Blurred Lines

I am a feminist. This entails being against the objectification of women; the positioning of women in society as sexual playthings. Only an idiot would publically say otherwise. I disagree with strip joints, lap dancing clubs, page three and prostitution. If this is starting to seem dry and you’re tempted to stop reading, don’t. A big ol’ but/t is coming up. Not yet though. Music and music videos often cash in on the female form, whether the artist is a woman or not. Half naked ladies prancing about is not an uncommon feature, neither are lyrics referring to them as bitches etc. My feminist values tell me that I should disapprove of this sort of thing. What if a child saw these sorts of videos and thought it was how women do, or should, behave? Wont somebody please think of the children?!? But… (there it is) I don’t always disapprove. I enjoy the songs, I enjoy the videos. It used to be Hot in Herre by Nelly. At the moment I have what is bordering on an addiction to Blurred Lines by Robin Thicke. I consider it to be guilty pleasure. But should I?

Herr cut

I walked into the staffroom in work the other day and my mate was sitting there, clearly having recently had a haircut. So I announced ‘You’ve had a haircut!’, just in case he hadn’t realised. He said ‘Yeah, I don’t like it. Getting my hair cut that is. Cos of the small talk.’ It got me thinking, I don’t like getting my hair cut either. I never have. I don’t feel comfortable at the hairdressers, I’m out of place. It’s quite a girly activity, having your hair done, and I’m not really a girly girl.

 

Hitchhikers Guide to Israel

The first time I hitchhiked in Israel, I was sitting in the back of the car thinking ‘Am I going to end up on the evening news tonight?’ I was with Rebecca and Christin, two other volunteers from the kibbutz I was living on. I can’t remember where we’d been, or what we’d been doing, but somehow we ended up on a roadside in a town called Tiberias at 10pm trying to hitch a lift. We hadn’t been waiting long when a flash sports car pulled up and lowered the window. It was a young guy on his own, we told him we were going to Kibbutz Ein Gev (about half an hour away), he nodded so we got in, Rebecca in front, Christin and I in the back. Practically before the doors were closed he sped off. He turned on the stereo and blasted what sounded like Hebrew heavy metal, if you can imagine such a thing. There weren’t many cars on the road but he was weaving in and out of them like he was in a high speed car chase. This was when the ‘I think this might be the end’ feeling started to kick in.

“The one way of tolerating existence is to lose oneself in literature as in a perpetual orgy.” — Gustave Flaubert

In my job as a bookseller, (female) customers occasionally ask me to recommend a ‘light, easy read’; chick-lit although they never use those words, which is one thing to be grateful for. It’s a phrase I’ve always hated, for the sound of it if nothing else. It simply doesn’t roll off the tongue. It’s also seems quite sexist. But, while plenty of women buy dark violent books, not many men come to the till with Marian Keyes. But that is besides the point. When I get asked to recommend something light, a beach read, my mind goes blank. I didn’t really think about it before I started this job, but I’ve realised like dark, challenging literature. Not hardcore dark, but definitely not chick-lit.

It’s about the journey. Part two

I arrived safely at Bangkok and Laura was there waiting for me. We had an adventure-filled ten days. But then she went to Cambodia I had to get back to Brisbane. In another bid to save money, I’d put myself on a flight which included a 23 hour stop over in Singapore. That is not a typo. 23 hours. I’d googled Singapore airport and it turns out a lot of flights around South East Asia include a stop over there. It has plenty of facilities to keep travellers entertained; a free cinema, a free guided tour of the city, plenty of shops and restaurants, places to nap and robotic foot massagers. I wasn’t worried. I’d get there at about 11pm so I’d sleep through some of the 23 hours. I spent the last of my Thai Baht on some snacks and a book and went to the airport bus stop. It was well sign posted.

It’s about the journey. Part one

Last year I travelled Australia on a working holiday visa. Getting work wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped so after few months bumming around Oz on savings, I finally got lucky and found a short term job in Brisbane. I also met a lovely American man, Robbie, who let me sleep on his couch while I was working. Finally my Australian bank account was healthy. So I took myself off to Thailand for ten days to meet my friend Laura.

Thailand is amazing. It was the culture shock of my life. I rode an elephant through a jungle, cycled through the Thai countryside, visited beautiful temples and I met interesting people. But this blog is not about any of that. It’s about the journeys.

If you’re not a straight man, pink is your colour. Apparently.

As a feminist, I usually come at issues from the standpoint of “If you wouldn’t say that to a man, it’s not ok to say it to a woman’. But there is an issue that ilicits the response, ‘You wouldn’t say that to a woman, you’d treat her with more respect!’; the treatment of camp gay men in the media. I noticed this in particular while watching Alan Carr: Chatty Man.