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Written by Maggie Weller
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Monday, 03 March 2008 |
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 Five days, over one hundred teenage girls, one goal: be yourself. Not the self your parents hope you’ll be. Not the self your siblings and friends bully you into being. Not the self who mimics those girls you publicly hate but secretly admire because everyone looks at them. Be the real you - the you that ROCKS. This goal is the driving force behind the Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp for Girls and the basis of the new documentary, Girls Rock!
The Riot Grrl movement in the early 1990s tapped into the raw musical talent and intense energy so many women had been taught to hide and deny. But with every cultural movement comes backlash. For the Riot Grrl movement, it came in the form of vacuous pop music icons with glossy lips, bare midriffs and pigtails, dancing suggestively while singing along to pre-recorded voice tracks. Clearly, it’s time to re-empower young women. |
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How I Survived February in Chicago |
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Written by Sarah Terez Rosenblum
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Tuesday, 26 February 2008 |
 I had a friend in college who turned down a hardwood-floored, $500 dollar a month one bedroom with a garage and a southern exposure because it did not meet her number one criterion for an apartment: it was not within walking distance of at least two bars. To me this is like coming home to find The L Word’s Shane in your living room, white shirt unbuttoned to her sternum, Feeldoe hard-on with your name on it, and saying, “Thanks but no thanks, babe. Your hair just isn’t sufficiently tousled today.” |
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Written by Darby Blue
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Monday, 18 February 2008 |
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 Identity. It is a fundamental human construct. It’s interesting to watch my kids move from the puppy dog-level questions of “Who are you?” and “What’s that?” to the infinitely more complex question of “Who am I?” But unlike being able to name “ducky!” and “kitty!” for them, “Who am I?” is a question they’ll have to struggle lifelong to answer for themselves. Sometimes I can barely answer it for myself.
“Mom,” says the apron I wear in the kitchen when I’m cooking something particularly spattery or messy. A number of very thoughtful writers have explored what happens to individual identity when one makes the jump into parenthood. In my quest to understand this process, I read lots of them. Having done the coming out thing previous to parenthood, the process of transition, of crossing over, was at least a little familiar. That is, if the total unknown can ever be described as familiar, and whoever gave you directions was a little drunk, and then it snowed so the whole place looks different anyway. |
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