A Gaijin Geisha

Or Oiran to be more specific. (that really is me, above)

The oiran arose in the Edo period, 1600 - 1868. At this time, laws were passed restricting brothels to walled districts set some distance from the city center. In the major cities these were the Shimabara in Kyoto, the Shimmachi in Osaka, and in Edo (present-day Tokyo), the Yoshiwara. These rapidly grew into large, self-contained "Pleasure Quarters" offering all manner of entertainments. Within, a courtesan's birth rank held no distinction but there arose a strict hierarchy according to beauty, character, educational attainments and artistic skills. Among the oiran, the tayū (太夫 or 大夫, tayū?) was considered the highest rank of courtesan and were considered suitable for the daimyo or Lord. Only the wealthiest and highest ranking could hope to patronise them. To entertain their clients, oiran practiced the arts of dance, music, poetry and calligraphy, and an educated wit was considered essential to sophisticated conversation.- wikipedia

A number of years ago, in my early days in Japan, I was asked to do a favor for the small town I was living in. The town had been holding a festival every October. for years. Celebrating the Edo (samurai) period and the history of the town. The festival was called The Oiran Douchu and was sponsored by all the town businesses especially a local sake brewery. But in recent years the festival attendance had fallen off. A friend of mine at the time, a wonderful Japanese man, was the owner of his family’s grocery store (a small shop.) And he had an idea that having a foreigner, or Gaijin be the Oiran featured in the festival, might spark some renewed interest as it would be a first ever and quite unusual.

He was right by the way, but more on that later.

This was no small deal. To be the Oiran meant months of dance training, meetings, and then the festival itself which would be more arduous than I realized at the time. But the town had been good to me and my husband, and I wanted to give back, so I agreed. It was a pretty amazing experience.

In a lot of ways.

I had the rare chance to really feel-- be inside the skin and the trappings of a woman as geisha. And I had the chance to do this as a strong, feminist, western woman from a very different cultural tradition.

I am not a fussy person (have never Hooshed-up in my life though I am fascinated by it) I don’t wear makeup, do little with my hair. I like pretty clothes but I want to be comfortable too. I hate stockings, heels and other inhibiting accessories. And I don’t wear a lot of jewelry. Now put that person in full geisha makeup which took more than 1 hour to apply, on geta which are the very high geisha style wooden shoes, wearing about 30 lbs of multiple layers of kimono fabric, AND a katsura or wig that weighed close to 15 lbs. which gave me one of the worst headaches I have had in my life.

I was transformed.

Everything about the whole get up made me feel gorgeous, and restricted, feminine and trapped. The dichotomy of what I experienced through the day was so striking. I had attendants who carried a parasol over my head and fanned me because though it was October it was about 75 degrees that day. There were men who literally helped me walk up the stairs to get on stage. I was pampered and I was completely dependent on those around me.

The program for the day involved a 1 mile walking parade through the old town, on those high high shoes, and then a dance program involving myself as the featured Oiran, and 3 young girls as attendants, 3 maiko, and 3 geisha. It was difficult to say the least.



I learned a lot that day and I truly had an unromantic sense of what it would have been like to be a geisha in the Edo era. I had an extreme realization of what restrictive ideas of beauty and costume can do to suppress a woman’s potential, then and now. But I also enjoyed being the center of attention, enjoyed feeling beautiful. I was quite conflicted, and wouldn’t trade the memory of the experience for all the green tea in Tokyo.

The Gaijin Orian scheme worked. There was record turn out for the event and throngs lined the street that we paraded along. There were TONS of amateur photographers snapping my photo. Closest I will ever get to the feeling of paparazzi, thankfully. And the town was very happy with the result. The following year, a few other non Japanese friends of mine participated as male attendants in the festival. They had fun but more in just a costume or cos-play kind of way. Not anything so surprising as the way I felt during my transformation from liberal western woman to trapped porcelain doll.

It was unforgettable-- truly gave me a different perspective on female fashion and beauty ideals. What women have put themselves and been put through over the course of history is pretty amazing. (Not that there have not been some weird guy things too) I was always suspicious of over-fussed-fashion… but I really deepened my thinking after my Orian-for-a-day experience.

If I were to play an Edo-period role again, I think I would prefer the casting of female warrior. My feet would certainly be more comfortable.

There's more...

There's only ONE Vanity Fair

Valentino celebration. Click for LARGE. photo source unknown.

James Wolcott Doesn't Need Your Money

Vanity Fair covers events ranging from the celebration of the life of fashion icon Valentino, to politics, to young and old Hollywood, to of course, fashion.

VF's James Wolcott -- a good friend of the late Steve Gilliard -- runs a terrific blog, and even mentioned a story we did on Gilly back in December.

Vanity Fair is a wonderful magazine. I subscribe because I like what they deliver.

They don't need my money, but I give it to them because I know without my money they can't pay James Wolcott, they can't pay Annie Leibovitz, they can't do the stuff Condé Nast must do each month to bring me my own copy of VF.

