So, yesterday, over at Reddit’s “Red Pill” subreddit, THE MENS were complaining about this thing I wrote, and what a tool I am, when one of them made a bold accusation:

"I can't find it now but several years ago his wife attacked a man in a bar with a baseball bat." -- "Red Pill" Reddidiot, re: Krissy (1/2)
10:49 AM - 29 Apr 2014

I suspect the idiot is referring to a time when some drunk dude grabbed Krissy at a bar and she rammed him into a wall for it. No bat. (2/2)
10:50 AM - 29 Apr 2014

"Scalzi thought it was all cool." -- Same Reddidiot. He's right about that. Proud of my wife for jamming that asshole into the wall.
10:54 AM - 29 Apr 2014

For those wanting a contemporaneus telling of the Krissy backing a guy up in a bar story, it is here: http://whatever.scalzi.com/2006/09/09/dont-piss-off-krissy/ …
10:59 AM - 29 Apr 2014

Also: Here's a picture of Krissy with a bat. This may have confused the poor soul. …
11:05 AM - 29 Apr 2014

29 Apr
Stephen Toulouse @Stepto
@scalzi That's not what bothers them. It bothers them that you were TOTALLY OK WITH IT.
John Scalzi ✔ @scalzi
Follow
.@Stepto Indeed. HOW DARE I approve of my wife defending herself. I AM A TOOL OF THE MATRIARCHY.
11:12 AM - 29 Apr 2014

In the letter, titled “The Girl Puzzle,” Bly considers the value of women — not society women and wealthy matrons, “but those without talent, without beauty, without money” — and calls for a sort of empathy rarely afforded those in such circumstances:

"Can they that have full and plenty of this world’s goods realize what it is to be a poor working woman, abiding in one or two bare rooms, without fire enough to keep warm, while her threadbare clothes refuse to protect her from the wind and cold, and denying herself necessary food that her little ones may not go hungry; fearing the landlord’s frown and threat to cast her out and sell what little she has, begging for employment of any kind that she may earn enough to pay for the bare rooms she calls home, no one to speak kindly to or encourage her, nothing to make life worth the living?"

Bly argues that society’s “solution” to the problem — employing these poor young women at the factory — is more of a punishment than a help:

"The pay may in some instances be better, but from 7 a.m. until 6 p.m., except for 30 minutes at noon, she is shut up in a noisy, unwholesome place. When duties are over for the day, with tired limbs and aching head, she hastens sadly to a cheerless home. How eagerly she looks forward to pay day, for that little mite means so much at home. Thus day after day, week after week, sick or well, she labors on that she may live. What think you of this, butterflies of fashions, ladies of leisure? This poor girl does not win fame by running off with a coachman; she does not hug and kiss a pug dog nor judge people by their clothes and grammar; and some of them are ladies, perfect ladies, more so than many who have had every advantage."

Bly’s most important point, however, is about the social advantages afforded to boys but not girls — about how this early discrepancy in starting points echoes out to shape entire lives and entire classes of citizens, and how fostering an entrepreneurial spirit in girls is the best way to mend the imbalance:

"If girls were boys quickly would it be said: start them where they will, they can, if ambitious, win a name and fortune. How many wealthy and great men could be pointed out who started in the depths; but where are the many women? Let a youth start as errand boy and he will work his way up until he is one of the firm. Girls are just as smart, a great deal quicker to learn; why, then, can they not do the same? As all occupations for women are filled why not start some new ones. Instead of putting the little girls in factories let them be employed in the capacity of messenger boys or office boys. It would be healthier. They would have a chance to learn; their ideas would become broader and they would make as good, if not better, women in the end. It is asserted by storekeepers that women make the best clerks. Why not send them out as merchant travelers? They can talk as well as men — at least men claim that it is a noted fact that they talk a great deal more and faster. If their ability at home for selling exceeds a man’s why would it not abroad? Their lives would be brighter, their health better, their pocketbooks fuller, unless their employers would do as now — give them half wages because they are women."

She offers an illustrative example from the town itself:

A girl was engaged to fill a position that had always been occupied by men, who, for the same, received $2.00 a day. Her employer stated that he never had anyone in the same position that was as accurate, speedy and gave the same satisfaction; however, as she was “just a girl” he gave her $5.00 a week. Some call this equality.

Word of Beyonce's appearance on Time's list of the hundred most influential people has finally reached straw-boater-wearing Saturday Evening Post music critic Bill O'Reilly, and he is not pleased. He's convinced that Beyonce is most certainly not empowering and quite probably encourages teen pregnancy, especially among young black women.

