PeaceBang

Hera Vs. Aphrodite Vs. Artemis

wholesome jolie
Originally uploaded by Peacebang.

It finally happened. I picked up US magazine for its cover featuring an Angelina Jolie looking like the cat who ate the canary (despite her demure flowered frock) and trumpeting the headline, “HOW SHE STOLE BRAD.”

I was wondering when the tabs, which aren’t known for their nuanced analysis of celebrity lives, would start working the “she done stole another gal’s man” routine, as they’ve been doing with wild success since way before Liz stole Eddie from Debbie.

What’s so interesting, and a little bit different, about this seemingly typical Hollywood love-mess are the myriad archetypes being played both intentionally and unintentionally by Brad’s two women.

Jennifer Aniston, America’s wholesome sweetheart, is squeaky clean, funny, endearing, and has a lumpy nose. She’s a little bit homemaker Hera and a little bit untamable Artemis the Huntress — a side of her that became more evident as the media emphasized her independent nature, going it alone hunting good movie roles and refusing to be tied down by motherhood.

I applaud her for it.

And I think that the media has been punishing Ms. Aniston for her failure to fufill her destiny as Bearer of Brad Pitt’s Children. Why else would the major publications wait this long to start featuring Jolie as Temptress/Homewrecker?

Here we have Ms. Jolie, literally the “happy angel.” Some angel. Look at her in the photo above. Perfect. Another flowy, floral frock, leaning in on Brad as if to show her need for this daddy wanna-be. The media fell for this manipulation with drooling naivetee, fawning over images of Angelina, her married lover, and her adopted 3-year old son, Maddox.

Aw gosh, she just wanted a father for her l’il boy! And Mr. Pitt, who is obviously the Pitts, just wants to be a family man. Is that so wrong?
The “married” part of “lover” didn’t seem to bother the media overly much (Excuse me, don’t they sell these tabs in the red states?).

Angelina Jolie is an Aphrodite/Medusa who happens to have a child; no matter how often she is photographed with that boy on her hip, she will never sell me on the nurturing-mommy role. It’s not authentic, and no matter how good an actress she is, she cannot conceal her true nature. She’s a man eater.

And I applaud her for it.

Simultaneously, I do not doubt that she truly loves her son. The two are not mutually exclusive. My critique is that the media has subtly given its blessing to this affair by tacitly suggesting that Jennifer’s failure to embrace mommydom was justification for Brad Pitt’s infidelity.

My guess here is that Angelina (and/or her publicist?) knew just what she was doing with her appearances in the first months of the scandal. The pritty-pritty dresses and the many photographs of her with Brad and Maddox were all intentional. If she hadn’t had the child at her side so often in the early months of this affair she would have been immediately branded for what she probably is: a smokin’ hot babe who took up with Brad Pitt (whose archetype I would identify as Jason of Argonauts Fame Meets Li’l Abner)because she felt like it, and because she could.

Tell me there wasn’t an image consultant pulled into this sweaty little trio real early on.

*Disclaimer: Please do not write and tell me that there must be more to this story than I can possibly know, etc. etc. etc. I am well aware of that. I am reading images and archetypes as a critic of pop culture. If you want the real, true story of Brad and Jen’s marriage and his affair with A.J., you’ll have to ask one of them about it.

P.S. I read the entire US article a moment ago, and now I want to take a Karen Silkwood scrubby shower. Yeeeech. There’s a lot of “how she won his heart with her womanly wiles” and “we’re not going to come right out and say it, but that Jennifer Aniston bi%^* is too ambitious and career-oriented for her own britches and deserved to lose her man” stuff. Apparently if a woman is charming, flirtatious, hangs on your every word, and manages to juggle her life as a famous, gorgeous movie star, international spokeswoman for refugees and mother to a toddler, you just ought to dump your pathetic wife, who can only “manage” to become a multi-millionaire, Emmy-award-winning T.V. star, for her.

Sometimes I really get why some people think of us as the Great Satan.

Consideration

Peacebang is vaguely considering auditioning for the musical “Footloose.” But she doesn’t know the show, which is a little too Kevin Bacony-rock-and-rolly for her classical Broadway kick-line-oriented tastes.

