In a recent piece in The Guardian, “Feminism in the 21st Century,” Zoe Williams claims that no one has talked seriously about female sexuality since the ’70s: “The last person to make any serious noise about female sexuality was Shere Hite; that was nearly 35 years ago.”
This is a claim I see all the time, and it’s starting to make me feel like I’m delusional. Continue reading
Here’s a New York Times Magazine Lives piece I wrote about ’90s culture and junior high bullying: “Geekdom Revisited.” And here’s a mortifying page from the unearthed 1990 diary I mention in the piece: Continue reading
This Jon Pareles on Taylor Swift review suggests her fans are duped by her “clockwork professionalism,” and keep squealing even though she’s obviously playing them. As if ambition and professionalism are unbecoming in a musician and make her suspicious somehow. And as if smugness and insincerity have not been hallmarks of pretty much every pop star in the history of the world.
Her nuanced essay on SlutWalks in today’s New York Times Magazine puts all the “she asked for it” editorializing on recent news stories into perspective. She puts the Walks in context and points out something that has dawned on many ’90s women this year while reading about Rape Cops, D.S.K., etc.: “There is still no way for women to tell stories of sexual injustice that allows them to bypass character assassination.” Continue reading
I just came across this kind of awsome 2006 rant by Juliana Hatfield. An excerpt:
I’ve always been kind of proud of the fact that I didn’t succumb to any outside pressure, ever, to indulge in sexual intercourse, or blowjobs or anything—with the handsome, charming Evan Dando, or anyone else—until I was good and ready. You can’t take that away from me, Kevin Dean. And that is why I am setting the record straight: so you and all the other sorry-ass, lie-spreading, rumour- and hatemongering, Dig-reading shit-for-brains out there will shut up about all the stuff you know nothing about.
A great moment in ’90s womanhood. Via TeenageFilm.com.
This song is inseparable for me from an early-’90s weekend I housesat on East Fifth Street between A and B for Daniel Fidler, who I worked with at SPIN magazine. (I was a 17-year-old intern, he was in his twenties and worked in research).
Daniel was really nice, loved Fugazi, and had a mother cat and a bunch of kittens nesting under his sink. I took care of them while he was in Israel. I also listened to the above song over and over at his apartment, and it made me feel better about a recent breakup with my first serious boyfriend. I liked staying there, listening to all his albums, reading his magazines, and pretending his studio was my own. I drank a lot of coffee. I did some light snooping.