“Draw Batgirl” meme result by Jennifer Wang, aka mao on the lj.
We must not allow ourselves to be deflected by the ‘feminists,’ who are anxious to force us to regard the two sexes as completely equal in position and worth.
(Sigmund Freud.)
Asphinctersayswhat? Yeah. Thanks for the warning, coke-addled misogynist.
Since Batgirl’s a superhero and librarians are perceived as being innocuous, there’s no way that any of the other characters are going to be able to make the connection, right? And if the opposite of Batgirl is a librarian, what does that say about librarians? That in order to be a bad ass, they must literally transform themselves?
Regardless of whether or not Batgirl was reinforcing popular stereotypes about librarians, she was definitely empowering a whole lot of young girls. In 1998, Yvonne Craig talked about the role that her character played in young girl’s lives:
I meet young women who say Batgirl was their role model. They say it’s because it was the first time they ever felt girls could do the same things guys could do, and sometimes better. I think that’s lovely.
In the 60s and onward, Batgirl became a symbol of women’s empowerment. In 1972, she appeared in a public service announcement for the United States Department of Labor, in which she advocated for equal pay for women.
(“From the Library: Batgirl!” McAllister, Ashley. Bitchmedia Community Learning Library, Bitch magazine website. August 15, 2010.)
And here is that PSA:
Dig Robin’s “Holy Discontent!” exclamation.
I am for accepting equality and undenigrated respect for all. But it is true that there have been men I’ve met who do not share my view and to whom I do not consider myself equal: in those cases, I consider myself infinitely their superior.
The quote comes from “Proverbs of Hell,” a chapter in William Blake’s gnostic text The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.
The book has been interpreted as an anticipation of Freudian and Jungian models of the mind, illustrating a struggle between a repressive superego and an amoral id. It has also been interpreted as an anticipation of Nietzsche’s theories* about the difference between slave morality and master morality.
*cf: in particular Nietzsche’s camel – lion – child model of human thought and behavior as outlined in Also sprach Zarathustra: Ein Buch für Alle und Keinen / Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None (1883-1885).
Portions of this post appeared originally on December 5, 2009.
In honor of Mother’s Day. After all, “A boy’s best friend is his mother” (Mr. N. Bates, Psycho).
The child’s relation to his mother, as the first and strongest object of love, becomes the prototype of all subsequent love relationships. The character of all later relationships is established by that first unparalleled love relationship. Whether the child is breast-fed or bottle-fed, whether he receives all the tenderness of a mother’s care or not, the development is the same.
No matter how long a child is fed at his mother’s breast, he will always feel that his feeding was cut short too soon.
These considerations of the relationship between mother and child prepare us for the intensity of what Freud has called “the Oedipus complex.”
(Hollitscher, Walter. Sigmund Freud, An Introduction. London: Kegan, Paul, Trench, Trubner and Co., Ltd. 1947. 33-34. Print.)
Yes, Wesley. You should think about this.
PSA: Actor, writer, and renaissance man Wil Wheaton is awesome and hilarious and this is his website. If you merely think of him as Wesley Crusher or Gordie LaChance, you are missing out — check him out!
Okay, so I’m still having way too much fun with that idea from the last entry and I’ve been sitting here letting my imagination go wild which is always a dangerous thing but I can’t help myself — here is a sample of “The Alan Parsons Project If That Were Not A Band but Instead the Worst Woodworking Show Ever“:
image via dummbidumbwit right here on the wordpress!
(come in the house) (look at the clock) (shit, The Alan Parsons Project is on right now — you like that show and you pretty much forgot!) (sit down on the sofa and get your knife out) (oh and also a notebook in case you have to scribble down stuff you want to wiki later) (turn on television to public access)
(Alan is talking) (a segment is ending)
“…And once you round off that corner, sand it down — and that’s how you carve a wah-wah pedal from single-source old-growth ash. Later in the show, I’m going to show you how to whittle a wire for that pedal, using a technique similar to the one I pioneered during down time in the production of Dark Side of the Moon. That was neat, wasn’t it, Eric?”
“It was. It really was neat.”
(the theme music) (be right back bump card) (now sad music) (pledge drive commercial. oh, the sick uneducated little children. why won’t you help them? why?) (more sad music) (this is hella terrible) (but you really can’t afford to sponsor a kid for a whole—) (commercial is ending) (thank god)
(information about obtaining a videotaped copy of this episode of the Alan Parsons Project) (should you write that down? maybe you should try and get a copy since you missed the beginn—) (oh shit the theme music) (the show is almost back) (put down the bong and get your knife back out) (wait — bong?) (yes it appears so) (why are you high with a knife?) (yeah that’s probably bad) (maybe put the knife away for now and Just Watch until you come down a little) (that’s better. doritos?) (yes — where?) (on the table) (okay cool) (introductory theme music is ending) (wow that lasted forever) (probably only felt that way) (the show is back now)
via the hepcats on the forum over at the International Cannagraphic magazine. that is some kind of terrific kids’ bubble-blower, amirite!
“Hi. I’m Alan Parsons, and if you’re just joining us, welcome to ‘the Alan Parsons Project’ — where we bring you all the best in prog-woodwork. Again, we’re really excited for you to tune in tonight, and we also look forward to tomorrow’s program, when our guest Robert Fripp will show us how you can carve a looper from rowan bark for your very own Pure Frippertonic pleasure. Won’t that be neat?”
“That sure will be neat.”
“It will. Now, Eric, I understand that tonight you’re going to demonstrate a unique Scottish method of adding decorative scrollwork to a vocoder?”
“Mm, that’s right, Alan. Hello, everyone. Eric Woolfson here. What I’m about to show you is a popular technique in Dundee, but some say it comes from even farther into up-country Scotland. Now, just personally, I like to incorporate human phalluses into all of my decorative scrollwork.”
