The Latest Dispatch From The Radical Revolutionary Outpost: Feminine Women Are Dumbasses!

You know, I normally say that I pity the people who buy into this whole “bitter, ugly feminist” stereotype. Nothing wrong with being physically unattractive, especially when you consider how much time and resources conventional attractiveness can consume, but here’s the thing about stereotypes - they are a tool for idiots to engage with the world (sort of like the antennae on the heads of the scary blind ants that populate certain sections of the South American jungle).

I’m not exactly sure how to react to the perpetuation of this stereotype by a… feminist, specifically as it relates to feminist writers. This drawing is brilliant because it manages to channel two stereotypes for the price of one - the other one proclaiming that, uh… let’s see… blond writers who wear pink and drink cocktails have no actual thoughts in their head (as exemplified by the rather empty thought-bubble).

As a blond writer who wears pink and drinks cocktails (I normally prefer beer, but there’s at least one picture of me on Facebook drinking a mimosa or buck’s fizz that the online radical feminist polizei can get a hold of, so why not go ahead and admit it), I am, in all honesty, amused.

Who’s responsible for many of the cracks on women’s intelligence or lack thereof? Men. More specifically, sexist men. The sort of guys who’ll make excuses for rapists on account of all men being primitive sex-beasts who can’t control themselves at the sight of a bare female ankle, then turn around and say that because Einstein and Newton were men, it’s actually the women who are primitive.

Sexist men looove telling women that they should dress and act a certain way, then proceed to denigrate the women who actually do. In their universe, a woman who doesn’t strive to be conventionally attractive hardly counts for a human being at all (in fact, your average goat probably has higher status in these d-bags’ eyes), but a woman who does is just a bubble-brained idiot good for boning and fetching beer during the game and not much else.

Women get in on this act as well. In fact, they regularly manage to out-douche the men when it comes to gratuitously insulting another woman’s looks and/or intelligence level. Now, I personally see no problem in calling an idiot an idiot. Or, for that matter, acknowledging the fact that someone might be ugly (I’m not Miss America by a long-shot, for example, but growing out my bangs and having a raging cold is presently making me look like a creature from one of those psychologically scarring children’s stories you spend the better half of your life trying to get over).

I do see a problem with insisting that blond hair and pink dresses equal stooopid, while short-cropped brown hair, a pissed-off expression, and an enduring friendship with Charlotte from “Charlotte’s Web” (read: no social life) somehow automatically makes you a genius expert on the world’s problems. Especially if the author behind such a statement insists, literally in the same creative exhale, that she is a feminist.

I know quite a few bespectacled hermits - in fact, on many days of the week, I am one (I currently work from my laptop at home, and rarely bother putting in my contacts). It doesn’t make me any more intelligent than wearing a Stephen Hawking mask would. Seriously, I’ve tried this, it doesn’t work.

I have to wonder - have all the minute details of the “real feminist” character on the right side of this cartoon have been accounted for? Are we sure, for instance, that she’s not wearing a pink g-string under all that sensible clothing? And if she is, does it deduct from her brain activity at all?

What? Hey, I’m not the one who started this whole “let’s police women’s looks and attire even further” thing. I just want to make sure that Ms. Righteous Feminist Who Reads Actual Books isn’t hiding some terrifyingly pastel secrets from her admirers.

If, in the past, panty-checks at online radical feminist conventions were required solely to weed out the evil transgender people, now there’s even a better reason to conduct them: making sure that no stray La Senza customer can pollute the ambiance with her radioactive, lace-clad crotch.

The drawing’s creator has already stated that her intent was misunderstood. Perhaps this is really so. Perhaps I really don’t get all of the intricacies of an illustrated “dumb blond” joke. Goya also had his detractors in his time.

Happy Victory Day! - С Днем Победы!

My grandmother started crying on the phone:

“I don’t want you to ever know what it’s like to hear the shelling and know that it’s coming for you.”

