THE POLITICS OF FASHION: Khrushchev’s Shoe Will Bury You

English political satirist Henry Fielding once said, “Fashion is the science of appearance.” I thought of this quote while watching Meryl Streep’s Oscar winning performance as Margaret Thatcher in “The Iron Lady”. As Prime Minister of England, Margaret Thatcher made a statement about politics and gender with her handbag.

That sturdy, conservative handbag became a symbol of female political power. This handbag was even turned into a verb: when Baroness Thatcher gave her political opponents a sound thrashing, some journalists began to refer to it as “handbagging”.

I started to think about other political fashion statements that packed a similar punch. The interesting thing about personal style is that even if you don’t give any thought to what you wear, your clothes still speak for you. Not making a conscious sartorial statement still makes a statement. Sometimes, fashion speaks louder than words. This is particularly true in politics. With clothes, the personal is most definitely political. Don’t believe me? Take a look at these 12 powerful political fashion statements.

1. Che Guevara’s beret. This simple beret conveyed dignity, strength and a romanticized image of the Marxist Revolution. Tilted just so, it also showed off his handsome face…which is probably why in the mid-2000s, Che Guevara t-shirts became commodified and popularized by models, rock stars and hipsters in a way that would probably make Che shudder.

2. British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s trademark black umbrella, which had a unique role in John F. Kennedy’s assassination.

On Nov. 22, 1963 the president’s motorcade approached a man holding a black umbrella, who lifted it and spun it above his head. Soon after, Kennedy was assassinated. Conspiracy theorists referred to this unknown person as, “The Umbrella Man”, speculating that the umbrella contained a poison dart or was used to signal the snipers. But in 1978, Louie Steven Witt testified that he was the Umbrella Man. He explained he was simply protesting Joseph P. Kennedy, who had supported Chamberlain’s Nazi appeasement policy. It sounded far-fetched and few people believed him. But it goes to show just how serious fashion can be…and how crazed conspiracy theorists can get.

3. Muammar Gaddafi’s Bea Arthur-style wardrobe. While Gaddafi’s strange fashion choices left no doubt that he was a nutty dictator, it is also important to note that the flowing tunics and scarves were very reminiscent of Bea Arthur on “The Golden Girls”. I could almost hear Estelle Getty saying, “Picture it, Tripoli, 1982…”

4.The Nehru jacket. Made famous by the first Indian Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, this jacket was designed to look different from Western jackets yet still formal enough for government functions. Co-opted by the Beatles during their mod-era (since it had stylish Eastern flair) and James Bond villains (for reasons unknown.)

5. Nikita Khrushchev’s shoe. In 1960, Khrushchev repeatedly banged his shoe on a table at the UN General Assembly. One explanation for the incident was that his Soviet-made shoes were too tight, and he’d slipped them off under the table. Thus, they were within easy reach when he became enraged after the Philippine delegate accused the Soviet Union of depriving Eastern Europe of “civil and political rights.” The Khrushchev Shoe Banging Incident became a potent symbol of the Cold War…and a lesson to us all: never don new shoes for an important function without wearing them in first.

6. Barbara Bush’s pearls. The perfect accessory for America’s patrician grandmother, a woman capable of visiting Hurricane Katrina victims at the Houston Astrodome (most of whom had been separated from their families and friends) and proclaiming, “So many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them.” These patrician pearls are in stark contrast to her son…

7. George W. Bush’s Presidential Boots. These boots are a sartorial manifestation of his special brand of Cowboy Diplomacy. Case in point: in 2007, while I was waiting for a friend to get off work from Fox News Channel, I snapped this photo of the News Corp. “Toys for Tots” box. You see that? Nestled amongst the games and stuffed animals…it’s a George W. Bush doll complete with “Presidential Boots”. Yes, it appears that despite all of Fox News’ heated rhetoric, someone in that building was waging their own War On Christmas.

8. Jimmy Carter’s Tragic Oatmeal Colored Cardigan. In 1977, President Carter made an earnest address to the American public about conserving energy. He suggested we turn down our thermostats, and probably thought this earnest cardigan was a good symbol. Instead, he looked so worn out, so ineffective so…beige that much like the White House thermostats, his presidency was all downhill from there. Beige is just not a power color, a concept not lost on the next First Lady of the United States…

9. Nancy Reagan’s “Reagan Red”. She referred to the color red as “a picker upper” and wore it often. So many Republican politicos followed suit that whenever I see a Democrat wearing a bright red suit I wonder if she didn’t get the memo.

