Then I glanced at the show’s description on my cable menu and saw that the premise is that the main character is “you,” the viewer, whom the other characters address by speaking to the camera. Apparently they are trying to find “you” a new girl after a breakup. In case the viewer is in any way unclear about who “you” are, we start off with an oh-so-brilliant joke in which one character suggests “you” masturbate and another counters that masturbation is automatically gay because you’re touching a penis. Just in case you missed the fact that the viewer, the default, “you” are male.

This is where I switched over to the History Channel, because while I am normally strongly opposed to criticizing media without fully watching it, some days I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t have the energy.

I watch a lot of stuff that’s typically geared towards male audiences. A lot of horror movies, a lot of Apatowian comedy. I’m used to the implication that the assumed viewer is someone with a penis, and some days I can ignore it and some days it annoys me (I’m particularly aggravated at that Gamefly commercial currently airing, the one with a montage of players screaming about bad games, all but one of whom is male) and some days… I’m almost grateful to Secret Girlfriend for letting me know where I stand, for making it clear up front that I don’t matter, that I’m not real, that the only women who exist are the conventionally attractive ones that the show objectifies.

Almost grateful, but mostly just tired. And sad.

HOWEVER. I am currently trying to finish a dissertation that, sadly, has nothing to do with pop culture (or, indeed, anything to do with anything that’s happened in the last three hundred years). I’ve also got a pretty heavy class prep for next semester (Writing About Gothic Lit & Film and British Lit to 1700). And I’ve got a research trip in a couple weeks. And my thirtieth birthday (!!!) party to plan. So I’m not foreseeing any new posts probably for the rest of the summer. Thanks to those of you who have been reading, and looking forward to seeing you here when I’m actively blogging here again.

Ha, ha! Get it? Because women are objects! Just like cheap-ass Burger King Star Trek glasses. Oh, it’s hysterical.

I talk about media and pop culture because it’s what I’m good at talking about, being a big tv and movie nerd trained in literary analysis, and I think it’s important because I believe that the “big” issues–violence against women, sexual assault, economic discrimination, lack of reproductive rights–happen because we live in a culture that devalues women.  The issues won’t change without the culture changing, and pop culture teaches us what to think about the world before we even realize it’s happening.  And with all respect to the abovementioned commenter, who probably means “we” as the feminist community: as someone who teaches eighteen-year-olds for a living, they don’t know it exists already.  They really, really don’t.  And that’s a big problem. [Edited to add: I spoke too broadly there, and I apologize; I am not equating young adults as a whole, who necessarily often go through a rough learning period when on their own for the first time, with young progressives and feminists who, in my experience, are much more aware of the world around them.  I appreciate commenter Fizzygood calling me on it; please see my reply to her.]

A friend and I (::waves to Victoria::) were discussing a billboard downtown the other day, whether or not it was sexist.  It’s not always easy to tell; the thing about sexism in the media is that it’s so insidious that some times it’s more noticeable than others.  I mean, sometimes it’s easy. Sometimes it’s like this:

Because raping and murdering women is fashionable! Or something.

Then this morning I saw this commercial:

It’s probably the third or fourth time I’d seen it. I knew it annoyed me, both in the way that it plays into diet culture and the way that it relies on that dumbass “husband cowering before the wife’s rage when he dares mention weight” trope. But with that last line–because it tastes good–suddenly a whole other layer of dumbassery became apparent to me.

I wish I could track down the original conversations on feminist blogs, but there was a lot of conversation surrounding this NYT piece a couple years ago:

Manly!

Red meat sent a message that she was “unpretentious and down to earth and unneurotic,” she said, “that I’m not obsessed with my weight even though I’m thin, and I don’t have any food issues.” She added, “In terms of the burgers, it said I’m a cheap date, low maintenance.”

Salad, it seems, is out. Gusto, medium rare, is in.

[...]

In an earlier era, conventional dating wisdom for women was to eat something at home alone before a date, and then in company order a light dinner to portray oneself as dainty and ladylike. For some women, that is still the practice. “It’s better not to have a jalapeño fajita plate, especially on the first date,” said Andrea Bey, 28, who sells video surveillance equipment in Irving, Tex., and describes herself as “curvy.” “You don’t want to be labeled as ‘princess gassy’ on the first date.”

But others, especially those who are thin, say ordering a salad displays an unappealing mousiness.

