THE WOMEN
“I have been uncompromising, peppery, intractable, monomaniacal, tactless, volatile and oft times disagreeable. ... I suppose I’m larger than life.”
— Bette Davis
“I am unfettered, I am free.”
— Martha Stewart
“I am just too much.”
— Joan Crawford
When life is bad -- like now -- there's always television. When television fails, there's nostalgia. I tried both TV and nostalgia to alleviate my post-Katrina blues, and in the process I had an epiphany: What the world needs now is a few great women. Not good women; good women lack the certain murderous edge needed for trying times. What we need are dames. Hussies. Hardball-playing Jezebels.
In short, we need Martha Stewart. This past week, in the nick of time, Martha rose like a domestic phoenix with the premiere of her eponymous daytime series. Wednesday, she hits prime time as the star of NBC's "The Apprentice: Martha Stewart." There are other hopeful signs -- stock in her company is up, and October sees the publication of "The Martha Rules: 10 Essentials for Achieving Success as You Start, Grow, or Manage a Business." Not bad for a dame fresh out of the clink, a thin band of untanned skin marking the site of her ankle monitor. Color-coordinated pug in tow, Martha is on the mend.
Rock it, Martha. Because if you had headed FEMA, you'd have found a way to plug the levees using a bevy of household items. You'd have evacuated everyone on time and filled the hellish convention center with an intoxicating amalgam of potpourri and song. You'd have freshened up New Orleans lickety-split. You'd have had stylish prefab housing awaiting the fleeing masses, and you'd have saved all their pets, too. Because Martha? You are the echo of a more competent era. You, Martha, are the quintessence of a grand dame.
Having never been one myself, I harbor a great appreciation for such grand dames. Hence my genuflection at the altar of Martha and my pilgrimage to the Castro Theatre last week for its Bette Davis and Joan Crawford marathon. Like Martha, these were women with a solid work ethic who got things done with a cigarette in one hand and a martini glass in the other. Has outrage ever wielded a pistol with the lethal precision of Bette in "The Letter" and Joan in "Possessed"? And what might these broads have done, had they been faced with the bungling and inefficiency and criminal neglect of the post-Katrina world? The head of FEMA would have been dispatched posthaste, for starters. Picture this: Bette, impeccable in an Adrian gown, descending a staircase while simultaneously firing truth and justice from the barrel of a dainty handgun, Michael Brown quivering before her; Martha following in her wake, tidying up the mess with lemony fresh efficiency. That's the way to run a country.
Ah, but that would be too easy. Dudes, please explain. Where are we as a culture when we have all but eliminated strong women from our lexicon? "Kill Bill" and comic-book sagas aside, I challenge you to remember the last time a female actor carried a movie without having it labeled a "chick flick." It's been decades since a woman was on the Democratic or Republican ticket, even though we know -- and oh yes, we do -- that most of the first ladies of the past 30 years would have made better commanders in chief than their husbands.
Market researchers would tell us that women can't identify with strong females; they'd also say that men feel threatened by competitive women. Market researchers need to get out more often. I've met few men who don't love tough women, and even fewer women who don't appreciate the style of a hard-boiled diva. Nonetheless, we're fed the equivalent of estrogen-laced pabulum. Jessica Alba? Please. Why can't we celebrate one of "Sin City's" machine-gunning hooker vixens instead? We need the sass. Madonna is the last broad standing, but she got religion and moved to England. Victoria Gotti has chops but no talent. Courtney Love is ... well, Courtney Love. Oprah has the power but not the attitude.
In short, we've abandoned our tradition of great broads, and look where it's left us. The country's infrastructure is in a shambles. We're mired in a protracted and inefficient war. The economy is swirling around an open sewer. Coincidence? I think not. Martha and her pug would not have allowed this to happen. Bette would have downed her scotch, smoked a final cigarette and put things right. Joan would have added another layer of lipstick and beat up anyone who crossed her.
These aren't good women; they are goddesses. And to paraphrase the late, great Martin Heidegger, only a goddess can save us now.
SPEAKING OF BITCHES: I'm assuming everyone who can afford to has already contributed something to the relief efforts down South. So. Here's another chance to gild your karma: Thousands of lost and sick pets have been rescued from the remains of their people's homes, and they need whatever assistance you have left to offer. Buy a kitty a bowl of food, offer to foster a pup, whatever. Visit the Humane Society's disaster relief Web site (hsus.org) or Petfinder.com to find out how to help. Maria Callas' poodle and Martha Stewart's pug would want you to do this. Woof, baby.