War is banal and blind and savage and ultimately meaningless. But there is still something to smile about today, at least for me. If only because its survivors had children, and those children had children, and one of them was me, and another one was my beautiful baby brother. And there’s a reason why we’re here, and we’ll spend the rest of our lives finding out what that reason may be.

Here’s the chorus of the song we shared with our Allies (the text is not strictly the same, but the tune is identical, and the general gist of the song has been preserved in the Russian version):

“Comin’ In On A Wing And A Prayer
Comin’ In On A Wing And A Prayer
Though there’s one motor gone, we can still carry on,
Comin’ In On A Wing And A Prayer

What a show! What a fight!
Yes, we really hit our target for tonight!
How we sing as we limp thru the air
Look below, there’s our field over there

With our full crew aboard and our trust in the Lord
We’re Comin’ In On A Wing And A Prayer”

“Мы летим, ковыляя во мгле,
Мы ползем на последнем крыле.
Бак пробит, хвост горит и машина летит
На честном слове и на одном крыле…”

Ну, дела! Ночь была!
Их объекты разбомбили мы до тла.

Мы ушли, ковыляя во мгле,
мы к родной подлетаем земле.
Вся команда цела, и машина пришла
На честном слове и на одном крыле”

And here’s a video of Chizh & Co. doing a song that features both the English and the Russian words (the accents are awesome, I’ve decided - makes me wish I still had mine):

(I would have liked to include the live version of this one more, since it’s Chizh himself who sings the English part there as well, but alas, YouTube failed me on that count…

Nevertheless, bud’mo!)

Zombie Purism: My Creepy Creature Can Beat Up Your Creepy Creature!

Continuing with the theme of terrifying creatures - how about them zombies?

Particularly, how about the representations of zombies in film? Even more particularly - should zombies walk, or should they run?

Now, the debates about walking vs. running are at the surface of zombie purism, yet at the heart of it also lies the eternal question of dead vs undead. For example, certain people will scoff at you and refuse to invite you to their garden parties if you call the infected in 28 Days Later & 28 Weeks Later “zombies.”

This is because zombies popularized by George Romero (and ancient legends) have all reanimated. They were once alive, then dead, now they’re neither alive nor dead. Those infected with the Rage virus, as presented in the aforementioned movies (the idea of a Rage virus was initially conceived by the brilliant Alex Garland, of course, and it feels eerily plausible), are very much alive, just murderously enraged. And some people get murderously enraged when they get lumped in with Romero’s creation and the distinct tradition he’s coming from.

Questions about reanimation also involve the idea of who gets reanimated - all dead people? Some dead people? Dead people who died from zombie bites? Dead people whose funeral rites were not properly observed? A lot of the people working in the genre are vague on this, perhaps intentionally, because vagueness inspires a whole new level of dread.

Reading a book of early Slavic myths, I was struck by a story of a man whose body, upon death, is left in the house with his family. In the middle of the night, he reanimates and eats one of his children. His wife and other children are able to escape because they are hiding on the top level of a kind of old-fashioned bunk bed (this reanimated corpse is not particularly intelligent).

The story can be read as a kind of parable highlighting the importance of disposing of dead bodies in a timely fashion. A rotting corpse, after all, spreads disease. Yet this is just a tiny example of international zombie lore, and why it exists.

The idea of zombie-hood as an infection is also, on one level, a public health issue, and one that is especially pertinent as biological warfare seems to be on everyone’s mind these days. Max Brooks, the author of such modern classics as The Zombie Survival Guide, sticks to the idea of zombies as undead creatures, yet also specifically points out that reanimation is caused by a virus. Brooks’ zombies shuffle, awarding him extra brownie points from many of the zombie purists.

Zach Snyder’s remake of “Dawn of the Dead,” meanwhile, sticks to the idea of reanimated zombies, yet, learning from the success of “28DL,” makes the creatures cheetah-fast. Snyder strove to preserve genre convention, but he also realized that the zombie-as-Olympic-sprinter works well on film. My friends the zombie purists are split on Snyder - I have seen him both criticized and praised for this.

