevitable; that the United States, or Sweden or India, exist was not inevitable.  I was born in Southern California.  If I had been born at another time in history I would have been Mexican or Spanish or something else altogether.  The nation is a social construction.
The nation, then, must be reproduced. We must be reminded, constantly, that we are part of this thing called a “nation.”  Even more, that we belong to it and it belongs to us.  Banal nationalism is how the idea of the nation and our membership in it is reproduced daily.  It occurs not only with celebrations, parades, or patriotic war, but in “mundane,” “routine,” and “unnoticed” ways.
The American flag, for example, casually hanging around in yards and in front of buildings everywhere and references to the nation on our money:

The way that the news is usually split into us and everyone else:

The naming of clubs and franchises, such as the National Football League, as specific to our country:

The performance of the pledge of allegiance in schools and sports arenas:

So, what?  What could possibly be the problem?
Sociologists have critiqued nationalism for being the source of an irrational commitment and loyalty to one’s nation, a commitment that makes one willing to both die and kill.  Billig argues that, while it appears harmless on the surface, “banal nationalism can be mobilized and turned into frenzied nationalism.”  The profound sense of national pride required for war, for example, depends on this sense of nationhood internalized over a lifetime.  So banal nationalism isn’t “nationalism-lite,” it’s the very foundation upon which more dangerous nationalisms are built.
You can download a more polished two-page version of this argument, forthcoming in Contexts magazine, here.  Images found here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.
Lisa Wade is a professor of sociology at Occidental College and the co-author of Gender: Ideas, Interactions, Institutions. You can follow her on Twitter and Facebook.

socimages:

Banal nationalism: the relationship between the 4th of July and the profound sense of national pride that inspires people to enlist into war.

By Lisa Wade, PhD

In his book by the same name, Michael Billig coined the term “banal nationalism” to draw attention to the ways in which nationalism was not only a quality of gun-toting, flag-waving “extremists,” but was quietly and rather invisibly reproduced by all of us in our daily lives.

That we live in a world of nations was not inevitable; that the United States, or Sweden or India, exist was not inevitable.  I was born in Southern California.  If I had been born at another time in history I would have been Mexican or Spanish or something else altogether.  The nation is a social construction.

The nation, then, must be reproduced. We must be reminded, constantly, that we are part of this thing called a “nation.”  Even more, that we belong to it and it belongs to us.  Banal nationalism is how the idea of the nation and our membership in it is reproduced daily.  It occurs not only with celebrations, parades, or patriotic war, but in “mundane,” “routine,” and “unnoticed” ways.

The American flag, for example, casually hanging around in yards and in front of buildings everywhere and references to the nation on our money:

800px-united_states_one_dollar_bill_obverse

The way that the news is usually split into us and everyone else:

usnews

The naming of clubs and franchises, such as the National Football League, as specific to our country:

300_174281

The performance of the pledge of allegiance in schools and sports arenas:

Pledge of Allegiance

So, what?  What could possibly be the problem?

Sociologists have critiqued nationalism for being the source of an irrational commitment and loyalty to one’s nation, a commitment that makes one willing to both die and kill.  Billig argues that, while it appears harmless on the surface, “banal nationalism can be mobilized and turned into frenzied nationalism.”  The profound sense of national pride required for war, for example, depends on this sense of nationhood internalized over a lifetime.  So banal nationalism isn’t “nationalism-lite,” it’s the very foundation upon which more dangerous nationalisms are built.

You can download a more polished two-page version of this argument, forthcoming in Contexts magazine, here.  Images found herehereherehereherehere, and here.

Lisa Wade is a professor of sociology at Occidental College and the co-author of Gender: Ideas, Interactions, Institutions. You can follow her on Twitter and Facebook.

Filed under nationalism usa 'murica nation sociology ideas

143 notes

thequeenmothershat asked: Do you guys have any suggestions for mst3k quotes for a tattoo?

fuckyeahmst3k:

"I’m Huge!"

"Push the button, Frank"

"Nobody gets me. I’m the wind, baby."

"We’ve got movie sign"

"I should really just relax"

Reblog with your own suggestions!

ROBOT ROLL CALL!

Filed under mst3k tattoo ideas