it’s ok – don’t panic

To all those who’ve checked up on me after the sicky bubs post:
thanks
and
I’m ok.
Status report: as per usual, the second wave of serious head cold (which, incidentally, also struck down my father this week – in two rounds – no doubt an indication of the vulnerability of small-nostrilled people to this sort of thing) has settled in comfortably, and almost a week later, while I have now been out of the house all of 3 times, I now have the horrible ear thing again.
While it mightn’t sound so terrible to have blocked ears, it’s kind of awful for someone who relies on their ears as much as I do. It’s difficult to dance when your balance is screwed and your awareness of your surroundings stuffed by unreliable hearing. It’s bloody difficult to judge sound levels when you’re DJing through an ear’s worth of goob. And riding your bike is terrifying when you can’t hear approaching cars or balance properly.
But I have a doctor’s appointment booked for tomorrow, so either she’ll look inside and be frightened enough by what she sees to syringe me to blessed unimpededness, or she’ll see nothing and I’ll have another day on the kick-you-on-your-arse decongestants. The latter is always a joy for someone as responsive to these sorts of drugs as I am. I am sure The Squeeze is looking forward to mildly-psychotic and scarily insomniac speed freak girl as much as I am.
On (un)related fronts, Angel and everyone else are dealing with the Darla/Drusilla fallout (don’t you just LOVE those episodes?) and Buffy is freaking out under a pile of narratively excessive dramas: Glory’s nabbed Dawn/the key, Spike is hot for Bot-love (and yes, he is kinda small, but pretty compact and well-muscled, Xander), Tara has been brain-drained by Glory and of course, Joyce has just passed away.

Grants to Grumble

No area was so associated with bullshit as cultural studies, where sociology and anthropology met literary criticism and produced prose that repelled the lay reader like a mouthful of Mace (Haigh The Nelson Touch: The New Censorship)

And while I find the thought of a mouthful of mace kind of interesting (I’m thinking of the Christmasy spice I use in Indian cooking and interesting baking), I can see Haigh’s point.
This is a quote from an interesting article by Gideon Haigh in The Monthly – you can read it here. The article discusses the recent ARC funding fisticuffs, something I remember mostly as a fairly painful moment in academic funding where the then-Education minister Brendan Nelson apparently crossed a few applications off the funding list for having the words ‘feminism’, ‘gay’ or ‘postmodern’ in the title. Haigh’s article The Nelson Touch The New Censorship adds a tad more detail to my memory and is well worth a read. One of the most interesting comments in the article is this one:

McCalman observes that the ripple effects are still to be reckoned with: “What this has done and will do for a long time to come will bring about self-censorship. You watch: young academics will sheer away from gender, because of the perception that it’s being monitored. The fact is that in this country we have no other form of research advancement apart from the government. And it gives them a power like no other country.”

A point which is certainly true in my case – I consciously chose not to position myself as a ‘feminist researcher’, despite the fact that my thesis is riddled with the words ‘gender’, ‘sexuality’, ‘power’, ‘resistance’ and so on. It simply seemed a sensible move to position myself within a different discourse. And perhaps to get all subterfuge-ey, exploiting the notion held by some male cultural studies academics, that if it’s got woman in the title, it should be in women’s studies rather than cultural studies.* It’s actually far more exciting to think of myself as sneaking a little illicit Sisterhood into the mix.
I’m not really clued in enough to comment critically on the article, but if it quotes Gray-bags, it’s worth a glance:

College of Experts member Professor Graeme Turner recalls:

At the end of 2004, there’d been a bit of an attitude from the other disciplines of: “Well, humanities people are wankers, Nelson was probably right.” But the second time, when the social sciences as well as the humanities were questioned, there were rumours that science would be scrutinised as well. Other people started saying: “What’s going on?” In fact, the position I took with people in science was to say: “What’s the position going to be in a few years on stem cell research? All you need’s a shift in the politics to be in the same position.”