And they're only a monthly. Their writers (mostly) don't write back to you.

Group News Blog operates in real time. Some days more than others obviously (like Hubris' brilliant coverage of the primaries where he was updating three to four times an hour), but every day we bring you a mix: stories, reporting, commentary, opinion, long and short form articles from around the globe.

We're not going to bring you Valentino. (Although it looks like his party was fun.) But four of us are traveling to the Democratic Convention in Denver and we need your support. Not only for the convention. But because you like what we deliver.

PayPal or credit card:

Group News Blog
PO Box 809
Bellevue WA 98009

Please give generously. Thank you.

There's more...

Goodbye to Another Artistic Legend

I was never a haute couture fan but this man definitely spent a career making women feel beautiful, sexy and powerful, on and off the runway.

PARIS (AP)—Legendary designer Yves Saint Laurent, who reworked the rules of fashion by putting women into elegant pantsuits that came to define how modern women dressed, died Sunday evening, a longtime friend and associate said. He was 71.

“I have often said that I wish I had invented blue jeans: the most spectacular, the most practical, the most relaxed and nonchalant. They have expression, modesty, sex appeal, simplicity - all I hope for in my clothes.”-Yves Saint Laurent

There's more...

Want Some Swag?

Katherine Heigl in WGA Official Strike Shirt. Click for large version.
photo from Writers Strike Swag

Support the Writers -- Get Writer's Strike Swag

All profits are donated to the WGA Union Solidarity Fund.

I'm wearing that shirt as I write this.

Well, not that actual shirt. *sighs* But the same shirt. People really like it.

They have other shirts as well. Quick shipping. PayPal.

Go now to http://www.strikeswag.com/ and order! Yes, you.

They even have a VIRTUAL PICKET LINE, so once you're all decked out in your shirt, you can take a photo and they'll post it. Then you can link up in one of our comment threads about the strike. How 'bout them apples?!

Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

Order your Strike Swag and help the WGA, and maybe Katherine Heigl will give you a back rub while both of you are wearing your official Strike Shirts...

That'll make someone go BOOM. (Speechless. Tim Robbins.)

There's more...

On Dressing—One: Things My Father Taught Me

“Ascots and tie-bars, and rich foulard cravats,
Cufflinks and watches and high-fashion habits...”

(PART ONE of a two-part essay on fashion and style—inspired by you, the readers.)

It was just a few weeks after my father passed away fifteen years ago. I sat in the attic of my parents house on an unnaturally warm October afternoon, cataloguing his things. The beautiful Penn and Garcia fishing rods and reels...posters and sheet music from years gone by...and of course, his precious, and working vintage stereo equipment—a boomy, old Panasonic four-channel receiver, a heavy, enameled Wollensak reel-to-reel tape recorder, and those huge, military-grade walkie-talkies.

I moved slowly, putting those things off to the side on their own. Mama wanted it organized...I guess so if she wanted to get at a a piece of “him” she wouldn't have to go scuffling about to find whatever it was she fancied. I came across boxes of shoes...beautiful shoes in felt bags within. A pair of deep chocolate and butter colored summer spectator shoes he'd bought in the seventies. They were impeccable. Lightly creased Gucci-loafer styled, with a brass chain across the vamp. Not a speck of dust on 'em. God, those shoes were beautiful.

I couldn't wear them. There's something about a man's shoes...a father's shoes, and following in them and all that freight, that was simply a red flag to me. And we wore the same size—a 12D, but I couldn't put his shoes on, no. I put them aside, and stacked them with the other superficial pieces of him.

And then, I happened upon a trunk...a large trunk that I opened, and found within— a wooden shoe-shine box with soft, horse-hair brushes and sweet, dye-scented “shammys” he used to buff a shoe to a high shine. But there was a mystery box in the trunk as well. It looked like an odd case for instruments of some sort, with an accordioning hinge—the box itself, wooden and deep butterscotch in color. I flipped open the hasp on it and opened it up.

It folded out like a fishing tackle box with three shelves_a top, a middle, and the bottom.

In the top was a treasure trove of vintage cufflinks, and brass collar stays. There were tie bars and a bunch of watches too—a wind-up watch from the fifties that I hadn't seen him wear since I was maybe five years old, and his trusty Omega Seamasters, the soft gold dress one, and the hefty steel workhorse he wore to work for years. In the middle box was a couple of unopened “safety” razors, with boxes of blades next to them. There was a straight razor there too, with a black marbled horn handle that I couldn't open without fear of accidentally cutting my hand to ribbons.

And then, in the bottom of the box, lay a soft nest of rich fabrics. Big, fat swaths of silk with delicate patterns and pleating at their middles.

What kinds of ties were these?

I picked one up. It was cut like a grossly overweight untied bow tie—what the hell was it? And then I remembered the pattern—the merlot background with raspberry and blueberry-hued diamonds...I remember this!