O'Reilly has been bitching about Bey since "Partition," when he fussed to Russell Simmons that, "She puts out a new album with a video that glorifies having sex in the back of a limousine. Teenage girls look up to Beyoncé, particularly girls of color." Because feuds with pop stars are good for ratings he's genuinely concerned about the young women of America, he trotted out the topic once more in the wake of her Time appearance. Via the Guardian:

"The 'empowering' stuff is just so much garbage," said O'Reilly. "Empowering what? She sings songs." In fact, the Fox news host thinks Beyoncé has a "negative influence" on young girls, "especially those who do not have parental supervision. [There are] cultural deficits … not only [in] black precincts, but in poor, white precincts and Hispanic precincts with unsupervised children … Beyoncé is part of that problem."
Never mind that Beyonce is almost certainly far, far more personally invested in the fates of young women, especially young black women, than Bill O'Reilly. Yes, it's definitely Beyonce who's the problem (via video on Slate):

"She knows, this woman knows that young girls getting pregnant in the African-American community now, it's about 70% out of wedlock. She knows, and doesn't seem to care... that's my problem with her." Heaven forbid anybody mention the existence of sex until teen pregnancy vanishes from the earth. If we all pull together and refuse to talk about sex, no teenager will ever get pregnant again.

Jenny Smith will never forget the phone call that saved her life. It was her second attempt after finding herself incapable of speech the first time. Trying again a few days later, she managed a few gasped words: "I'm a battered wife, can you help me?"

After being ignored by a doctor and a psychiatrist and told to go home and make peace with her husband by a priest, this time a woman's calm, soft voice, said: "Can you make your way here? We are in Chiswick, 2 Belmont Terrace. Can you get here? Just try to get here."

It was May 1973, there was no law against marital rape in the UK, lone women could not apply for a mortgage, and domestic violence was rarely mentioned. Smith had endured two years of violence from her mentally unstable husband, including vicious beatings, knifings, burns, bites and an attempted drowning. Within 48 hours of that call, with the help of a neighbour, she had left her home in Hackney, east London, and was standing outside an ordinary terraced house in west London – her seven-month-old daughter in one arm, her 23-month-old at her side.

When the door swung open she was enveloped in a woman's embrace. "Come in, love," she said. "You're safe now." As she stepped over the threshold, Smith unwittingly became a small part of feminist history: one of the first women to be given sanctuary in the world's first women's refuge.

Now 79, the lady has laid down some deeply iconic bass tracks in a career spanning 55 years and something in the neighborhood of 10,000 recording sessions.

Joe Cocker’s “Feelin’ Alright”?

The Beach Boys hits “Help Me, Rhonda,” “Sloop John B,” and “California Girls.”

The theme song to The Brady Bunch?

Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Are Made for Walkin‘”?!?

Holy cow, talk about something to tell the grandkids.

Her interview for a never completed documentary above left me with none of the melancholy I felt on behalf of the under-recognized back up singers populating the recent film Twenty Feet from Stardom. This may be due to some rock and roll gender inequality. The girls far outnumber the boys in the ranks of backing vocals, where looks play an undeniable part, at least when the band’s out on the road. Kaye’s contributions occurred in the recording studio. She appears plenty content to have numbered among an elite team of hard working, clean living Los Angeles session musicians.

Unsurprisingly, she was one of a very few women in the field, though girls, take note: her website has 115 playing tips for fledgling bass players. Boys are free to take note too…

Now that you’ve “discovered” this legend, may we suggest setting an hour aside to get to know her better in the longer interview below?

My glares burn through her.
And I’m sure that such actions aren’t foreign to her
because the essence of her beauty is, well, the essence of beauty.

And in the presence of this higher being,
the weakness of my masculinity kicks in,
causing me to personify my wannabe big-baller, shot-caller,
God’s gift to the female species with shiny suit wrapping rapping like,
“Yo, what’s crackin shorty how you livin’ what’s your sign what’s your size I dig your style, yo.”

Now, this girl was no fool.
She gives me a dirty look with the quickness like,
“Boy, you must be stupid.”
so I’m looking at myself,
“Boy, you must be stupid.”
But looking upon her I am kinda feelin’ her style.

So I try again.
But, instead of addressing her properly,
I blurt out one of my fake-ass playalistic lines like,
“Gurl, you must be a traffic ticket cuz you got fine written all over you.”
Now, she’s trying to leave and I’m trying to keep her here.
So at a final attempt, I utter,
“Gurl, what is your ethnic makeup?”

At this point, her glare was scorching through me,
and somehow she manages to make her brown eyes
resemble some kinda brown fire or something,
but there’s no snap or head movement,
no palm to face, click of tongue, middle finger,
roll of eyes, twist of lips, or girl power chant.
She just glares through me with these burning eyes
and her gaze grabs you by the throat.

She says, “Ethnic makeup?”
She says, “First of all, makeup’s just an Anglicized, colonized, commodified utility
that my sisters have been programmed to consume,
forcing them to cover up their natural state
in order to imitate what another sister looks like in her natural state
because people keep telling her
that the other sister’s natural state is more beautiful
than the first sister’s natural state.
At the same time,
the other sister isn’t even in her natural state,
because she’s trying to imitate yet another sister,
so in actuality, the natural state that the first sister’s trying to imitate
wasn’t even natural in the first place.”