Maddox, the world’s leading authority on everything, thinks that Snyder is a genius for incorporating racing zombies into the narrative while not allowing the zombies to die of starvation as the infected do in “28DL.” After trawling a variety of message boards on the subjects, I’ve discovered that some people think that Snyder is just buying into the idea of instant gratification - people’s lives are speeding up, and so, consequentially, are the zombies. Though these same people tend to respect Danny Boyle’s “28DL,” as long as you don’t use the title in the same sentence as the word “zombie,” of course (and even though I just did that, I have to agree that the infected are not zombies).

A zombie is uncanny (here I go with that word again), because it was a person, it still is a person, only not really. A plot-arc of a zombie movie (or book) usually utilizes the idea of societal chaos as people face confusion: why is my next-door neighbour coming at me with teeth bared? Are my dandelions annoying him that much? By the time the populace figures things out, they’re toast (or chow, rather).

Zombie purism has inspired one of the most colourful flame-wars I’ve ever seen on the Internet. I sh*t you not, my fair friends. I’d love to point you in the direction of this particular discussion on a sci fi forum, but the discussion was erased, and the moderator specifically asked me not to mention the forum by name. That thing got so ugly, someone wished rape on someone else.

I am both a zombie purist and a zombie heretic. I *prefer* slow-moving zombies to the cheetah-legged ones (notice that in the beginning of the latest tale from George Romero, “Diary of the Dead,” young student filmmakers get into an argument about whether or not an undead mummy can chase its victim quickly), because slow-moving zombies, to me, are less scary. But people will argue that slow-moving zombies have their own entertainment value, because you can actually do close-ups of them, while the fast ones result in frenzied, disorienting action. Frenzied, disorienting action scares me more than close-ups. Similarly, viruses infecting living people scare me more than reanimation. The former is just a little too realistic for my tastes.

It should be noted, however, that while the undead need a bullet in the head to put them down, the infected are not that supernatural. If only they’d stand still more.

Now, within the horror genre, scary = likeable. So I guess I like athletic zombies which are the product of science experiments gone wrong. I prefer them to the lumbering, undead hordes. But I also think it’s cool to be able to combine the different elements of zombie lore as one sees fit.

Then I come across reassuring articles like this one, and start thinking about investing in a grenade launcher/personal fortress/pet dragon trained to kill on command. Considering the fact that zombie purists also differ on whether or not the zombies can act intelligently (although I hope that we can ALL agree that the z… I mean, the infected dad having some sort of Rage GPS to track down his offspring in “28 Weeks Later” was lame), it might be good to enlist a trained general or two as well. Which is why I wish my granddad was still around.

This post is dedicated to my grandmother, Tatiana Panteleevna Antonova, who turns 81 today. She’s not an expert on the undead, but she did specialize in infectious diseases.

Spring makes me wish I was in Kyiv

But, you know, Amman is alright for this sort of thing too.

Anti-Ukrainian Propaganda? The “Hitler toys” story is more complicated than you think

Please see an update from me here.

I am utterly confounded at the moment. I am ESPECIALLY confounded by the fact that the BBC removed a misleading video without an explanation.

D.C. Madam commits suicide, pigs sprout wings, and the aliens bring back Elvis

Forgive me for being just a tad suspicious in the wake of this death.

Deborah Palfrey, the famous D.C. madam, probably knew a lot of secrets. Her continued existence was inconvenient and irritating to many people. She could have easily written the sort of bestselling memoir that could make publishers weep at her feet (though she would have had to turn repentant for that, and something tells me she wouldn’t have repented).

Now she’s gone and offed herself. How convenient.

Even if Deborah Palfrey did not have any “help” when it came to ending her life, her death is still a huge indictment of our politicians and our country, a country where “bad boys” are ushered to the bosoms of their communities and allowed to go on with their lives, while women pay the price for indiscretion.