These were the ascots my father used to sport when I was a small boy. They were leftovers of his show-biz days before settling down with a family, and he wore them occasionally just to freak people out in the late sixties and early seventies. He'd rock a cardigan or a blue blazer with a white Hathaway shirt—button-down of course, and drop an ascot into the mix. This look he'd sport whenever he and Mama were entertaining on weekend nights, or if he was out for a relaxed function with his friends and knew he was going to run into a bunch of particularly annoying idiots while out. Real status hounds. “What the fuck right did this dude who was busting his ass with seven kids have wearing a Goddamned ascot?!”, they'd be thinking.

But they'd ask, “Hey W______, where'd you get that?”

“Place ain't around no more. Phil Kornfeld's on West 57th Street. Duke and Billy used to shop there.”

“Duke and Billy. Duke and...Billy?!”

“Yeah...but Kornfeld's is gone now.”, he'd chuckle, and then sigh— “Just like Duke and Billy.”

There were five of 'em in the bottom of that case. Two were worn and frayed at the edges. They might have been eaten at by some sort of bug, as there were faint silky wisps on the case's floor. Gorgeous pieces they were, but too far gone. Three however, were in excellent shape. I put the box aside. I would NOT forget where it was, and what it held—those beautiful pieces I'd never seen sold anywhere else in my life. Cummerbunds and bow ties I'd seen sold here and there. I'd even remembered seeing sock garters sold down on the Lower East Side...but ascots? These were special. Mental note taken.

Later that week, I would find myself in his closet at my mother's request. That stuff she wanted out of the bedroom. Those articles specifically reminded her of all the places they'd been together when he wore them, and frankly, they depressed her. I was put in charge of disbursing the items to my three brothers. I stood there with that door open, looking at the row of suits, and shirts and overcoats. I leaned back on the door and suddenly found myself cradled in a lush blanket of his ties hanging there on the rack—rich, embroidered Bert Pulitzer and Countess Mara cravats.

I leaned there and took in the remnants of his colognes in the ties. “4711” and Kiehl's “Rain”. I closed my eyes, and for a minute...Daddy was back.

I opened my eyes though, and realized that in fact...he was gone. My face flushed and tingled with tears. His fur felt Borsalino hat—a medium-brimmed fedora hung above the ties.

I took it down and smelled it.

Wafts of cologne, and Wildroot tonic, and Royal Crown Pomade drifted off the soft, leather band. It was that odd, comforting blend of smells that was his hair. A tangible sense memory of Daddy. I would keep this hat for myself. I tear up typing about it now. I still have that hat in a box I bought for it. I haven't taken it out in about three years. I'd probably have a “moment”— a deep sense menory that would be very intense and mess me up for a few days. I haven't been able to afford being messed up for a few days for quite some time. Maybe soon.

Until then...I'd rather think about all the things he—the most fashionable man I've ever known—taught me about clothes and style.

A couple of posts on the blog recently got me thinking about all the things he taught me, and my brothers and sisters. The post on Apple Computers where in comments, the discussion turned to the “Mac vs. PC” ads and how those characters presented themselves sartorially and how one presents one's self can change everything—was one reminder. The other was the WGA post where I took the Times' writer to task for a blanket fashionista bit of stereotyping the striking writers—“Arty glasses and fancy scarves”. In both of those comment threads, commenters recounted previous discussions at The News Blog where I'd discussed fashion, and how my father was not a dedicated follower but rather, a style leader, not just for me and my siblings—but his circle of friends. The way we present ourselves physically is a big deal. It creates perceptions—and alters them. It's performance art, and we're the actors...every day.

We dress the roles of “Jock”, or “Nerd”, or Wall Street”, or “Artiste”. Some work so hard at anti-style that it becomes style anyway. My father came from a different time, when there were “rules” you followed for “style” in general. It's a sense of “style” that has seemingly returned in a superficial way, but without attention to the details that hammer it home.

But the devil is in those details of course. It's what makes George Clooney stand out amongst his peers...that easy savoir faire with everything in its place. There are other “pretty faces” out there, but that classic, almost perfect style he exudes? It jumps out at you like a flying knife in a 3-D flick. What are the“rules”? How to pull that off?

My father's voice rings in my ears as he laid down the “Commandments”.

”Your textures, son. Textures.”

“You work the gabardine with your silks and light worsteds. That's your Fall and Spring. Come summer, linen and cotton. Lighter grade silks. In the shirts and ties. Nothin' smoother than a silk shirt when you're goin' out on a summer night. Fuck what you've heard—seersucker works, but it can't be stiff. You've gotta break it in, so it's yours. So it drapes instead of sits...you know what I mean?”

“The heavy worsteds, the tweeds and corduroy—that's your late Fall and Winter stuff. Heavier ties...shit, some are like brocade. Work some knits in there. Gotta match weights. Light silk and heavy wool? Uh-uh. Seasonal, son. The jackets you get fitted half a size looser so you can wear a sweater under 'em without bein' all bound up. Fine gauge wool. Cashmere's real expensive, you only need one or maybe two of those. The rest? Light gauge or small ribbed. Merinos. You can live in Merinos. Can't have too many of 'em, either.