However, she heard there was a preacher’s wife in the show who gets to sing an okay song or two. In her range. Although the role is not funny, and PeaceBang is really a comedienne and if the role isn’t, say, Medea or some Shakespearean broad she doesn’t truck much with unfunny roles (except for Emma Goldman in “Ragtime” — wow, what a great part).

The idea of attending 7 weeks of rehearsal with throngs of dancing teens creates a feeling of dread within my breast. Would it be a nightmare of bad music, back stage histrionics and leg warmers? BEEN there, DONE that. Got the award.

Any thoughts? Ever seen the show?
Would it be worth trading away months of total summer freedom (which can turn into months of boredom/meaninglessness/depression) to do?

Probably not, but I might be persuaded.

Grandma Goldie

GoldieGoMex
Originally uploaded by Peacebang.

I saw this photo on GoFugYourself.com and just felt sad. Goldie is still so beautiful, but look at the strained, frantic look on her face and the ridiculously garish outfit. Goldie, darling, you’re almost 60. You really don’t need to maintain the effervescent youthquake persona if it’s too much work; and by the way you’ve been grimacing in all your photos lately, I’m guessing that it is.

This photo of La Goldie reminded me of a very funny site I once found, which I encourage you to look at. Some of the photos are ridiculous and unkind, but some of them simply show what would happen to certain celebrity faces if they had no access to Botox, plastic surgery, or airbrushing. Illuminating! Heidi Kluminating!

http://www.worth1000.com/cache/contest/contestcache.asp?contest_id=2057&display=photoshop#entries

Have fun. Happy Friday. Try to make it through the weekend with no cosmetic help at all (no hair products either, gents). Light a votive for Max Factor. Say a novena to Estee Lauder (she was Jewish but she won’t mind). Break out the bronzer on Sunday morning and say Hallelujah.

Good Old Barry Lynn

It looks like Americans United for Separation of Church and State is headin’ on down to North Carolina with their hound dogs, hoping to catch a certain Baptist pastor and his church supporters up a tree with their pants down.

You heard about it: Pastor Chan Channing Chanster… what was his name? Pastor Chan Chandler threw nine of his members off the church rolls for supporting Kerry in the last election. The AUSCS is thinking this kind of thing won’t sit well with the IRS, and perhaps that church ought to be paying some taxes, since it’s obviously functioning as a partisan organization.

My friend Chalice Chick thinks we UUs might not want to be dancing around just now, because we might be next.

I think not. On both counts.

First of all, there’s no call to dance around when a church is in pain and a pastor’s behaving like a dingbat. Nothing fun or funny about that, just like when that winter-addled Lutheran fellow up in Maine poisoned some of his co-parishioners at the coffee hour. That wasn’t funny, either. It was just… kind of funny, in that way that makes you hold your hand over your mouth and feel really guilty for having the urge to crack a grin. The grin isn’t a laughing at; it’s a laughing with. Believe me. It’s the “There but for the grace of God go I” grin. Ouch.

Second, church folks are certainly free to comment — either as a community or from the pulpit — on their ethical differences with the government of this fine nation, or to give elected leaders the thumbs up if they want to do that. ‘Twas always so and ever shall be. Too many Americans (and plenty of them in our own congregations) misunderstand the whole concept of separation of church and state anyway, mistaking it to mean that faith communities should have no truck with issues of the state. That’s simplistic and inaccurate. Maybe Barry Lynn can explain it to you; I’ve got a pinched nerve in my back and I don’t have time.

In UU churches, so often at a “default left” setting, the problem isn’t that we engage with the various moral indignities of this or that policy or this or that legislator. No, that’s not it. Our problem is that we mistake the votes taken by a group of casually-chosen delegates to our General Assembly for the will of the whole “denomination” of us, and henceforth preach and march and organize to support that cause du jour without engaging in the more difficult, real and important work of congregational discernment around social issues.

Our problem isn’t that we’re too political, it’s that we’re unbelievably conformist and we can’t admit it. We are perishing of a sloppy, weak, pandering interpretation of our own first principle. Everyone’s so inherently worthy and so inherently dignified, you’ve got to appease the opinion of every last crank in every last folding chairs before you can go out and do anything at all.

(This is not at all the case at PeaceBang’s own congregation, thank Buddha).