*Is that bitterness you sense? Oh no. Not at all. Not one bit.

poor sicky bub

I am terribly unwell. Well, not terribly, if I can still type.
But I have massively sore and swolen glands, a nasty sinus headache, a sore throat, lots of snot, some coughing, horrible aches and pains in my joints and a recurring temperature.
The cold that tried to ruin my weekend in Tasmania, the weekend before, which had quietened down, was obviously kicked into gear by my preemptive weekend of dancing the following weekend, and yesterday I started getting crook.
I woke up at about 4am with a massive temperature, all confused and distressed. I was freezing, but also burning up like the sun. I went to find some cold water to drink (of course it was a success – a confused, feverish person walking around a dark house looking for the fridge), then I decided that the only person who could help me out at that exact moment was The Squeeze. On my way to find him (cleverly hidden in bed), my sore right instep started hurting again (it’s a recurring dance thing – like fallen arches, but actually a hamstring issue) and made me cry.
So the poor Squeeze had a snotty, feverish crying person startle him awake as they tried to climb into the bed without putting any weight on their sore foot.
Then there was some more crying, as he carefully placed me back into bed, and applied the tried and true Squeeze Method for calming distressed Hams and confused sick people – the clamp. This really means that he rolled me up in the blankets, wrapped an arm around me and exerted his full weight of Sleep. It took a bit of clamping, but eventually I calmed down a bit, stopped crying (what was with the weeping? Man, those feverish confusion thingies make for some weirdness), stopped having strange, confused half-hallucinations (which could only be solved by rolling about in bed, from side to back, to front to side and back again… eventually actually solved by some serious clamping) and fell asleep.
I feel a bit strange now, but those panadols took the edge off my temperature (that was another issue – I couldn’t figure out how to get warm. Blankets and pajamas seemed too complex) and I’m not feeling quite as terrible as I did.
But I’m definitely not getting out of bed today. I’m going to lie here and read and wipe my nose all day.

I am John Travolta

In our house The Squeeze is convinced that BB is not only foul, but also immoral. He leaves the room if it’s on. I don’t care much either way, in fact I’m watching it now. I’d prefer it if it was unedited, and just a bunch of people in a room with no ‘tasks’ – just like watching a bunch of sharehousers who’re on the dole. No money, so they can’t afford to go out. No imagination, so they don’t go do free stuff. Eeeexcellent.
But I do have a problem with the new program ‘Honey I’m killing the kids’. Ostensibly a program committed to ‘helping’ parents with overweight kids, rather than focussing on positive reinforcement for the parents and children, I suspect the tools are guilt, guilt and more guilt. Nice. I won’t be watching that.
I’ve watched very little telly lately – beyond the eternal Buffy and Angel (seasons 4 and 2 respectively) – but I have my eye on tonight’s OC. Nice.*
In other, more important news, I have a John Travolta obsession. I am convinced, when I’m dancing, that I am the man. It doesn’t help that I think I’m funny when I strut it, Saturday Night Fever style. It’s particularly unhelpful that lindy is built for strutting. Or, more importantly, blues dancing is built for strutting. A keen balboa fan was asking “you’re into this blues stuff – what’s the deal? I just don’t get it,” and of course, the only response is: “strut. You need to strut. Either take it incredibly seriously, or incredibly unseriously. But strut.” It’s true. Blues dancing is all about strutting.
*NB Willow now has an ibook. An oooold one.

shave em dry

This weekend when I was out dancing at a late night party after a big competition night I heard a new version of a song called Shave ’em Dry 2, a song recorded by a woman called Lucille Bogan in 1935. I have a version of the song on a CD I recently purchased called Raunchy Business: Hot Nuts and Lollypops, which is quite poor quality. But not so poor as to make it impossible to make out these lyrics:
(NB: these are fairly explicit)