“You find a pair of pants that fits you just right—get three of 'em. You'll kick yourself later when you wear that one pair out and that season's run is done. Maybe they won't be out again next year, and then you've got nothin. If it really works— get three of 'em. Two in one color, the third in al alternate. Same with your shirts, 'cept if a style is perfect for you, get five or six. Four white—two colors. make one of the white ones a french cuff—for the day or night you really wanna dress up.”

“Match your leathers. If you're wearing brown shoes, wear a brown belt. Black shoes, black belt. Tan or oxblood (burgundy) shoes? You know the rest. Match your metals too. Gold watch, gold tie bar. Silver watch silver tie bar. You really wanna show somethin'? Match your watch-band leather with your other leathers. Think people won't notice that shit? They do!”

“Steam the wrinkles outta your suits. hang 'em in the bathroom over the tub and let the hot water hit the tub from the shower—the wrinkles'll fall out in five minutes from the steam. Store your light colored stuff—your linen stuff in a dark garment bag. Leave 'em in the closet without a bag and the light that hits the exposed part'll turn it a different color than the rest. Trust me on this.”

“And don't scrimp on your suits! Get real good quality stuff. If the sale suit that's quality is $30 more than the cheaper one that's not a good name suit—SPEND THE $30! OR THE $50 MORE. You'll notice the difference when the cheap suit starts bubbling at the lapel seams and break. That's called the fusing. Good suits sew it in. Cheap suits iron it in. Two passes at the dry cleaners and that fucking chemical tears it apart. the air gets in it. Then you got bubbles.”

“Walkin' round lookin' like a piece of bacon...all bubbled and twisted. You don't want that.

“You're better off with three GOOD suits than six cheap ones. Get a black one, a grey one, and a blue one to start. One can be pinstriped—just to break up all that solid color. A gray pinstripe is always nice to have. That “Thin Man” look. Whooooooo! He was always dapp in those grey pinstipes...”

“Get some hankies—white, light blue and gold always work, but get mostly white ones. hankies give people little extras to look at. Pow-pow-pow! That's how you wanna get 'em!

“Now about those sweaters—get a coupla vests. Maybe a gray and a camel. Get a cardigan—black. Simple. Can't go wrong with that—over a white shirt, a blue shirt, any shirt. Works over turtlenecks, too! You can't have enough Merinos. Get a buncha black ones. You wear the same one all winter long and you'll ruin the neck stretching it out. Alternate 'em. And get a brown one, and a grey one too. You can't have too many of 'em. They'll save your ass in a pinch. Throw one on with a suit—black turtleneck/grey suit. Grey suit/black turtleneck. Blue suit/camel turtleneck...you get it? Yeeaaaah! See how it works? They're simple, and smooth!“

“They look great leading up to your face.”

“Don't wear the same pair of shoes two days in a row. They need to breathe. Switch to a different pair the next day. They'll last longer, and it's better for your feet. You need five pairs minimum. Two black, a brown, a tan and an oxblood. Lace-ups with suits—slip ons with blazes and “outfits”. If fhey get wet in the rain, give 'em two days off if you can. Don't dry 'em near the radiator, it cracks the leather”

“And remember..,'cause I see fellas forget all the time—match your leathers!”

We'd stroll the streets of Manhattan—he, my brothers and me, as he pointed out faux pas' and then examples of real style walking down the street or in a store window.

We learned how a supple gabardine wool breathes, while poly-wool blends trap heat. he showed us about pants lined to the knee with a suit marked it as quality, just like a softly rolled jacket lapel did as well—as opposed to a creased, pressed one. Wide wale (warmer...more surface area) and narrow wale (lighter and less thermal) corduroy—we learned about both varieties.

He took me to his tailor, Mr. Mills and his haberdasher, Mr. Sid, or Uncle Sid as we were to call him. Mr. Mills taught Daddy and me about fusing in jackets, as he also ran a dry cleaners. He stood before us and fingered a horribly pucker-lapeled jacket.

“This is a piece of shit.” Mills would say. “And the son-of-a-bitch is gonna blame me for it. Two cleanings, and it's garbage. Now this...”, he'd say while fondling a three-piece glen plaid suit of Daddy's, “...I've handled this piece at least five times...and look at it! Not a single separation. The roll (on the lapel) holds up. But this guy...” He looked at the “bacon strip” suit jacket, “this guy, won't understand about that, and I'm gonna be arguing with him for an hour about me buying him a new coat. Goddamn.”

Now Uncle Sid got Daddy suits for wholesale—which is the only way he could afford 'em. Seven kids'll do that. Plus, Daddy was getting a discount on top because he brought all his friends—a floating posse of ten to fifteen guys to Sid's for clothes. Daddy got badass Hart, Schaffner & Marx, Three G's and Kuppenheimer gear—not to mention the occasional Pierre Cardin and Burberry pieces for cheap, cheap, super-cheap when they came in.