“It seems wimpy, insipid, childish,” said Michelle Heller, 34, a copy editor at TV Guide. “I don’t want to be considered vapid and uninteresting.”

[...]

“Being a vegetarian puts you at a disadvantage,” Ms. Crosley said. “You’re in the most basic category of finicky. Even women who order chicken, it isn’t enough.” She said she has thought of ordering shots of Jägermeister, famous for its frat boy associations, to prove that she is “a guy’s girl.”

“Everyone wants to be the girl who drinks the beer and eats the steak and looks like Kate Hudson,” Ms. Crosley, 28, said.

[...]

Of course, there are always those rare women who order what they want and to heck with what a man might think.

Emphases mine.

Why hast thou forsaken me?

The ideal woman is one who looks like she lives on salad… without being a finicky bitch who acts like she lives on salad. That’s who Cheerios, that wholesome, healthy breakfast of my hippie childhood, is selling their multigrain Cheerios to. The woman in the commercial and the voiceover assure us that she’s not interested in her weight. Maybe she’s trying to get enough whole grain; maybe she likes the taste (what? Those of us with wholesome hippie childhoods think that kind of stuff tastes good). The commercial goes out of its way to assure us that it’s not talking about weight, that it doesn’t think you should be worried about your weight–oh, but on the off chance you’re curious, it’s only 110 calories per serving. You know. In case you were wondering. Not that you should be worried about it.

Because that’s the thing about trying to play patriarchy’s game–you cannot win. The slut/prude catch-22 is the most well-known one, but there are so many more. The ideal woman is expected to eat calories without her body actually processing them. Because there is no way for you to win.

And even though I know all this, it took me three or four times seeing that commercial before I realized what it was really saying to me. Because it seeps in at all corners. And that’s why analyzing sexism in the media is important.

This is actually an awesome picture when taken out of context.

*Shakesville discusses the Katrina documentary Trouble the Water, takes on a couple of anti-fat ads, and attempts to construct a Unified Apatow Field Theory. In a similar vein, Collegehumor.com pictures life In an Apatow World.

*A great list of the ten easiest things dance songs ask of you. My favorite part:

I like the Men Without Hats, because they give you an option. You don’t have to dance. You can dance if you want to. If you do, you’ll end up doing the Safety Dance (whatever that is) with the Men Without Hats. If you don’t, they probably aren’t going to be your friend. And that’s fine, because if you don’t want to dance, it’s a safe bet you also don’t want to be friends with 80’s new wave dance/pop groups. It’s good that they set that down, because it’s going to make sure that they get to hang out with the people who really want to hang out with them, instead of all the people who are just doing it to be nice.

I also like that the Men Without Hats leave open the possibility that they’re not going to dance either. It’s not “You can dance with me, because I’ll be dancing anyway” — It’s all conditional.
“We can dance if we want to. We can leave your friends behind.”

“Sure, Men Without Hats! Sounds great!”

“On second thought, nah, I don’t really want to. Let’s keep hanging out with your friends.”

*Told you so.

*NYT on thinness in male models.

*Big Fat Blog on the new Beth Ditto doll.

*Alas on Dora the Explorer’s makeover.

*The Mongoose Chronicles examines a misogynist ad.

*Womanist Musings thinks about the racist implications of a John Lennon song.

*And finally, in celebrity news: Kate Winslet, Stephen Fry, and Danny Trejo continue to be awesome.

You know damn well this is the greatest thing you've ever seen.

See? Those contrasts can be beautiful, even racially charged, without being racist.

On one hand, I get that, aesthetically, the contrast of slender pale figure against heavily muscled dark figures is visually arresting. However, there’s a fine and frequently blurred line between valuing aesthetic difference and fetishizing cultural difference, and no amount of “but it’s pretty” gives you a pass from dealing with that baggage. There’s very clear helpless white woman/powerful black savage imagery being used here (in a rape-fantasy “but she wants it” context, of course)–imagery with a long, racist, painful history. There are ways to use racial/visual contrast without those kinds of connotations. I agree with one commenter in this great discussion going on at Feministe that the fashion industry knows exactly what it’s doing–they know they can stir up controversy and get attention without concern for consequences, because what are we gonna do? Stop worshipping pretty people? As if.