I got nipples on my titties, big as the end of my thumb,
I got somethin’ between my legs’ll make a dead man come,
Oh daddy, baby won’t you shave ’em dry?
Aside: Now, draw it out!
Want you to grind me baby, grind me until I cry.
(Roland: Uh, huh.)
Say I fucked all night, and all the night before baby,
And I feel just like I wanna, fuck some more,
Oh great God daddy,
(Roland: Say you gonna get it. You need it.)
Grind me honey and shave me dry,
And when you hear me holler baby, want you to shave it dry.
I got nipples on my titties, big as the end of my thumb,
Daddy you say that’s the kind of ’em you want, and you can make ’em come,
Oh, daddy shave me dry,
(Roland: She ain’t gonna work for it.)
And I’ll give you somethin’ baby, swear it’ll make you cry.
I’m gon’ turn back my mattress, and let you oil my springs,
I want you to grind me daddy, ’til the bell do ring,
Oh daddy, want you to shave ’em dry,
Oh great God daddy, if you can’t shave ’em baby won’t you try?
Now if fuckin’ was the thing, that would take me to heaven,
I’d be fuckin’ in the studio, till the clock strike eleven,
Oh daddy, daddy shave ’em dry,
I would fuck you baby, honey I’d make you cry.
Now your nuts hang down like a damn bell sapper,
And your dick stands up like a steeple,
Your goddam ass-hole stands open like a church door,
And the crabs walks in like people.
Aside: Ow, shit!
(Roland: Aah, sure enough, shave ’em dry?)
Aside: Ooh! Baby, won’t you shave ’em dry
A big sow gets fat from eatin’ corn,
And a pig gets fat from suckin’,
Reason you see this whore, fat like I am,
Great God, I got fat from fuckin’.
Aside: Eeeeh! Shave ’em dry
(Roland: Aah, shake it, don’t break it)
My back is made of whalebone,
And my cock is made of brass,
And my fuckin’ is made for workin’ men’s two dollars,
Great God, round to kiss my ass.
Aside: Oh! Whoo, daddy, shave ’em dry

As you can see, there are no punches pulled here. Any lindy hopper who pays attention knows that a fairly large proportion of jazz from the 20s and 30s in particular is decidedly saucy. Yet most of the sauce is veiled in innuendo or so reworked by the delivery it’s largely unrecognisable. As an example, the song ‘Hold Tight’ begins “I want some seafood, mamma…” later continues with the lyric “when I come home from work at night, I get my favourite dish – fish!” and has the chorus “hold tight, hold tight…I want some seafood mamma!” When Fats Waller sings the song, you’re well aware that this is not a song about culinary preferences. When the Andrews Sisters sang it, though, the song became a little more ambiguous.
I’m a fan of this sort of blues and jazz, more for the playfulness and irreverence than any naughty pleasure. I like the way sexuality and sensuality are satired, and we’re encouraged to laugh along. When it comes to blues dancing, which is frequently explicitly sensual, I like the edge a little humour lends to the dance, resolving the sexaul tension with humour.
Yet when I heard the new version of Bogan’s song was played at the party the other night, my response was a little different. To begin with, it’s worth pointing out the recording is live (or apparently so), to an enthusiastic audience who cheer along. The singer is a woman, and the lyrics are very clear. I’ve heard this song played a few times before, first by a woman DJ, and always in Melbourne. The crowd’s response was initially surprise and a little shock. By the time it was played at this late night party, however, many dancers were familiar with the song, and both the uninitiated and familiar ears responded with enthusiastic cheering and laughing. It’s also worth pointing out that late night parties are frequently more casual, more relaxed and social than more formal dances or competition events.
Despite the enthusiastic response for the song this weekend, I was left wondering if it was entirely appropriate to play the song at that moment. I think I would have left it a little later, when the room had thinned a little, and only the hardcore dancers were left. I saw a few people clearly offended by the lyrics. Particularly since the partner dancing encourages dancers to share their interpretation of the song in that moment, on the dance floor.
My own response, however, was to giggle and take more than a little delight in the obvious pleasure the vocalist takes in the lyric, melody and shouted chorus.
I haven’t the time here, but I would like to write a little about the way contemporary swing dancers use archival music and dance for self expression in social contexts. And to perhaps comment on the way race and ethnicity are played out in these settings.
So perhaps this post is really just to pose the question: how are swing dancers using seventy or eighty year old dances and songs for self expression, social commentary and communal creative work? And why

bizarre children’s books over at daddyzine

Such indeed is the premise of a well-known episode in Richard Scarry’s What Do People Do All Day, originally published in 1968. Another book from Scarry relies of course on the conceit that a family of pigs would drive a Volkswagon to the beach. Which makes no sense, given the very real likelihood on such a trip of encountering sociopathic dingos on the fast track to suspended driver’s licenses. Perhaps it would be better to stay home, my porcine friends! But then of course there’s the old saying that there are only two types of stories — a family of swine leaves home or a strange swine comes to town — and while the small-scale domestic travails of the Pig family may have suited a fancy-pants domestic novelist, such swine would have granted Mr. Scarry but little scope for his considerable talents.