“I have been uncompromising, peppery, intractable, monomaniacal, tactless, volatile and oft times disagreeable. ... I suppose I’m larger than life.”
— Bette Davis
“I am unfettered, I am free.”
— Martha Stewart
“I am just too much.”
— Joan Crawford
When life is bad -- like now -- there's always television. When television fails, there's nostalgia. I tried both TV and nostalgia to alleviate my post-Katrina blues, and in the process I had an epiphany: What the world needs now is a few great women. Not good women; good women lack the certain murderous edge needed for trying times. What we need are dames. Hussies. Hardball-playing Jezebels.
In short, we need Martha Stewart. This past week, in the nick of time, Martha rose like a domestic phoenix with the premiere of her eponymous daytime series. Wednesday, she hits prime time as the star of NBC's "The Apprentice: Martha Stewart." There are other hopeful signs -- stock in her company is up, and October sees the publication of "The Martha Rules: 10 Essentials for Achieving Success as You Start, Grow, or Manage a Business." Not bad for a dame fresh out of the clink, a thin band of untanned skin marking the site of her ankle monitor. Color-coordinated pug in tow, Martha is on the mend.
Rock it, Martha. Because if you had headed FEMA, you'd have found a way to plug the levees using a bevy of household items. You'd have evacuated everyone on time and filled the hellish convention center with an intoxicating amalgam of potpourri and song. You'd have freshened up New Orleans lickety-split. You'd have had stylish prefab housing awaiting the fleeing masses, and you'd have saved all their pets, too. Because Martha? You are the echo of a more competent era. You, Martha, are the quintessence of a grand dame.
Having never been one myself, I harbor a great appreciation for such grand dames. Hence my genuflection at the altar of Martha and my pilgrimage to the Castro Theatre last week for its Bette Davis and Joan Crawford marathon. Like Martha, these were women with a solid work ethic who got things done with a cigarette in one hand and a martini glass in the other. Has outrage ever wielded a pistol with the lethal precision of Bette in "The Letter" and Joan in "Possessed"? And what might these broads have done, had they been faced with the bungling and inefficiency and criminal neglect of the post-Katrina world? The head of FEMA would have been dispatched posthaste, for starters. Picture this: Bette, impeccable in an Adrian gown, descending a staircase while simultaneously firing truth and justice from the barrel of a dainty handgun, Michael Brown quivering before her; Martha following in her wake, tidying up the mess with lemony fresh efficiency. That's the way to run a country.
Ah, but that would be too easy. Dudes, please explain. Where are we as a culture when we have all but eliminated strong women from our lexicon? "Kill Bill" and comic-book sagas aside, I challenge you to remember the last time a female actor carried a movie without having it labeled a "chick flick." It's been decades since a woman was on the Democratic or Republican ticket, even though we know -- and oh yes, we do -- that most of the first ladies of the past 30 years would have made better commanders in chief than their husbands.
Market researchers would tell us that women can't identify with strong females; they'd also say that men feel threatened by competitive women. Market researchers need to get out more often. I've met few men who don't love tough women, and even fewer women who don't appreciate the style of a hard-boiled diva. Nonetheless, we're fed the equivalent of estrogen-laced pabulum. Jessica Alba? Please. Why can't we celebrate one of "Sin City's" machine-gunning hooker vixens instead? We need the sass. Madonna is the last broad standing, but she got religion and moved to England. Victoria Gotti has chops but no talent. Courtney Love is ... well, Courtney Love. Oprah has the power but not the attitude.
In short, we've abandoned our tradition of great broads, and look where it's left us. The country's infrastructure is in a shambles. We're mired in a protracted and inefficient war. The economy is swirling around an open sewer. Coincidence? I think not. Martha and her pug would not have allowed this to happen. Bette would have downed her scotch, smoked a final cigarette and put things right. Joan would have added another layer of lipstick and beat up anyone who crossed her.
These aren't good women; they are goddesses. And to paraphrase the late, great Martin Heidegger, only a goddess can save us now.
SPEAKING OF BITCHES: I'm assuming everyone who can afford to has already contributed something to the relief efforts down South. So. Here's another chance to gild your karma: Thousands of lost and sick pets have been rescued from the remains of their people's homes, and they need whatever assistance you have left to offer. Buy a kitty a bowl of food, offer to foster a pup, whatever. Visit the Humane Society's disaster relief Web site (hsus.org) or Petfinder.com to find out how to help. Maria Callas' poodle and Martha Stewart's pug would want you to do this. Woof, baby.
*Neva Chonin - San Francisco Chronicle
No comments:
Post a Comment