Also, since so many of the loudest Unitarian Universalists have an allergy to theological language, only those with the greatest talent for finding entirely fresh, entirely humanistic language to speak to the urgent moral crises of our time are able to mobilize considerable numbers of us to do anything. We only seem to be too political, because our religious leaders so often totally fail to frame their concerns in moral and theological terms, you can’t differentiate their message from the one you get from Harper’s magazine. They/We do this partly from fear and partly from forgetfulness and partly because we don’t call them (ourselves) on it.

Look at President Bill Sinkford: he spends half of his time making the news and the other half of his time responding to hostile UUs who think he owes them a personal response when they’re uncomfortable with the way he frames issues. How exhausting. Can’t we just let him speak from his own “language of reverence” and use our own when we evangelize in our own way? How much blood, sweat and tears were shed when so many of our fellow Unitarian Universalists laid themselves down and had a loud hissy fit when Rev. Sinkford called for a language of reverence??

What in sam hill is inappropriate about a religious movement speaking from a place of reverence???

I’m a mystical theist type who digs the Jeez big time, but if the religion-suspicious atheist Emma Goldman was alive today, active in our congregations and wanted to run for president of the UUA, I would so vote for her. I would dig her up and run her if I thought she’d want to work at 25 Beacon Street. Because I don’t give a halupke what her Sources of of her conviction are, or if she believes in God or not — to my eyes she is divinely inspired. I love her vision and her love of the world and her anger, and I’d march off a bridge to follow her (okay, that’s going a bit far, but you know what I mean). She made outrageous mistakes and she rejected the God I believe in, and I could care less. We are on the same team; we share the same moral outrage. My conscience, my God/s, the Great Spirit, the ancestor spirits and my free and individual search for truth and meaning confirm this for me. Why would I waste her time, and mine, expecting her to conform to my worldview or trying to engage her in a critique of hers? Bow to the Mystery, pick up the banner, and MARCH, for God’s sake!

Do we really think the hungry and naked and bombed of the world care that those who work for their safety and comfort share the same theology, and use the same language to express it??

Maybe we could have a fourth track of ministerial specialization called “Ministry of Translation.” These ministers can work 1/8 time for 8 different congregations and travel between them, helping assuage various, common anxieties arising from our theological pluralism, and assuring everyone that we’re really all talking about basically the same thing.

I’m not worried that we’re going to lose our tax-exempt status. I’m worried that our internal ridiculousness is going to keep rendering us so irrelevant that, in a very short time, no one will give a fig what the Unitarian Universalists have to say about any issue, political or otherwise.

We are fiddling while Rome is burning.

The Last Dial Phone

Roz Chast
Originally uploaded by Peacebang.

I visited one of my dear grand-elders the other day and was amazed when she picked up a real, live DIAL phone. Just like we had in the old days, Pa!

It takes a lot of finger power to dial that thing! Betchyoo didn’t remember.

By the way, you all do know the work of Roz Chast, I hope? When I was in high school there was a select clique of us who formed friendships strictly based on whether or not someone loved Roz Chast. Get “Unscientific Americans” and let me know if you want to be in the clique. One of the other members is now a wildly successful composer out in Seattle, so you know, it’s only the *best* weirdos.

By the Way

I am becoming morbidly exhausted by all the articles asking “What the Hell is Wrong With the Liberals?”

Here’s my response, just because there hasn’t been enough ink spilled on this topic already:

bla bla blabbedy Air America bla bla arrogance out of touch bla bla hoo ha George Lakoff bakoff banana fana fakoff strict vs. nurturing parents bla bla bla gay marriage bla bla heppity hoo na nay concessions in the abortion debate na na sha nay nay noo skippety bliddy bla connecting with the average American plopperino poppini evangelicals mega churches charisma charismatics demonizing mothers AIDS SUV’s bla bla bla blickety bloo bla God’s preferential option for the poor! bla bla bla theological language religious witness na na na na hey hey hey goodbye, na na na demonizing fear war on terror integrity red states orange alerts Howard Deane bla Hilary Clinton Monicagate blue dress bla Ralph Nader bla bla bla ka ka do re mi fa so la environment wooden elitist spotted owls Bush I Bush II nanny nanny foo foo

I’ll be adding to this as the Spirit moves me.

Please Stick Me Now

please stick me now
Originally uploaded by Peacebang.

I had my first acupuncture session yesterday. It was a wonderful experience even though the procedure was painful and it made me very sick afterward (say it with me: “you must have been flushing toxins.”)