10.Hillary Clinton’s pantsuits. She is mocked for them, but her reasoning is simple: while working alongside men, she wants to level the sartorial playing field. She is after all, a First Wave feminist who came of age when the goal was to be seen as “just as effective as men.” Using your feminine wiles as a tool was not acceptable. This is in stark contrast to Sarah Palin, who uses her attractiveness to her advantage by wearing short, tight skirts…but cried foul when Newsweek magazine put a revealing photo of her on their cover. She deemed it “sexist”.

11. Michelle Obama’s sleeveless dresses. Her beautifully toned arms convey a healthy, athletic type of feminine strength befitting a First Lady who has made improving the nation’s physical fitness a focal point.

12. Jacqueline Kennedy’s blood stained Chanel suit. After John F. Kennedy’s assassination, Mrs. Kennedy was given a fresh suit aboard Air Force One to put on before facing the public and press. She refused to change out of the blood stained suit and said, “Let them see what they’ve done.”

Now that is a truly powerful Fashion Statement.

SIDE NOTE: As I was finishing up the research for this piece, I discovered that Time Magazine had published an article on this topic on January 9th. (Hence, I sighed, said “shit” and posted this on my blog rather than submitting it somewhere for publication.) It took Time Magazine SEVEN staffers to write their article. Mine was done by one (now unpaid) freelancer. Which one do you like better? If you enjoyed this post, please help a lowly freelancer out by linking to it! And if you didn’t like it–eh, who needs ya?

Gay Rights: Yes, It’s Personal

I’ve been pretty vocal about my support for gay rights, particularly gay marriage. The other night someone asked me why I care so much about an issue that doesn’t directly affect me. Why get worked up about something that isn’t a personal concern? After all, I could get married today. I could grab my man, get a blood test, head to David’s Bridal, fly to Vegas and be done with the whole process within 24 hours.

This post is for you…

My first babysitter (and our roommate when Dad left my Mom and me) was a lesbian. She comforted me when the big kids picked on me. She put bandaids on my knees. She read me “Winnie The Pooh” and made sure I washed my hands before lunch.

When I turned 10, I didn’t need babysitters anymore, because I had the local theatre scene. The theatre directors were often gay men. They coached my singing and acting skills. They dressed me in beautiful satin costumes, and made this chubby, funny looking little kid feel special. They boosted my self-confidence, offering encouragement and love.

When I was in high school, it wasn’t the straight guys who told me I was cool, fun or cute. The straight guys thought I was weird and way too outspoken. I never got asked out. It was the gay guys who told me I was pretty. It was the gay guys who took me dancing in downtown Seattle on prom night. Laughing and dancing to Erasure, we were teenage outcasts together.

When AIDS continued to ravage the gay community and I realized that people were dying alone in hospitals while their partners were denied visitation rights; that families who had called their sons “faggots” and disowned them were now given precedence over these partners, it infuriated me. So at 17 I’d take the bus into downtown and march with ACT UP. I’ve always felt more like a gay man than a straight woman, so I chanted “We’re Here, We’re Queer! Get Used To It!” with conviction.

When I was in college, it was a gay man who created a rich fantasy life with me when I was flat broke. We’d sit on the roof and point out which beautiful London homes belonged to us. We’d spin stories of wealth and privilege and pretend to believe them.

When I lived in Atlanta, working at CNN for a miserable $20,000 bucks a year, it was a gay man who kept me sane. He made us mimosas on Sundays, he always remembered funny pop cultural references from childhood, and made me realize that life could still be fun.

Gay friends have been my allies, my caretakers, my support system. I could never, ever turn my back on the gay community: I feel that I am part of it.

So when legislation is passed that demeans gay citizens, that denies basic civil rights, I find it profoundly offensive.
Gay rights affect everyone. Treating our citizens equally is a vital part of our national identity.

And yes, it’s personal.
It’s really fucking personal.

Sexy Prize in the Mama D’s Arts Bordello Trivia Contest

As if you needed another reason to get your sweet ass to our Famewhores show on Feb. 10th…Here it is, just one of the prizes in our Famous Whores of History Trivia Contest. No, your eyes don’t deceive you. These are Bronze Sequined Hotpants. Size Large.