…

such tales are of course by no means anomalous, our shelves being as they are overpopulated by a mob of talking, dancing, singing, or otherwise incongruously-occupied folk from up and down the phylogenetic ladder

—daddyzine

BB again. wherein i justify spending half an hour writing this post rather than rewriting chapters

While I’m almost ready to drop this particular bundle (dang I’m carrying some thesis-anxiety), the BB discussion continues.
There’s another article by Mark up at Lavartus Prodeo (where I’m quoted a bit, as are a few other interesting items by people like Galaxy (also here) and Ms Fits and others).
One of the heaviest heavy weights, Ms Greer, has chimed in, which must have the BB people “hugging themselves with glee” (to quote this article), PR-wise. This is an article which addresses the sorts of issues I’m most interested in, yet when Greer writes:

When Camilla heard that Ashley and John had been evicted, her response was baffling. “I’m really sorry, guys,” she wept. “I feel so bad.”

I’m surprised. Surely she can understand why this woman felt this way at that moment? I mean, it’s nothing new to see a woman ladened with guilt for the actions of male sexual misbehaviour… If only we could all be as robust as Germaine, strong enough not to carry that guilt*.
Perhaps more interestingly, surely its not so baffling that Camilla’s having a bit of a cry, when it’s been made so clear that she (of the three) was not expelled from the house? I imagine I’d be up there in the crying stakes in such a strange, pressure-cooker situation even without mysterious suprise ‘evictions’, public humiliation and implied guilt-by-exemption.
And as this story continues, part of me wonders why it’s so simple for BB to evict difficult housemates, when it always took us weeks and weeks to get rid of difficult housemates when I was share-housing? If we could simply have whisked them away, perhaps I’d still have my copy of The Mists of Avalon.**
…in an aside, I wonder if it’s worth thinking about the context of this ‘sexual harassment’ (I use quotes because the status of the incident is still in doubt in some minds… not mine, though). These things happened ‘in the home’. Yet this is a very public private space. Am I pushing too far when I wonder if this issue, the entire BB program, offers a fascinating opportunity to think about the perormance of public and private space, the sexual relationships between young people in public/private space?
Of course, we can’t really say that BB offers an ‘authentic’ view of private domestic life, but it does offer us an opportunity to think about the way particular types of men and women live and behave together under trying circumstances. And while the issue of sex seems foremost on everyone’s minds (anyone who objects to mixed-sex showering should avoid Herrang… hell, any dance camp), the gastropod in me is always wondering what exactly they’re cooking for dinner, and who will do the washing up.
Though not to forget Ms Greer’s points:

Every picture tells a story, but no picture tells the whole story. No word is more abused by Big Brother producers than “live”, unless it is “uncut”. Perhaps universities should start running courses on how to watch Big Brother, teaching students to discern how, when and where the mix is being manipulated, and what insultingly tatty television it is, in terms of production values.

Setting aside the whole issue of ‘taste’ (something Galaxy and others could no doubt discuss more cleverly than I), is anyone else kind of digging the fact that all of this online bloggage (rather than ‘news’) on the topic is conducted by people who are engaged in teaching the ‘BB demograph’ (ie young men and women) about media and cultural studies and gender and so on, as made particularly clear on Moment to Moment?
Speaking as someone who’s had to explain why feminism is important in a media studies subject, to a group of young(er than me) people who are training to become media producers, I think that the comments and ideas we’re sharing online are kind of important. After all, these bloggers are the sorts of people who are on the ‘front line’ of these university courses Greer suggests. And many of us will go on to do the sorts of jobs that Lumby is doing.
Really, if anyone’s in a position to ask the sorts of endlessly nitpicky questions, or to spend hours thinking about and talking about this issue, aren’t we postgraduate/early-career academic types the one(s)?
Even if we really should be off editing chapters.
Speaking of guilt…
*This is kind of a joke. If were speaking about this, in person, you’d have been cued in by tone of voice.
**Was that too frivolous a joke? I mean, we are kind of talking about feminist readings of history, ideologically informed narrative and all…