When it comes to shaming, the ladies are just as bad as the men. Self-styled feminists have no problem saying that “scarlet women” are not to be trusted, or that they are complicit in their own harassment. Celebrities who get paid big bucks for their good looks get all huffy when they notice other women showing off their charms, whether for pay or for fun. The people who amuse me most are the chest-beating madonnas who gnaw their manicured nails in terror at the thought of teenage Madison Tyler being exposed to challenging lifestyles and ideas on account of some people’s contention that women (and men) in the flesh business should be treated like human beings. The idea of raising their own damn kids never crosses their minds.

Oh God, deliver me from the stupid and the cruel. And rest the soul of Deborah Palfrey

See Feministe for more.

Colossal Squid Pulsating Through The Seas!

After the apocalypse, there will still be colossal squid. I’m not sure what they will feed on - radioactive herring grown to ten times its normal size, perhaps? I have little faith in fairness and justice, but I do have faith in the colossal squid.

In the post-apocalyptic tale, The Road, Cormac McCarthy’s protagonist wondered, looking out into the dead, lead-like waves of the sea, if there is life in there, and when he did so, he thought of squid.

When he was in the military, my father once had the (dis)pleasure to go on a training exercise in the Black Sea, in the middle of the night. He was on assignment with a partner, with diving lights, and a full moon. They never finished the exercise, because they saw something that night.

It was something enormous and, in the words of my dad, “worm-like.” My dad later theorized that decades-long pollution of the Black Sea could have resulted in seriously messed-up sea critters.

After the encounter, my dad became obsessed with sea creatures, and eventually settled on the squid as one of his favourite marine monsters. I followed suit.

Why do we love the colossal squid? Because we can marvel at it from the safety of land. The cold, slimy squid makes our beds feel warmer and our pillows, and carpets, and kittehs feel softer. And yet, there is also its sheer awesomeness, especially when you contemplate the amazing contrast between tame fried calamari on your plate with marinara sauce on the side, and the gargantuan beastie shooting through the inky waters of the deep.

The very existence of the colossal squid is a comfort to those of us who worry that our planet has become dreadfully bland as of late. Even when she is defrosted and examined on live webcam, the squid remains mysterious, unholy, and magnificent. She’s like a ghost, only tactile, a physical presence unlike any other.

I’d place the colossal squid squarely in the uncanny category - it’s the primordial slime of life, and yet intelligent and powerful and not at all the sort of creature you’d like to meet on its own turf. The colossal squid, it is said, lives at depths of 100 meters below, a place that might as well be a dark, starless void somewhere in outer space as far as human beings are concerned.

Assuming one could somehow survive the pressure, one still could not see the squid if it attacked. Only feel it.

Dum dum dum!

I think human beings are especially fascinated with deadly creatures. Mortality is like a bruise we keep fingering, and few things in life represent mortality as well as a colossal squid.

Aside from all that, it is just a perfect blend of fearsome beauty and utter grossness. It’s like the Dali of the natural world. It’s like a fairy tale come to life.

I love it, and so should you.

Check out Chay Magazine

Here. This is a very cool idea, it’s something that’s new to Pakistan, and I know one of the editors and think she is amazing. I really hope Chay takes off.

You can read more on Muslimah Media Watch.

The Undiscovered Country: Colossal Squid

The New Zealand scientists have an AWESOME blog on their progress with the colossal squid.

Not to mention the live webcams!

It’s two a.m. in Amman and I am riveted. Screw network television (with the notable exception of “LOST”), and screw sleep. Bill Nye, you weren’t lying when you told my 7th grade self that “science rules.”

I want to write more about my unholy fascination with these creatures, but my ahh-rt is going to have to wait a bit here. Hey, hey. How often do I say that?

Христос Воскрес!

Я в гроб сойду и в третий день восстану,
И, как сплавляют по реке плоты,
Ко мне на суд, как баржи каравана,
Столетья поплывут из темноты

- Борис Пастернак

I will go down to the grave and on the third day rise,
And, like rafts floated downriver,
To my judgment, like barges in a caravan,
The centuries will drift out of the darkness.

- Boris Pasternak (bad translation mine)

Your Mother, my Lord, holds the universe, the known, and the unknown.