Mama D’s Arts Bordello Famewhores Video

Check out this STELLAR video open made for Mama D’s Famewhores show, which will be astounding the crowd at Parkside Lounge on Friday, Feb. 10th.

Tom Wolfe’s Third Great Awakening: Revisited and Revamped

Please allow me to slip into my white suit and affect a mellifluous Virginian accent because it’s been 40 years since Tom Wolfe penned the “The Me Decade and the Third Great Awakening” and here we are, steeped in the type of navel gazing that not even the savviest 1970s social scientist could have imagined.

Sure Wolfe noted that, “Whatever the Third Great Awakening amounts to…will have to do with this unprecedented post-World War II American luxury: the luxury enjoyed by so many millions of middling folk, of dwelling upon the self.”

But in those pre-Instagram, pre-Facebook, pre-Twitter, pre-YouTube days he couldn’t have seen just how far we’d take this. He couldn’t have known just how crucial it would become to not only dwell upon the self, but to express our minutiae to the great, teeming masses.

Unlike the Me Decade, it’s not enough to bare your soul to your yogi or guru, gather in a roomful of likeminded primal screamers or mumble Woody Allen style to your girlfriend. It has to reach millions now. Via social networking sites, cable air waves, Podcasts and mass-produced T-shirts. So that everyone; nameless, faceless people will know who has daddy issues, hates lime Jell-O, or forces cats to wear funny costumes.

This is no intimate confessional over escargot anymore.

Our obsession with other people’s unimportant details is rivaled only by our need to expose our own unimportant details. We are not interested in how we fit into our communities. We want our communities to take interest in us.

It’s not enough to whisper around the water cooler what a cruel taskmaster your boss is anymore. It has to be turned into a meme, Tweeted and added as your Facebook status update. Forget about that heart-shaped lock on your big sister’s pink journal; we actually want our diaries read now. We leave them wide open, begging you to peruse them.

Maybe this is why many people aren’t more outraged about our civil rights being squashed “for security purposes”. We expect to be filmed while taking out our last twenty at the ATM or picking out honeydew melons at the grocery store. We expect cookies to track which sites we visit on the Internet. Life is lived to be recorded, saved, analyzed and viewed by all of your Facebook friends and Twitter followers and beyond. Otherwise, how can you prove it happened?

It isn’t the event that matters, it’s the evidence.

In defining the Me Decade, Tom Wolfe opined that years of excess leisure time produced excess introspection. Most people didn’t want to sacrifice their own wants and needs, and distanced themselves from the issues of posterity that bogged down their parents. Worn down by fears of war and economic problems, people wanted to seize the moment on their own terms.

These days fear-mongering is a multi-media sport, and there are plenty of fears to choose from: terrorism, school shootings and people in sprawling, forest-encroaching exurbs finding bears taking a dip in their swimming pools. Their swimming pools that they cannot afford anymore. Pick a channel, and you’ll find we are awash in fear. But in the midst of all these fears, what we seem to fear most isn’t death, but death in obscurity.

Death in obscurity is a fate worse than death.

Forty years ago, Tom Wolfe wrote about a woman sharing the pain of her hemorrhoids with 249 other people during an EST session at the Ambassador Hotel. What would he say he if knew that all these years later those 250 people writhing on the floor of that hotel would become 250,000,000 people, all clicking on the hemorrhoid-removal YouTube link, Tweeting about hemorrhoids, and buying celebrity hemorrhoids off of E-bay?

He might call this the Exhibitionist Decade.

The SOPA/PIPA Outrage: We’re Missing Half The Story

I’m not surprised by the hysterical, hamfisted rhetoric surrounding the SOPA/PIPA issue. The images of people with duct tape over their mouths, websites going dark, the notion that any attempt to police the Internet will result in an Orwellian nightmare.

America is not a subtle country. We like black and white, good and bad, freedom of speech vs. evil overlords hell bent on destroying the great, egalitarian Internet.

But it’s not that simple. It never is. This isn’t just about censorship, which is obviously against everything the First Amendment stands for. It’s about what happens when the tech gurus who create the system have more power than the people who create the content. It’s what happens when those IT professionals are far better paid than the people who create the content. Look at it this way—do you expect to get the bulk of your software for free? No. Yet we’ve come to expect all of our online content to be free. We demand it, in fact. It’s a distinct value judgment.

One of the websites that went dark was Wikipedia. With their ominous imagery, they wanted to show us what the Internet might look like if this type of legislation was passed. High school students were outraged and Tweeted about how they couldn’t finish their homework.