Now I’m thinking, “Damn, this girl’s kicking knowledge!”
But, meanwhile, she keeps spitting on it like,
“Fine. I’ll tell you bout my ‘ethnic makeup.’
I wear foundation,
not that powdery stuff,
I wear the foundation laid by my indigenous people.
It’s that foundation that makes it so that past being globalized,
I can still vocalize with confidence that I know where my roots are.
I wear this foundation not upon my face, but within my soul,
and I take this from my ancestors
because I’ll be damned if I’d ever let an American or European corporation
tell me what my foundation
should look like.”

I wear lipstick,
for my lips stick to the ears of men,
so they can experience in surround sound my screams of agony
with each lash of rulers, measuring tape, and scales,
as if my waistline and weight are inversely proportional to my value as a human being.
See my lips, they stick, but not together.
Rather, they flail open with flames to burn down this culture that once kept them shut.
Now, I mess with eye shadow,
but my eyes shadow over this time where you’ve gone at ends to keep me blind.
But you can’t cover my eyes, look into them.
My eyes foreshadow change.
My eyes foreshadow light.
and I’m not into hair dyeing.
but I’m here, dying, because this oppression won’t get out of my hair.
I have these highlights.
They are highlights of my past atrocities,
they form this oppression I can’t wash off.
It tangles around my mind and twists and braids me in layers,
this oppression manifests,
it’s stressing me so that even though I don’t color my hair,
in a couple of years it’ll look like I dyed it gray.
So what’s my ethnic makeup?
I don’t have any.
Because your ethnicity isn’t something you can just make up.
And as for that shit my sisters paint on their faces, that’s not makeup, it’s make-believe.”

I can’t seem to look up at her.
and I’m sure that such actions aren’t foreign to her
because the expression on her face
shows that she knows that my mind is in a trance.

As her footsteps fade, my ego is left in crutches.
And rejection never sounded so sweet.

Directed by Karen Lum
Poem written and performed by Adriel Luis

http://everydayfeminism.com/2014/04/guy-hits-on-girl/

(CNN) -- Jason Griffin straps his right arm in bandages, preparing himself to grip the reins of a wildly bucking bronco. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a rough beard, he steps into his cowboy boots, fits a Stetson hat and heads out to meet his mount in the rodeo arena.
Griffin is a four-time world champion bareback bucking horse rider -- competing in a sport that began in the 19th century heyday of the Wild West.

With each victory -- he has also won three all-round rodeo championships -- the Texan raises awareness of a strong tradition which is rarely seen in the many novels, films and television series dedicated to the tales of the old West: The historic story of America's black cowboys

On cinema screens and paperback covers, the cowboys of old were heroic, hard-bitten and -- almost always -- white. (bold mine)

Black cowboys were sometimes expected to do ... more than their white counterpart -- in other words, some of the roughest work
In reality, the American West of the 1800s was traversed by an assortment of black, white, Mexican and Native American cattle hands. Contemporary records are rare but historians now estimate that up to one in four Texan cowboys was African American, while the number of Mexican cowboys was even greater.
John Ferguson and Gregg MacDonald's documentary film -- and multimedia project -- "The Forgotten Cowboys" follows Griffin and other contemporary black cowboys as they gain a following competing at rodeos and go about their working lives.

April is a month for people throughout Indonesia to honor the women of the country.
Over a hundred years ago this month, Raden Ajeng Kartini was born into an aristocratic family in Jepara, Central Java. Struggling against restrictions placed on women throughout her life, she fought to revolutionize the role and rights of women in Indonesia.

In 1964, President Sukarno paid tribute to Kartini by declaring her birthday, April 21, Kartini Day. Every year the entire country commemorates the remarkable pioneer and her contributions to the development of women’s rights by staging a series of celebratory events.

One noteworthy tribute this year comes in the form of the musical drama “Pulung Gelung Drupadi” (“Drupadi’s Sacred Hairbun”), which will take place in Taman Ismail Marzuki’s (TIM) Teater in Jakarta, Central Jakarta, this weekend.

The musical is presented by the Suksma Budaya Foundation (SBF), a non-profit organization based in South Jakarta with aims to preserve Indonesia’s traditional heritage through the arts.

“Staging this performance is our way of supporting Javanese traditional culture,” said Mitu M. Prie, co-founder of Suksma Budaya Foundation, as well as creative director and playwright of “Pulung Gelung Drupadi” (PGD).

The play highlights the overlooked life of Drupadi, the wife of the five Pandawas in the Mahabharata epic.

Although the poem originates in India, Mahabharata has long been adopted by the Javanese people. Etchings of the story can be found on temples dating back to 10 CE, and has since then played a recurring role in ancient Javanese literature as well as wayang shows.

“But unfortunately, Drupadi is often overlooked,” said PGD producer, Sri Astari Rasyid. “And there are actually a lot of moral values that we can learn from the story.”