I recently (successfully) survived the first hour of my twentieth year. I'm 20. Twenty. Weird, it doesn't end in a "teen"... I need to absorb this. I thought that estrogen-miscellaneous-cocktail mix of hormones would never end.
So today I went out for lunch at Chili's--a dreadfully fine establishment, I might add (now where's my endorsement cash at?)--, had an epiphany, splurged on fabric/literature/TRÉS awesome dorm junk/summer clothes, donated to a charity (because if it isn't pornography, my Tom would rather give me a present that involves giving something to someone else, bonded with all sorts of folks, rediscovered the summer-time bliss that is Weezer and Amanda Palmer, and all my holds at the library came through. I'm in no position to complain.
From Reverence To Rape is at the top of my pile of books to work through; typically, with any book on a relevant subject, there will still remain several chapters I can bypass--and thus, my waning youth is left in tact. Unfortunately, such is not the case for this particular piece. Ms. Molly Haskell, you are terribly cool, but I must protest against how perfectly suited your book is for my research. For a link/etc on this one, check out the entry right before this one.
Similarly, in the case of Something in the Way She Moves, I hadn't actually figured on the book having more than one or two chapters strike a nerve... but again, what the hell was I thinking? I hadn't counted on the author, Ms. Wendy Buonaventura, striking up a socially conscious, feminist tone in her analyzation of dance as an art form. It would be small-minded to dismiss her work as an attempt to coerce the reader into appreciating long-winded ballet more thoroughly with a touch of The Seven Veils dance, which one could say inspired burlesque, stripping, so on (which I, unfortunately, had initially done); in fact, she addresses sexuality in dance--which she says is inescapably linked to dance. She goes on to theorize that men have been, as critics and helpless viewers, intimidated by these fearless displays and have thus turned forms of this erotic awakening into something shameful. Later, however, she confronts the "Buysexuality" and limited marketing (only to those skinny and young, please!) of mainstream stripping--which seems to lower the quality of the dance form in her eyes... or at least this is what I'm getting from a glimpse. This is a history of the sexuality of dance, and explores "a kaleidoscope of cultures, form the delicious tango of Buenos Aires... to Paris and the bawdy, leggy cancan dancers of the Moulin Rouge... to Chicago and New York, where African Americans cakewalked, Charlestoned, and shimmied into the public eye, creating 'jazz' dance." We also get to learn about transvestitism, anorexia, and cosmetic surgery. I can't wait.
Then in a more materialistic tone, let me switch gears and brag. Lolita, eat your heart out--I stumbled across a cheap, cheap pair of heart-shaped glasses. I need to go over the dark rims with some red nail polish, and we'll be all set!
I promise I did read the book, and oddly enough, a copy of the movie (unwatched) is waiting for me under my desk. That cover is just too damn sexy, I must've slipped it down there in my usual, sleepy stupor.
Ah yes, the epiphany! Judging many of my books simply by their cover (primarily The Way She Moves), I had a flighty moment of nervousness over the relevance of some of these books. But after a wave of confidence drowned me after flipping through that particular book, I realized that quite honestly, so what if this book didn't mirror my own intentions? The truth is, any book, any conversation, any anything I can stumble into that discusses sexuality is just what I need. This book won't be the end-all be-all of all my topics' discussions in one dense, dull text. God, what a thought! I'm combining informative articles, interviews, blurbs, timelines, and more mixed medias with concise summaries and preludes that call about a plan of action, as well as interjections of opinion. What I want more than anything right now--aside, like I said, Banksy's contact info!--is a collective of words. Not mine, not yet. But yours. All of yours! Gimmie!
Oh yes, speaking of Gimmie! and Getting once more, I'll let you loves in on my solution for my lack-of-purse at the moment:
me, but with a new purse, and very, very happy.
'50s Americana. It's ironic.
Now I'm off to eat some Kraft mac n' cheese, watch two back-to-back takes on the "When a Stranger Calls" concept, and cash all my product placement checks.