But let me ask you this:
Shouldn’t we be demanding something better than Wikipedia? Is it really a good idea that students are using this resource for their homework? A resource so unreliable that any moron with an Internet connection can get on there and state something as fact?

It affects the quality of legitimate news organizations too, who have taken to reporting on Tweets. Tweets, for fuck’s sake. Call me an elitist, but I think this trend denigrates real newsgathering. I’m glad Walter Cronkite never had to cite Twitter as a source. The New York Times shut down their City Section a few years ago. And guess who’s taking care of most of their local interest stories now? NYU journalism students who blog about them.

I recently read an article in The Register that stated, “On the Internet, fame may arrive quickly, but financial reward doesn’t follow. It’s the only area of business where this is true.”

Herein lies the problem. America is first and foremost a capitalist country. If there is no monetary exchange, there is no tangible value. But people seeking Internet opportunity often forfeit money for exposure. The Internet has become some bizarre lottery where peons hope by some miracle that if they keep writing away on blogs that nobody reads (like this one, for example) Tweeting to a Twitterverse that doesn’t give a shit and putting up videos on YouTube that no one sees, that some how, some way, fame will find them. The success of “Shit My Dad Says” and Justin Bieber’s career are legendary Internet fairytales that perpetuate the myth.

It’s very telling that when the IT professionals of Silicon Valley became rock stars, actual rock stars lost some of their luster. The IT professionals who create the platforms have made it so that artists, writers, filmmakers and musicians are forced to take it up the ass and like it. Otherwise they risk looking like dinosaurs; trying to push back the inevitable wave of the future.

Case in point: the only way musicians can make money now is by touring. It goes back to scarcity of product. There’s only one Lady Gaga. If you want to see her in person (so that you can record part of the performance on your phone and upload it to YouTube) you are forced to plunk down your money. There’s no way around it. Albums are only released as promotional tools. Music stores are about as scarce as checkbooks.

Some say this gives musicians more freedom; that the record companies were just exploiting them and taking the profits anyway. This may very well be true. But look at the top selling albums. (Or singles, seeing as how people rarely buy full albums anymore.) How much has this newfound “freedom” actually benefitted unknown musicians? And for all the lip service we give to the rise of “self-publishing” the best-seller lists tend to be stacked with names like Stephen King, Danielle Steel, Nicholas Sparks. All published by traditional publishing houses, taking the traditional publishing route. Once in a while one person will break though in a unique way. But this just fuels the lottery analogy.

Internet sharing is an interesting issue too. I am clearly guilty of using images that I don’t own. (See above George Orwell photo.) And I have no problem with you using my personal images that I have uploaded to the Internet. If one of my images is out there, I have relinquished ownership. It has become communal. But that’s because I’m a writer, not a photographer. If you lifted some of my writing and didn’t give me credit, I’d be fucking furious. It’s hypocrisy at its finest.

Music can be shared through Spotify and Pandora, without actually owning the music. I find this particularly fascinating. While there has always been music sharing (if you’re of my generation, you probably still have a dusty mix tape in a closet somewhere, even if you no longer have the technology to play it) in the past it took one person to own that product. Back then, there was value attached to the physical item as well as the content: when you went to someone’s home, you’d peruse their book, DVD and music collections to get an idea of who that person was. (You may have decided not to have sex with them if you found too many “greatest hits” compilations.) These items were trophies, badges of honor.

Nowadays, that’s such a strange concept that when a friend of mine recently moved to New York and actually moved her CD tower with her from Chicago, I burst out laughing. As for me, I have a massive collection of books displayed in a bookshelf. But people are less impressed by the content of that bookshelf than they are by its function: it separates my bedroom from my living room.

Which brings me back to my whole point. I am anti-censorship. I am anti SOPA and PIPA. But I am also anti the worship of function over content. I am anti the new breed of journalism that places a premium on being first over being right. I am anti putting blind faith in technology giants.

But I’m just some grumpy bitch tilting at windmills. You can’t force people to pay for content that was once free, thereby increasing its cultural value and placing higher standards on that content.

Then again, if you told me when I was 10 that people would actually start paying for bottled water, I’d have said you were crazy. And people who grew up watching free TV were probably surprised at how quickly Americans agreed to pay for cable TV.

Of course, the genius behind the marketing of those products was that they offered something exceptional about something that was once free: “Our expensive bottled water is so much more pure than your free tap water!” “Our cable TV shows are so much more groundbreaking. Plus, you can see tits.”