Finally, on a lit dork note: there’s something about it, especially in the first two images, that reminds me of this (the author of which, of course, had his own racist/colonialist baggage to deal with):

The woodborne people fall before her flat,
And worship her as Goddesse of the wood;
And old Syluanus selfe bethinkes not, what
To thinke of wight so faire, but gazing stood,
In doubt to deeme her borne of earthly brood;
Sometimes Dame Venus selfe he seemes to see,
But Venus neuer had so sober mood;
Sometimes Diana he her takes to bee,
But misseth bow, and shaftes, and buskins to her knee.

By vew of her he ginneth to reuiue
His ancient loue, and dearest Cyparisse,
And calles to mind his pourtraiture aliue,
How faire he was, and yet not faire to this,
And how he slew with glauncing dart amisse
A gentle Hynd, the which the louely boy
Did loue as life, aboue all worldly blisse;
For griefe whereof the lad n’ould after ioy,
But pynd away in anguish and selfe-wild annoy.

The wooddy Nymphes, faire Hamadryades
Her to behold do thither runne apace,
And all the troupe of light-foot Naiades,
Flocke all about to see her louely face:
But when they vewed haue her heauenly grace,
They enuie her in their malitious mind,
And fly away for feare of fowle disgrace:
But all the Satyres scorne their woody kind,
And henceforth nothing faire, but her on earth they find.

Glad of such lucke, the luckelesse lucky maid,
Did her content to please their feeble eyes,
And long time with that saluage people staid,
To gather breath in many miseries.
During which time her gentle wit she plyes,
To teach them truth, which worshipt her in vaine,
And made her th’Image of Idolatryes;
But when their bootlesse zeale she did restraine
Fro[m] her own worship, they her Asse would worship fayn.

Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene

Rest in peace, Mr. DeLuise, and may you have as much joy in the next world as you brought to us in this one.

The first one isn’t pop-culture-related, but the litgeek in me loves it so hard that I have to include it. From Cactus Wren on Feministe:

[D]ictionary.com is trumped by m-w.com, the Merriam-Webster site. Which in turn is trumped by oed.com, the Oxford English Dictionary, and at that point the thread turns into a dic-waving contest.

Fastandsloppy on Pandagon:

I encourage you libertarians to please, please, please emigrate to some old offshore oil platform to build your perfect society where you won’t have to cooperate other icky people who are oh-so-much less clever than you. Out in the freedom of the continental self you can toil happily at feeding, clothing and sheltering yourselves without having to deal with the parasites of society. Once and for all you can prove to all us un-Galtish brutes that “civilization” is for suckers. I mean who needs a complex social amalgamation of humans for mutual support and defense? Losers, that’s who!

Happy you will be eating undercooked fish and sleeping on bales of seaweed until one day, at the age of 43, you will die of a minor infection and your fellow deep-thinking Randians will divide up your possessions up via gladiatorial combat in the thunderdome! Then they will toss your body to the sharks and you will leave the world no poorer for your passing.

Yes. Totally do that. Just fucking leave the rest of us to figure out how to run a complex and technological society here in the real world while you go wank off to your Mad Max fantasies.

Seriously, do that. We’d pass the hat for you, but I am sure you wouldn’t want the help.

From Life Under a Rock:

I call it the “When the Pawn” test.  It goes roughly as follows:  somehow procure a copy of Fiona Apple’s 1999 album “When the Pawn” and listen to it straight through (none of this playlist bullshit, kids, LISTEN TO THE ACTUAL ALBUM IN ORDER).  If you end this listening session feeling mildly and satisfyingly sad, the way one does after watching or reading a tear-jearker, then your current relationship passes.  If you end the listening session feeling as though you ARE Fiona Apple, then your relationship FAILS FAILS FAILS OMG FAILS.

(For the record, I can totally relate to When the Pawn, but only in a “OMG high school sucked” kind of way.)

If Google Image is to be believed, this kid NEVER puts on a shirt. EVER.

And finally, from the always reliable Pajiba:

Channing Tatum is sort of what would happen if Josh Hartnett’s brooding, unflinching, and utterly inexpressive ways mated with half of Ryan Reynolds’ abdominal muscles. Terrance Howard is no stranger to hustling and pimping, but it remains a mystery why his character speaks so maddeningly sloooowly as if he’s got a mouth full of extra-crunchy peanut butter. Multiple characters devolve into vastly inferior impressions of Christopher Walken.

If there’s one thing I hate more than Channing Tatum/Josh Hartnett/Ryan Reynolds (prove to me they’re not all the same person. Prove it), it’s Terrence Howard, who basically fails at humanity. Walken is, of course, the bomb.