Sid knew Daddy from his days when he supplied show biz gear to the old shop Academy Clothiers that used to be next to the Ed Sullivan Theatre on 54th and Broadway. We'd drive by there and my father would look at that old rheumy neon sigh, and always tell me the same, crazy story about the cream-colored dinner jacket Sid had made for him when he was up at Academy.

“It was a beautiful piece”, Daddy would always say, following up with what he always said. “And it nearly got my ass killed.”

Seems Daddy was performing with his group somewhere in the mid-south in a still-segregated theatre in a still-segregated town. White folks rockin' and rollin' in the orchestra—Black folks up in the high balcony. The group was working the hell out of a song when Daddy, along with his fellow group members dipped low in unison along the lip of the stage for a dance move. Either Daddy dipped too low, or the crowd was too close at his area, but either way, a young girl had managed to grab the lapel of that cream-colored dinner jacket. of his, in a classic case of rock-and-roll proximity ecstasy.

Daddy moved up on the two with the group, keeping in step—but the girl held fast, and r-i-i-i-i-i-ippppp!—the lapel tore away from that prized jacket. Of course, him being a clothes horse, he had a natural reaction...

“What the FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!!!”, he screamed in the ruined coat as the stunned crowd fell silent.

He had leaned down into the orchestra area...where the White folks sat, and where his jacket had just gotten totaled. And...he had just cursed a young White girl in front of hundreds of people.

The last thing he always said he remembered seeing was the balcony emptying as those Black folks were fleeing for their lives—because every Black face in the place was now a target, based on Daddy's vanity-fueled outburst. A fellow group member grabbed him and rushed him from the stage as chairs and pop bottles filled the air. The group bolted from the stage, and right through the dressing room— leaving amps and anything that couldn't be grabbed easily in about 25 seconds as they leaped into their little caravan of Cadillacs and Chrysler 300s and drove out of town like bats out of a potential flaming-cross hell.

All for want of a precious cream-colored dinner jacket.

I'd laugh every time he told it, picturing my otherwise “on-the-ball”/“everything in its time” dad just lose it when it came down to someone messing with his clothes.

Little thoughts now. Him teaching us boys how to iron a shirt, or shine our shoes. The tie tying primer—“Stick with the half-windsor. I doubt any of you are gonna be great, big monsters like Lewis (His man-mountain friend). Big man, big head, big knot. But you won't be schoolboys (what he called the more common “four-in-hand” knot) forever either, this is a man's knot.” His passion for outerwear—“different jackets for different times”. He had long overcoats, dressy “car” coats and three-quarter jackets. And a trench. “The trenchcoat is your linebacker”, he'd say. “Stuffs the run, doing the dirty work when the weather's bad, but it's got cool written all over it when you sport it on a day with a nip in it. With a turtleneck? It steps out of coverage for 'the pick' and scores.”

I leaned back against that closet door and held the sleeve of the plush cashmere and wool blend Pierre Cardin car coat he used to let me wear when I started really wanting to dress. It was the color of sand. with a double stitch at the cuffs and 'round the lapels which sat up in “mod” style. Slash pockets with the same double stitch. I remembered the night at Studio 54 when an older man in a tuxedo and white scarf saw me getting it out of the coat check and breathlessly asked me “Where did you get that coat? It's beautiful! Cardin?”

“Yes sir.”, I answered.

“Where?”

“My father gave it to me.”

“What is your father...an Ambassador?”

And in that moment, I felt as if I was on a cloud. “My father...the Ambassador.”

“No”, I replied—and then feinted, “He knows a diplomat or two, though.”

And I walked away, laughing to myself. A coat...a coat Daddy'd gotten from Uncle Sid down on Ludlow Street, for way less than wholesale. Daddy, a father of seven, just getting by due to all those kids who he lavished love, and a love of looking good on. He worked with his hands—a chef, a baker/struggling entrepreneur to whom looking good was a little bit of living, breathing art every day. An expression of pride.

Whatever you think of me as a man, you're gonna remember me from how I presented myself. I'm gonna make you think.

“What is your father...an Ambassador?”

He laughed his ass off when I told him about that. “Whooooo-hooooo! Shit, and not have to worry about a parking ticket ever again?!”

He laughed long and loud. And the echoes shook me from my reverie there leaned against that closet door. I let the coat sleeve fall, and looked again upon all the raiments. Opulent. Stately. Beautiful armor, all. But armor nonetheless. The outer shell of a man—a helluva man who suited up every day to ride into the battle that is life, and won far more battles than he lost, often aided by how people reacted to that armor.

He taught four boys. And a group of grown men—James, Clarence, Cleophas, Benjamin, and Barry. Lewis and Joseph too.—they looked to him as well. A son of Carolina sharecroppers had refashioned himself as a little fashion guru—small in his reach, but powerful in his knowledge.