So maybe that’s the answer. If we want to improve the quality of Internet content, to ensure journalistic integrity, if we want artists and writers and musicians to get their fair due, we need to figure out a way to make some of that content seem exceptional; separate from the shoddy videos of cute kittens and fawning celebrity blogs. In short, we need to create scarcity again.

Because despite what tech giants say, excess accessibility without accountability is a problem too. And really, how would George Orwell feel if he didn’t get the credit for dreaming up that Orwellian nightmare you keep referencing?

Bookshelf Voyeurism

A friend of mine convinced me to take a random photo of my bookshelf. I liked the idea because these days, it’s rare that you get the chance to walk into someone’s house or apartment and judge them by their literary, cinematic or musical taste.
Most everything is digitized now.
So I highly recommend it. You’ll find that you’ve organized your books without even knowing it.
I’m calling this photo: SEX, FAME, DEATH.

Famewhores Flyer

Fresh off the presses…our fabulous, glamorous, outrageous flyer for the upcoming Mama D’s Arts Bordello show, Famewhores!
Come check it out on Friday, February 10th!

Tim Tebow’s Sins: A Speculative List

There’s been much discussion lately about Tim Tebow’s innate goodness. Some journalists theorize that he is disliked by many because he’s just so incredibly good that people feel bad about themselves by comparison. But a friend of mine isn’t so sure. She said, “I can just feel the Tiger Woods in this story. Some how, some day, some way, Tebow will be exposed for his sins. He might not be a serial adulterer, but I just BET he doesn’t put the toilet seat down.”

Well.

That got me to thinking about which types of sinful behavior Tim Tebow may be committing without the public’s knowledge.
I came up with this list:

10 Speculative Tebow Transgressions

1. The aforementioned “not putting the toilet seat down.”

2. Not giving the “thank you” wave when another car lets him in line.

3. Not refilling the ice cube tray after taking the last one. (Okay, so this one probably isn’t true as I suspect he has a fancy ice maker and not an ancient, hideous dorm fridge like I do in my tiny, shitty NYC kitchen.)

4. Excess use of LOL.

5. Addendum: Possibly lying about LOL. Could just be smiling or grinning yet claims to be LOLing.

6. Letting out silent farts in an elevator.

7. Addendum: Farting at home and blaming it on the dog.

8. Wearing athletic socks with a suit.

9. Giving inauthentic mercy “likes” on Facebook.

10. Secretly disposing of Canadian change in the Starbucks tip jar.

Happy Birthday, David Bowie: Thanks for Everything

David Bowie is 65-years-old today. He has been my Rock God since I was old enough to reach the knobs on the stereo.
The man has been my sonic, cinematic and aesthetic inspiration. I’ve loved him for auditory and masturbatory reasons.
(Admittedly, I’ve never been particularly skilled at masturbation. I always seem to lose interest in me.)

When I was a teenager living on Whidbey Island in Washington State, he was the only man who Never Let Me Down. (Even if that album wasn’t one of his best.) No matter show shitty school was or how much I hated my parents, I could turn off the lights in my room, light a candle, crank up a Bowie album and everything would be okay. It was a religious experience. He offered salvation from the suburbs; a glimpse of a glam promised land where my life would be my own.

Of course, his influence wasn’t always positive. I’m fairly certain I can blame Bowie worship for my decision to represent my high school in a speech and debate competition while wearing vintage gold knee-high platform boots, shorts and a matching gold lace jacket.
(In case you were wondering-I was reciting Mark Twain at the time. And no, I did not win.)

Furthermore, his appreciation of William S. Burroughs’ “cut up technique” led to 16-year-old me writing some of the worst, most convoluted short stories imaginable. Sample line: “It was a garden of genocide.”

But I forgive you, David Bowie. I’ve spent endless hours scrounging for your rare import records in used record shops, leaped from a stadium balcony (while wearing a dress and heels) just to get closer to the stage, defended your circa 1987 haircut.

We live in the same city now, and I keep thinking one day I’ll catch a glimpse of you crossing the street; going to your local deli or getting a newspaper. But I hope I never do. What if you were wearing a ratty pair of sweats? What if I saw you up close and you had something hanging out of your nose? No. I need you on your glittering pedestal; remote and perfect. You’ve been up there for too long. I’m not sure what I’d do without you.