How can getting needles stuck (sometimes very painfully) in your face, neck, ears, belly and knees be a good thing?

I think when the whole encounter with the medical profession doesn’t feel vaguely judging and Calvinistic, and someone sits with you for an hour and takes notes about *every* aspect of your health (including psychic health), it’s more an experience of healing rather than fixing.

And that’s a good thing.

I like my regular doc — she’s smart and caring, but she always seems like she’s looking for a parking space in the mall the day after Thanksgiving — slightly harried and frowny. Also, I’m not sure she has ever eaten a Funyon, and she probably bakes her buffalo chicken wings.

This was slow and friendly and attentive. The practitioner was open and curious and made lots of interesting (but not so far out as to cause me to roll my eyes and make Shirley McLaine jokes) connections between my health and my life in general. No one squished my arm with one of those torture cuffs (”My blood pressure’s not high? Really? How could it not be, when I’m in AGONY?”) or weighed me or threw a piece of paper with a prescription on it at me. I don’t have to take 7 days of nasty pills. I have some nice herbal tablets and an Rx to rest,drink lots of water, avoid “hot” foods (”hot” as opposed to hot/spicy– it’s a Chinese medicine thing) and then I go back tomorrow to get some more pins stuck in my face.

Also, I get to eat seaweed. That is so much more fun than what you get with Western medicine.

The Bod

I’m getting old enough now that when I get sick, I can pretty much predict how things will break down. There are three areas of my bodily functions who have voted themselves the messengers of bad news, such as:

“You’re not taking care of yourself! We’ve in revolt!”
or
“Hey, Flabby! What’s with the sedentary lifestyle? Do you think your Baba B. lived to be 100 years old by parking her fat Czechoslovakian duppa in front of a computer all day? She didn’t even have a car!”
or
“Remember that little sniffling kid you kissed at church yesterday? The one you thought might have a virus? You were right! And you got it, genius!”

My body talks to me in this way, like a character from a James Cagney film, spitting bits of cigar at me while it berates me. And then it does weird things like produce random, swollen blisters on my left shoulder and face (right on either side of the nose, where all the interesting nerve endings live). And the lower back goes out. The third area of familiar distress is something a lady never mentions.

So I groan and I say, “I know, I know, I’m sorry… don’t nag, I’ll do better.” But the truth is, we don’t get along very well. My body knows that I only really like to do a few things with it: sing, dance, listen to music, snog, write, read, think, shop, hug people, cook, eat, loll around in warm water, look at art, and attend revolutions.

I’ve never been one of those people who wakes up on a gorgeous day and thinks, “Oh good, let’s get out the bike!” What I think is, “What a great day to sit outside and have lunch with friends!” Immediately followed by feelings of guilt that I don’t even have a bike and the very idea of rollerblading along the banks of the Charles River turns my heart to a block of rejecting ice.

I am considering having an open casket funeral when I die so that all my friends can drop a sprig of rosemary or lavender into the box and say a silent prayer like, “Yay! She finally broke it off permanently with her body!” (I’ll be buried in white cotton pajamas : one of my many white cotton tops and my infamous “nighttime pants” which are enormously floppy-legged drawstring cotton things, made for me by a transsexual Witch named Raven, who is very talented at making things for you, and you can call her). It’s not that my bod and I have an abusive relationship, it’s that we’re like an old unhappily paired married couple, where my body says, “I thought we were going to have this totally free, bikini-oriented summer outdoors!” and I spit back, “Yes, I’ve heard it. And I thought we were going to be Olympic-calibre figure skaters, too, but that didn’t happen, either, did it!? Or the really amazing tap dancing skills!!??”

We make up and sit on the couch watching movies, and then we take a little walk holding hands.

I am pretty much expecting, as I age, to enter the Heart Attack/Congestive Heart Failure Plan, which means that that’s how I expect to die. I’d love to get into the Stop Breathing In My Sleep Plan, but that’s a special break given to really lucky customers, and you can’t count on it. So I’m going with the Heart Disease Plan, which allows me to honor my body’s true, authentic nature and which means that if the PeaceBang Container decides to take on the Cancer Plan or something else, I would be really surprised. And kind of impressed at her initiative.

