For years, male comics, male audience members, and married heterosexual couples in the audience would proposition me after shows. I would be just talking about my life — having a girlfriend, going to a movie with that girlfriend, whatever — and for some reason, that would get folks going. They’d want to talk to me about my sex life, or worse, their sex life. And the thing is, I’m not into men. Because I’m a lesbian. So I’m not into men. Or really, married women. Or straight women. Or like, you know, anyone, since I was just onstage talking about my girlfriend.
Of course, women are oversexualized. We know that. We sell beer with that. But two women — well, that’s the stuff of sweeps week. Porn is a huge part of that. I’m fine with folks watching whatever consensual stuff works for them, but I’m not super stoked on men (because this part is always men) absorbing my actual life into their Web history. I mean, an 80-year-old man once asked me after a show if he could will me his collection of soft-core pornography. I think I had been talking about The Terminator that particular night.
But 80-year-olds aside, I’m not going to hide my sexuality. Because if I stop talking about my life and my sexuality with some degree of candor — not even a huge degree, but some! — then comedy is just left with a sea of dude comics miming wieners onstage forever. I don’t hear myself represented onstage, and that’s OK. I’ll represent myself. I’m happy to.” — "What Not to Yell at a Lesbian Comic" | Cameron Esposito for The Advocate (via gaywrites)
“Her style was bedraggled, doll, sexy, gutter snipe. It was a deconstruction of sexy in opposition to what mainstream pop was promoting and it was armor against exploitation. And millions of girls/women adopted that look. It appealed to us because it was adorably vulgar and anti-society. It let us wear our skirts and dresses but flourishes it with toughness. It defied the male gaze.”—
[GroupThink] On Courtney Love
I absolutely love this.
“What if all women were bigger and stronger than you? And thought they were smarter? What if women were the ones who started wars? What if too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos and no K-Y Jelly? What if the state trooper who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike was a woman and carried a gun? What if the ability to menstruate was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs? What if your attractiveness to women depended on the size of your penis? What if every time women saw you they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands? What if women were always making jokes about how ugly penises are and how bad sperm tastes? What if you had to explain what’s wrong with your car to big sweaty women with greasy hands who stared at your crotch in a garage where you are surrounded by posters of naked men with hard-ons? What if men’s magazines featured cover photos of 14-year-old boys with socks tucked into the front of their jeans and articles like: “How to tell if your wife is unfaithful” or “What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate” or “The truth about impotence”? What if the doctor who examined your prostate was a woman and called you “Honey”? What if you had to inhale your boss’ stale cigar breath as she insisted that sleeping with her was part of the job? What if you couldn’t get away because the company dress code required you wear shoes designed to keep you from running? And what if after all that women still wanted you to love them?”— Carol Diehl - For the Men Who Still Don’t Get It (via mymangotree)
“What did you learn?"
— Hannah Freeman (via childlike-wildelike)
I learned that rape jokes are funny.
I learned that I shouldn’t smile or make eye contact with strangers (but I also learned that I should always look them in the eye so they know that I’m aware of them). I learned that I shouldn’t wear skirts or show my shoulders or have tight clothing or wear makeup or have long hair because a ponytail or braid makes it easiest for rapists to grab and control me; and I learned that I should always cover my drink and never leave the house at night or go anywhere alone, and that I shouldn’t have breasts or any discernibly female anatomy because if I do men can’t help what they do, and—say it with me everyone—it’s like putting a steak in front of a dog and expecting him not to eat it; and I learned to think of myself as a raw, stinking cut of something already dead and to think of men as evil, brutish beasts who are still somehow so much better than me.
I learned I am meant for a window display and that I need to compete for existence by swinging myself on a butcher’s hook; but I also learned that if people look at me, I should be ashamed for making them aware of their hunger. I learned that any work I do is inferior to a man’s because I’m too busy being consumed by penis envy, and I learned that my voice should never count because it sometimes breaks.