I learned so much from him. About life. About work. Women and survival in the world, too. I learned all of that. But it was that simple, bursting pleasure he shared—that of how to put yourself together—and how it all held up, that makes me smile whenever I see a well-turned out guy like a Clooney.

That's what daddy was getting at. Confidence. Cool. The hell with what they think. Not only do you belong...but baby, you lead.

“You...lead.”

This is but part one of the conversation. Part two will go into the basics of a solid men's wardrobe—the building blocks and defining a style that works for you. (And yes, I'm in contact with a female friend of mine of 25 years who is a fashion industry professional to get her thoughts for a follow-up on Women's fashion as well!)

And if you want to read a brilliant piece on the same subject—a father's lessons on “style” to his son, this piece from GQ in 1996 is a wonder. I thought for years that I was alone in that odd and thorough handing down of the sword and kingdom keys from my father. I was not. Tom Junod's father was also an inveterate sharer of the secrets of the armor.

Armor...supple, .yet strong. Plush and powerful.

Clothes don't make the man. They just make him look special. And who doesn't want to be special? :)

There's more...

“I'll Make You Love Me... Bitch.”

Bloody Letters, Wal-Mart T-shirt

Warning: People triggered by stalking or cutting, this likely isn't for you.

I sent repeated drunken emails telling _____ _____ I was in my car, bleeding, both arms sliced wide fucking open with whatever I had handy -- knife, razor, multi-tool -- in the late spring/early summer of 2002, after my suicide attempt. The first month I even drove by her place a few times in traffic flow.

Yeah.

I warned you. The stories I've told you till now were the tame ones.

This is still pretty much in the tame category but we're starting to get there as we build trust, you and I. There's harder to listen to come.

No one got hurt. She calmed me down by email here and there, and an occasional phone call. I stopped sending her drunken emails. Stopped cutting myself when I got my ankle tattoo at another friend's suggestion -- a tattoo would give me a permanent record, my friend said, thus no need to keep scaring myself to make sure I'd never forget. Worked.

Also, I was starting to gain some control back and cutting is all about having control. My pain then was so enormous, both physically from my injuries but especially emotionally -- not just over the loss of my girlfriend, but from all in a moment discovering the total failure of my whole life, 31 years spent single-mindedly seducing women, how utterly evil I had become claiming to do good, how many lives I'd ruined without thought. And to live with that? Insanity and death, possibly both, were much more attractive.

That I was going to hurt was a given. When, where and how I hurt -- that I kept scrabbling for control over. Once I learned how to be in control of causing hurting myself, under the guidance of my therapist I sloooowly extended control to causing not hurting myself.

She and I met in person one last time a few months later, August 2002, at a previously scheduled conference away from Puget Sound. Spent hours talking with a mutual friend, a highly trained counselor who helped both of us sort out what we wanted from each other.

I wanted her back. She wanted out out out, but was willing to talk to me occasionally if I'd get we were over and let her off the hook. I did. (For certain who I was then was in enormous pain many ways and neither sane or even "me", but that's how it went.) "Let her off the hook?" I cringe just hearing the words now. As if I had some right or she needed to ask my permission.

We emailed perhaps eight to ten times after that. Talked only once. And we were done. (I'd even burned her "special" photos.)

I healed. Have absolutely no clue -- or interest -- in how the woman I'd conned into talk of marriage is doing. I hope well. But not only isn't it my business, I no longer care.

That's called a good result. Does not always end that way.

Feministing Comments (UCLAbodyimage)

David Buss, an evolutionary psychologist, recently published a book called "The Murderer Next Door" which talks about stalking. Based on his study of 13,000 wife killings, he says:

Separation is also a powerful trigger for murder. According to a study of homicides in Chicago, 50 percent of wife killings took place within the first two months of the separation, and an astonishing 85 percent of these women were killed within the first year. In contrast, among the women who contemplated killing their mates, getting dumped accounted for only 13 percent.

Among women killed by a partner they have separated from, 88 PERCENT HAD BEEN STALKED PRIOR TO BEING KILLED” Buss said. “Although most stalkers do not kill their victims, most mate-killing men do stalk their victims. Stalking is one danger sign that women should not ignore.

“Just when women feel as though they have successfully escaped a bad marriage is precisely the time when their lives are most in danger,” he added. “It is likely that the key danger is not the length of time per se but, rather, when the man realizes she will never return to him.”

Based on existing research, Buss concluded for the few mate killings that occur a year or more after estrangement, it seems the couple actually had sexual contact during the year even though the woman had moved out. The hope that she might return, as indicated by sex, offers a protective buffer, lowering the odds the man will try to kill her. But then when the sex stops, and he realizes she will never come back, the woman’s life is in danger.

Wal-Mart's shirt makes a joke of stalking, telling teens and the uninformed stalkings' okay.

It's not.

It's not just creepy. It's scary, wrong, and it can get someone killed.

I was only a danger to me, as it turns out. Many men aren't. I never physically threatened or hurt anyone but me. Even when I was angry with her, I always knew it was all my responsibility.