Anyway, I hate doctors and hospitals a lot. I mean, it’s not a personal thing, I just hate how you have to leave your ordinary life completely when you need get professional help for the Bod. You thought you were this Person, and the doctors come in and talk entirely to the Body, causing it to puff up with ego pride while the rest of you sits dejectedly on the little paper-covered table. In the car on the way home, your Body says, “See!? I AM the more important!” And you get it an ice cream just to shut it up.

A New Look for PeaceBang

Yes, I have changed the template for PeaceBang. It’s not pink, but it’s cleaner and I like it. I’m also switching to the much-vaunted Firefox browser. I know nada, zing, zip about all of this computer stuff but Boy In the Bands (Scott) is helping me, and as long as I keep a martini at my side I don’t get too nervous. JK.

To think: I have three working browsers! Some girls don’t have any browsers at all!!

(Note to self: get a working grip on all of this “import/export” stuff.)

Thanks for caring.

Shirley’s Assignment

The Other Shirley
Originally uploaded by Peacebang.

My mother has an assignment from her therapist: ask all of your children what they learned from you.

I asked Shirl if I could share my results with the Peacebangers, and she assured me that was okay (”Just don’t give out my phone number.”).

Ladies and gentlemen, Some Things I Learned From My Mother (in no particular order):

Every little girl looks good in red, white and blue. After puberty, black is always slimming. With a bright lipstick.

Don’t stay up too late talking with your sister or your mother will make you get out of bed and march around the dining room table to tire you out.

Just because Per Kistler said the “F” word doesn’t give you permission to do so, even in the act of tattling on him. You will get your first and only memorable spatula spanking this way.

You can come home as late as you want as long as your grades are good and we can trust you.

You may be talented, but there are millions of talented people out there. Better to be talented AND good to work with. “If you’re good to work with, people will want to work with you.”

On sex: “Why would you let a stranger into your body?”

On mother’s intuition: “I knew the minute you walked through the door.” And she did.

Santa Claus really does exist. Even if Mom and Dad buy the presents, Santa is REAL. Do NOT get snarky and cynical about Santa, not at any age.

The world is a magical place, and anything can happen. Good or bad, anything can happen.

Mock evil people, as they are stupid and weak. To create is the hard thing; to destroy is lazy and sadistic. Do not let the evil of the world paralyze you even for a moment.

Too much black eyeliner is never flattering. Neutrals, and blend.

You’ve got to marinate the steak.

When trying on clothes, look for the “puppies” of chub escaping from tight armholes or a snug-fitted derriere. Camoflauge as necessary, and do camoflauge.

If you don’t know what you’re doing, get out of my kitchen.

Keep your voice down. Unless you’re singing. Then, “sing out, Louise!!”

Diction matters. We do not sing, “Ten minutes ago, I metchoo” when we mean, “Ten minutes ago, I met you.”

Gay men are fabulous, and they are your friends.

Straight men are intimidated by you, mostly because you’re too intense.

When someone hurts you, move on. Let it go.

Tip generously. Especially if you find a good hairdresser.

Do not waste even one moment of your life telling lies and being scared in a relationship.

Take one day at a time. When overwhelmed, take one small step at a time, do the first thing, then the next thing. You’ll be fine.

Don’t over-dramatize. You’re too sensitive.

Buy good presents for people. Their happiness makes you happy.

Fat bodies are not okay.

Don’t kid yourself: marriage is really hard. There’s no need to do it unless you really find someone terrific.

There is no need to have children to fulfill your potential as a woman.

Never be afraid to get help of any kind.

Smile, stand up straight.

Send thank you cards. Keep nice, engraved stationery on hand.

If you don’t know what a word means, look it up. If you’re not sure how to pronounce it or spell it, look it up.

It’s okay to hem pants with a stapler.

Respect elders. Give up your seat.

You can never divorce your brother or your sister.

Never, ever put a food container on the table for guests. It goes on a nice plate or it doesn’t go out at all.

Some people really can’t read maps and will shut down emotionally if you try to even show them one.

Details matter: when you are appearing in a show set in the 1930’s, you wear stockings with seams.

Whenever you can afford it, hire someone else to clean the house.

People who refuse to applaud a kick line have no soul.

There’s no reason not to wear a feather boa to a party.

Most repressions and inhibitions are really self-indulgence in disguise.

The minute your children leave your body, start letting go of them. Their role in life is not to fulfill their parent’s fantasies.

Tell people you love them.

I love you, Shirley!!