I learned that I should disregard all of those rape prevention tips I mentioned earlier because first and foremost it is my responsibility to be perfect, and I learned that to be perfect I need to bare skin that is always naturally flawless, and I learned that the right answer when I’m asked what I want to be when I grow up is “invisible,” and that I should fear being undesirable more than I should fear vomiting blood onto scabbed knuckles.
I learned that I should be honored when strangers tell me what they would do to me in the dark; but I learned that when someone actually carries out their words and I wash up dead on a muddy river bank—well, I really should have seen that coming. I learned that I always could have been more aware and that nothing I learned about rape actually matters because I secretly wanted it to happen anyway; and I learned that it was still my fault for not following all of those tips in the first place, so everyone can agree that I was totally asking for it.
I learned that, in a pinch, the skin exposed by shorts and a t-shirt can be substituted for consent, and that everyone knows “I just want to be friends” really means “I’m not drunk enough yet.” I learned that I should have noticed that my male, school-appointed advocate had more in common with my rapist than with me. I learned that it is easier to testify that a female friend a psychotic, manipulative bitch than it is to admit a male friend is a rapist. I learned that I would be seated next to my rapist during the hearing, and I learned that the panel would look him in the eye while they asked me questions.
I learned that when a devastated girl with shame-branded cheeks confesses to her family that she got herself raped, each of them will put her on trial and play judge. I learned that my family loves me no matter what I do or how many mistakes I make, and this unconditional grace even includes being raped. I learned that no amount of armor could have been enough to withstand my father’s first words after the story tumbled out of me in between sobs:
“What did you learn?”
Fun Story: My director kept telling me and my tenor sax buddy to play softer. No matter what we did, it wasn’t soft enough for him. So getting frustrated, I told my buddy “Dont play this time. Just fake it”
Our Band Director then informed us we sounded perfect.
To my readers: “p” means quiet, “pp” means really quiet. I’ve never seen “pppp” before haha.
On the contrast, “f” means loud, and “ffff” probably means so loud you go unconscious.
I had ffff in a piece once and my conductor told me to play as loudly as physically possible without falling off my chair…
Me and my trombone buddies had “ffff” and he sat next to me and played so hard that he fell out of his chair.
The lengths we go for music.
Okay yeah so I play the bass clarinet and the amount of air you have to move and the stiffness of the reed means it only has two settings and that is loud and louder, with an optional LOUDEST that includes a 50% probability of HORRIBLE CROAKING NOISE which is the bass equivalent of the ubiquitous clarinet shriek.
One day, when I was in concert band in high school, we got a new piece handed out for the first time, and there was a strange little commotion back in the tuba section — whispering, and pointing at something in the music, and swatting at each other’s hands all shhh don’t call attention to it. And although they did attract the attention of basically everyone else in the band, they managed to avoid being noticed by the band director, who gave us a few minutes to look over our parts and then said, “All right, let’s run through it up to section A.”
And here we are, cheerfully playing along, sounding reasonably competent — but everyone, when they have the attention to spare, is keeping an eye on the tuba players. They don’t come in for the first eight measures or so, and then when they do come in, what we see is:
[reeeeeeally deep breath]
[COLOSSAL FOGHORN NOISE]
The entire band stops dead, in the cacophonous kind of way that a band stops when it hasn’t actually been cued to stop. The band director doesn’t even say anything, just looks straight back at the tubas and makes a helpless sort of why gesture.
In unison, the tuba players defend themselves: “THERE WERE FOUR F’S.”
FFFF is not really a rational dynamic marking for any instrument, but for the love of all that is holy why would you put it in a tuba part.
This is the best band post
Everyone else go home
Oh man, so I play trombone, and we got this piece called Florentiner Marsch by Julius Fucik, and we saw this
which is 8 fortes. We were shocked until,
that is 24 fortes who the fuck does that
Who does that?
This guy. Take a good look - that is the moustache of a man with nothing to lose.
More like Julius Fuckit