Everyone involved consistently made the right call on me while I was lost (and this really is one of the tamer stories.) It doesn't always end well.

Charlotte Observer

For the past two years, this woman has been stalked until she feels like a prisoner in her own life. She has been spied upon, bullied and threatened with her life.

She has been in frequent communication with local authorities. Yet, because North Carolina has one of the most vague stalking laws in the nation (a bill is wending its way through the legislature to address that), her recourse has been limited.

So when she saw the T-shirts, clearly aimed for the teen-younger adult set, she didn't see the humor.

"It's reprehensible," said the woman, whose story is well documented but who asked not to be identified for fear that her stalker might retaliate.

"People don't realize how serious stalking is," she said. "You constantly live in fear, look over your shoulder and suffer from psychological and physical symptoms due to the stress of the stalker."

She wondered aloud: What's next?

"Some say it's rape, I call it hot sex"? Or: "Some call it domestic violence, I say I'm just teaching her a lesson"?

The question now is how the world's largest retailer will respond. Tara Stewart, a spokeswoman for the company, forwarded me information about Wal-Mart partnering with the attorney general's office in South Carolina on a public education campaign to combat domestic violence.

"We work hard on this issue and do a great deal to bring awareness and help families in need," she wrote in an e-mail message.

And the T-shirts fit into that public education campaign how?

Repeated calls and e-mail messages elicited promises of answers -- but no answer. No explanation.

Wal-Mart.

What the fuck are they doing?

Stalking isn't something to screw with. People on the edge are explosive.

Why would Wal-Mart possibly contribute to a space already filled with messages of violence, hatred, and coercion in race, between the sexes, and in relationships? Could it be because Wal-Mart itself as a company is violent, coercive, and hated?

Just your friendly all-American anti-woman anti-gay anti-labor anti-health-benefits anti-competition anti-made-in-America pro-Republican pro-domestic-violence pro-stalking neighborhood store.

Rah Team go. Gooooo Wal-Mart!

Hat tip Feministing.

There's more...

“I'm Not Beautiful”

Dove Evolution


Dove Conversation
(Not embeddable. But worth watching.)


Dove Onslaught


Avian, my oldest daughter is a hairdresser. She's ALL about beauty. And the skinny. The Look. And the special clothing, shoes and accessories.

She doesn't get it yet; there's always someone younger, cuter, firmer, and more willing to put out. By the time she's 40, the guys she thinks she cares about now won't even glance at her. Biology moves on.

Beauty as a tool to manipulate, lies. Biologically, beauty has its purpose for a few brief years. But beauty for its own sake isn't even art -- it's a self-defeating loop leading to self-hatred and self-annihilation.

Beauty is always in competition, not just with yourself and the younger girls and boys coming up, but with the inevitable biological decline of your body.

The lie of "beauty" is that youth is beauty. So long as beauty is defined as "stay young and live forever", everyone is fucked. Because no one is getting younger.

And everyone dies.

Hat Tip AdGabber via Jezebel via Feministing.

There's more...

Men In Kilts

Over at Street Prophets, Andrew Ternay (known around Yearly Kos as simply "The Kilt Guy") explains why he's left trousers behind to join the growing and studly world of Manly Men In Skirts.

Back in the late summer of 2000, Mr. R and I were visiting the Fremont Street Flea Market in Seattle. It's a big, formal deal now; but at the time, it was just a funky little Sunday morning street market full of unexpected treasures. As we were drifting toward the exit, my husband found me and dragged me away from a textile seller hawking hand-marbled silk yardage (I'm dangerous in fabric stores, too). "You've got to see this," he insisted, eagerly leading me by the hand over to me to a skinny young man selling kilts out of the back of his battered white pickup truck.

Neither of us had seen anything like them. These were made of canvas in classic colors -- khaki, black, russet -- very techno-medieval and just way hot. The kid had been in business for all of two months, making each one himself by hand on an old industrial sewing machine he'd bought and taught himself to use. He called his product the Utilikilt . They were about $175 each -- steep enough to eat up the trip budget, but we knew without a doubt that we were in the presence of fashion greatness, and would kick ourselves forever if we walked away without one. Mr. R snapped on a black one, shucked off his jeans, got 50 business cards to hand out to the hordes that we knew would follow, and wore it out of the fair. He was hooked.

That was the beginning of My Husband, the Kilt-Wearer. He's acquired others over the years -- Utilikilts, cheaper Amerikilts with spiffy clip-on sporrans, and the whole nine yards of Ancient Henderson greatkilt that he pleats up with a big belt for state occasions -- though they don't get nearly as much use as Andrew's appear to. Mr. R is a big guy, over six feet with a barrel chest and thickly muscled legs that evoke the primeval sensuality of the twisted trunks of ancient and sturdy trees. In a kilt, those legs are on ostentatious display, unignorable, and almost too pretty to look at. Even old ladies sort of drift along behind him, watching him walk.