“You know, I’ve noticed that, Eric!”
“You have? Great! That means a lot to me, Alan, because it’s kind of my private stamp. It’s mainly due to my detrimental obsession with Sigmund Freud which has caused my solo music to suffer significant criticism and has honestly been a setback to the overall arc of my career, but, ha-ha, you know, Alan, every woodworker develops his own unique signature. Why, I know a whittler from Northumberland who likes to cane doll-sized chairs, but to personalize and add an individual touch to each one he does, he …”
And so on. (Nickel in the mail to whoever finishes the Northumberland miniature chair-caner story the best.)
Actually, that spiraled in to a show I might watch. Especially with Doritos. Sober as the grave, OF COURSE.
And just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down upon the center of the bed, my father woke up, screaming, “Stop! Wait a minute! Stop it, boy! What do you think you’re doing? That’s no way to treat an expensive musical instrument.”
And I said, “Goddamn it, Daddy! You know I love you. But you’ve got a hell of a lot to learn about rock and roll!”
The quote comes from “Proverbs of Hell,” a chapter in William Blake’s gnostic text The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. “The book has been interpreted as an anticipation of Freudian and Jungian models of the mind, illustrating a struggle between a repressive superego and an amoral id. It has also been interpreted as an anticipation of Nietzsche’s theories about the difference between slave morality and master morality.” (the wiki)
Paging Dr. Freud. I’m making lasagna right now. Here’s why.
Okay. So. I have a recurring dream that my father is shot and killed by someone wandering on to the campus where he teaches. In the dream, I am always at my parents’ home in their room, taking care of laundry (the curtains are always down in the dream, I get the impression they are being washed as well) when the kitchen phone rings and a call comes to report that he’s died.
Just before the phone rings, I am always thinking two things: first, that once that load of laundry that’s in the washer is done, I’m going to shower, and second, I wonder what the Detwiler twins are doing lately? — these are two girls around five years younger than me that we used to babysit in San Jose, who moved to the Valley around the same time we did. This is very consistent, no matter how many times I dream it: I am always thinking those two things as I fold sheets.
Right when I think the last bit of that thought about the twins, a weird presentiment of dread comes over me, like I am remembering already that I’ve dreamt this, and the phone is about to ring with terrible news. The dream is very vivid, down to the dim light from the overcast sky and the muggy, heavy feeling in the air through the open, uncurtained windows. I look up from my folding and the phone rings. I hear my mother pick up the kitchen extension and I know that she’s being told my father has been killed. I wake up.
All right, I told you that story so I could tell you this one:
After I finished school and moved to Portland with my husband, I figured I was off the hook forever from this dream coming true, as I was a married lady and all grown’z up and would never again be in a position to be home, folding laundry on my parents’ bed, when the kitchen phone would ring and someone would say he’d been killed.
Then I took this lovely nerve-wracking break from marriage and moved home with the kidlet. Things have been pretty good with my folks considering they’ve taken in an adult child and her child, but he and I argued last weekend and things have been “off” since then. I said passionate and unfair things to him like, “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment. I know you think I’m a failure and that my feelings are only an inconvenience to you,” and I even managed to bring up the time that he told me offhandedly that my mom loved me more than he did.
That always stuck with me because I am one of those sick women that believes their father hangs the moon and would never steer me wrong, say something false, or make a wrong decision, so if I perceive that he disapproves of me or thinks I am not living up to my potential, as he is God, that makes him right, which makes me crap. To get mad and yell at him is like throwing rocks at Heaven, for me. (Yes, I am aware that I need to acknowledge his flaws and humanity if I want to have any kind of ordinary relationship with men other than him. Why don’t you suck it? I’m working on it!) Anyway, we dropped a whole strafing series of bombs rife with psychological napalm at one another for a while. We eventually ran out of gas, apologized, and made up. But it’s hung over my head since then.
So, now, I told you that story so I could tell you this one:
I was folding laundry about an hour ago and the phone rang. It was not sheets, the curtains were up, my mother was not home, and I answered the phone; not the kitchen extension, but an extension they have in their room now. It was a robo-call from my father’s school district offices. It was a recording of his principal, reporting that the school had been on lockdown earlier because of an adult intruder, and the lockdown has now been lifted and parents can come get their kids if they want. I know, right?! I freaked out. Apparently, it was necessary because of some jerky vagrant who came on campus, got in a fight with security, and was quickly apprehended by police and never even got the chance to enter a classroom.
I called my father immediately on his cell phone and he didn’t seem too shaken up, but he did ask that I not go out with Panda Eraser tonight, as I’d been planning. I am okay with that; this week has been so-so for me other than going to mall with Miss D, so I’d have been not very upbeat company, anyway, probably. She wouldn’t mind, she’d understand, but I’d have felt bad for being a downer. So I texted Panda to see about making it up to her by treating her to sushi on Monday, which is her day off from the Cosmetology School That Shall Not Be Named.
Finally, I told you that story so I could tell you this last one:
I’m making him lasagna now. I’m much more shaken up than he is. I have a couple scheduled posts that will appear later. That’s it from me today, though. I am way too much of a Daddy’s Girl to do anything but sit around cooking for him and fretting. I feel like if something had happened to him, I would’ve done it somehow via the evil eye, like invited the retribution from the fact of being so rude and ungrateful as to get sucked in to a fight with him this weekend. In general, he’s kind of a grouchy, contentious, loveable curmudgeon and I try to ignore the baiting, which is good-natured more than anything else, but I was on edge and lost my temper, a total lapse in grace. Naturally, that means that fight we had makes this all my fault. You see? Hence the lasagna. That will make it all better.
The Thought Experiment 