Andrew, apparently, followed a similar path:

Utilikilts make casual kilts which are not tartan (technically they are manskirts). After much fretting and worrying, I bought one and it turned out to be very comfortable. But I only wore it to places where I already knew people and would not face ridicule - essentially not wearing it much at all.

Despite this, I still got caught wearing a kilt while pumping gas, in the grocery store, or at a restaurant and something happened that messed with my plans to be innocuous and invisible. Invariably people would strike up a conversation about the kilt. Almost all of them were friendly. It is hard to be a recluse in a kilt....

Slowly, the kilts have helped me emerge from my shell. I now own three Utilikilts and one real Scottish kilt in the National Millennium tartan. Some of the nicest compliments I have gotten came at Yearly Kos. Specifically, Christy Hardin Smith of Firedoglake who greets me as "Andy, the cool kilt guy." It's quite a charge to have one of your idols acknowledge you in that way.

Unbelievable as it may sound, I never really thought of the sexual implications of kilts when I stared wearing them. I'm just not too swift when it comes to female/male or male/female flirtation. So I was first shocked, then embarrassed and finally entertained by the way women react to my kilts. The reactions of gay men to my kilts really took me aback. I still am somewhat at a loss on the rare occasion gay men approach me, but now I can sincerely thank them for the compliment...

Sexual implications? You mean like the fact when Mr. R's in a kilt, it's him -- not me -- who gets his ass grabbed whenever we're alone in elevators?

Um. Sorry...that's probably TMI. Let's get gack to Andy...

Not all reactions are positive. I think some men get very insecure when they see another man in a kilt; at least one got really verbally aggressive with me over the issue. I also get what my wife calls The Old Man Glare.

The other drawback to wearing a kilt comes from people who assume the wearer cannot be a very serious person. In that sense, wearing my kilts at YK probably hurt any chance at landing a job with some progressive organization. As one potential employer put it: Andy, you are a smart guy and a hard worker but nobody takes you seriously in a kilt. I vacillate over this reaction: should I just try to fit in? Wear pants except for rare occasions like Halloween parties and Scottish festivals? Or just be myself? I'm simply not sure about this. I do not wear a kilt at my current job ever.

One of the cool things about living in Canada -- especially western Canada, whose first European settlers were Scots Presbyterian agents recruited by the Hudson Bay Company to run their most remote trading posts -- is that it's not uncommon to see men of all ages in kilts. (HBC valued highland Scots for their honesty, self-sufficiency, thrift, and sobriety -- Dudley DoRight was actually an accurate caricature of an original BC type -- and Vancouver is still a Scots town to this day as a result.) It's especially festive around Remembrance Day, when Her Majesty's old soldiers put on their regimental dress, sashay downtown with pleats swinging, and party like it's 1917.

The presence of a man in a kilt always raises The Question. (Mr. R's been threatening to make T-shirt for kilt wear that says simply: "Go ahead and ask. You know you want to.") This website -- not safe for work! -- memorably illustrates the traditional answer. Andy would blush several shades of purple if we asked him about his habits under his habit, so let's not. As for Mr. R: let's just say he's a traditional gentleman in most respects, and leave it right there.

As Andy hints, one of the coolest things about wearing a kilt is tweaking the too-tightly-wound psychosexual strings of pecksniffing sorts who make it their business to disapprove. (True to fundy form, this guy's facts are as twisted as his gender issues. It's wrong for menz to wear gurlz stuff...well -- sputter, wheeze -- just because it IS!) And then there are those whose understanding is well-meaning but, er, rather imperfect -- as Andy's favorite kilt-wearing moments illustrate:

-- From a carful of teenage boys: Nice quilt!

-- Guy in Home Depot line: You must be very proud of your Italian heritage.

-- From a very dear friend who is a lesbian: Wow. I almost want you.

-- In an elevator from man I did not know: Are you gay? Me: No. Scans me slowly from head to toe, then: Are you sure?

-- At a party a woman I did not know asked me if she could look and see what I had on under my kilt. I told her sure, if she absolutely had to, completely confident that she would not do so. My confidence was misplaced. At least she had the grace to tell everyone that I brought my own caber to the party.

Over the seven years since the Utilikilt started it all, kilts are well on their way to becoming an North American men's classic. They're not for every man, nor for all occasions -- but I can't see a man in a kilt without smiling, and thinking he's probably got something interesting going on. More to the point: I've never seen a man in a kilt behave like a jerk. Could it be that jerks are just too insecure to risk it -- and the guys who go for kilts are more self-directed, and therefore tend to care less about what the crowd thinks? Could kilts, in fact, be a decent fashion-based bullshit detector where men are concerned?

We can hash that out in the comments, while contemplating the divine excellence of that perfectly-shaped posterior in the photo above. Oh, for a man in a kilt when the breeze is high...

Update: Evidently, this darling lad is not ham enough for some of y'all. So here's another helping:


Ewan McGregor. Finer Scots ham you canna get anywhere. Whisht yourself, now.

There's more...