It took 82 years, but there’s finally a woman who holds the title of Academy Award-winning “Best Director” .

But it’s about more than just a woman taking home the big prize.

As a writer, I saw something incredible happen for a change at the Oscars. A little movie won. A movie won that was all heart, all story, all controversy, and had absolutely nothing “easy” about its content and no sell-out ending.

A lot of people who’ve not seen The Hurt Locker might think the film’s about the Iraq war, but like I was told by more than one person, it’s not. It’s not a movie “about” the Iraq War. It’s about one man trying to find his place. It’s about the hardest, most dangerous job in the world and what drives a man to do it. That just happens to be during the Iraq War.

Ask anyone who’s seen the movie if it’s pro-war or anti-war and they’ll have to stop and think — because it’s neither.

What The Hurt Locker is, really, is just an incredible story that does what stories used to do — engage the viewer on every level, including philosophically.

Last night, it wasn’t just that a woman took home the big prize for directing a “war” movie. It’s that she did it without softening it up or having to put female touches on it. She just made the movie she wanted to make, without having to worry about doing it “as a woman”.

Anyone who’s ever looked into learning about film and writing for them has got to be a little wowed that The Hurt Locker won. After all, everyone said Crash was such a surprise it won, ‘cos its grosses were so low. The Hurt Locker, though? It earned a quarter of what Crash did. Less than $13 million at the box office. Yes, $13 million. Less than a tenth of Avatar’s opening weekend take — and that’s during its entire run, including after Oscar nomination hype.

I’m still STUNNED about it all. With its approaches to war and its unclear trajectory, the questions it asks, the dilemmas it explores, the fact that The Hurt Locker ever even got made sort of astounds me.

That Hollywood picked it as its Best Picture for 2010?

Wow. What more can I say? Wow.

Add that a woman was responsible for making it so hard and unflinching and real a look at the ethical/personal dilemmas faced in being at war, and, yeah, I’m a pretty happy film fan this Monday morning.

Story won.

For once, story, editing, acting, writing, directing, and music and EVERYTHING came together for one brief, great movie that serves the purpose film SHOULD serve:

It made us think.

Somewhere along the line, movies became “entertainment”. Sit down, shut your brain off, and enjoy, right?

But once upon a time, we believed the world could be changed through pictures and films.

And if not the world, well, maybe at least our minds. We could see stories and dilemmas, we could reason them out, enrich our perspectives, see things in new light.

That was the old days, though. A long time ago. When directors made movies like Citizen Kane.

Nowadays, the world’s too full of chaos and confusion. It’s best to “enjoy” a movie than overthink it. Look at all the winners in the last 50 years. Who really pushed controversial buttons?

Honestly, to find a movie that asks similarly uncomfortable questions and doesn’t provide glossed-over military-machine answers, or didn’t polish up its content to offend the least amount of people, you’d have to travel back to 30 years ago, for a little movie called The Deer Hunter.

The last time a movie really had as much emotional impact and left the viewer in as much confusion about its ethical themes was indeed the legendary The Deer Hunter, in my own “movie fan” POV.

I like that a woman won for a “man’s” kind of movie. I don’t think that’s a sell-out. I’m female and I LOVE movies like The Hurt Locker and The Deer Hunter and Apocalypse Now. I don’t like tidy stories, I love ethical quandaries, and edgy-looking films. I don’t know why being female means I have to be relegated to movies like Terms of Endearment, Mystic Pizza, or Thelma and Louise. They’re not my bag, never have been.

Just as a viewer, these gritty, unflinching movies like The Hurt Locker — with or without a woman director — NEVER win. This movie made $12.6 million! It wasn’t bankrolled by the big boys, politicked into victory with a flashy campaign.

It was simply one of the best movies ever made about war, if not maybe even the best, because it doesn’t resolve anything and leaves you, the viewer, with a headfull of baggage to think over when those last credits roll.

As a writer, I love that a story won.

As an editorialist, I love that, for once, the questions and dilemmas didn’t need to be watered down for the “lowest common denominator” viewer.

As a woman, I love that Kathryn Bigelow doesn’t apologize for liking and making edgy boy flicks. She’s great at it. She doesn’t need to be making fluffy Driving Miss Daisy shit or selling her movie as a “vision” like her ex-husband did for Avatar.

You may not have seen The Hurt Locker, but you should. And you should not sit on your ass waiting for one of 12 copies Netflix is circulating. Rent it. Experience it. Ask yourself the big questions it asks of its protagonist. Demand more movies like these from Hollywood.

Most of all, enjoy the reality that, in 2010, a little film no one ever heard about came out with its gloves off, never softened its message, never dumbed itself down, never got fully bankrolled for distribution…

And still it won.

Oh, and, for the first time ever, a woman can say she’s the king of the world and the best director in the business. For now.

____________________________

PS: Please, people, don’t pirate this movie. Pay to rent or buy The Hurt Locker. Prove to Hollywood in the only way it knows — through money — that movies that don’t cling to the comfort zone are movies that smart people really do want to see. As of yet, Avatar has grossed $2.5 BILLION so far. That’s about .05% of Avatar’s grosses that The Hurt Locker has earned. What do you think the totals say so far to Hollywood? Pay for this movie, people.

You know why CBS should have rejected the Mancrunch ad? BECAUSE IT’S A FUCKING STUPID AD.

It’s bad acting, bad writing, cheap filming, lame directing, and zero spent on production values.

The Superbowl is where the best commercials in the world come to play, not stupid frat-boy humour shot for $20 and a bag of Kush, all right?

Gay rights activists getting panties in a twist over this ad have got to give their heads a shake. Seriously. I cannot even BELIEVE this has become an issue.

First of all, it looks like shit. I could’ve filmed a better ad with a 7-11 rental video camera when I was 12, in 1985, okay? They raided a Value Village for wardrobe, stole furniture from a thrift store, and filmed it with the cheapest camera set-up they could find.

Second, it’s an absolute stereotype. It suggests being gay is “catching” or something that happens on a whim, and not something that is a biological condition one is born with. It reinforces the ideas in the Stupid Asshats who think that being gay is something that can be indoctrinated or deprogrammed, depending which way you’re wanting to go.

Third, the writing is crap. It’s total crap. There’s nothing witty, it’s not fall-down funny, it’s not shocking. It doesn’t even look pretty.  It’s just stupid. It’s like the guys at Animal House were asked to come up with their best idea of a dating commercial for a gay dating site.

If Mancrunch is serious, then come up with a serious ad. This is crap. Put the fucking bong away, and have some serious ideas. Respect homosexuality, give it a little credit.

This is NOT CBS assailing gay rights. This is CBS standing up for the reputation of the Superbowl having the BEST ADVERTISEMENTS all in one brilliant afternoon.

As a fan of great and witty advertising, I applaud them for maintaining those standards.

You want to play at the big boy’s game? BRING your game. Don’t fucking phone it in with crap advertising like this, then play the “OOh, poor us, we’re being discriminated against because we’re G-A-Y” record yet again.

Shut the hell up, Mancrunch. Get a real ad. Then we’ll talk. And, activists?

Use your fucking brains. You should be offended by this attempt, too. For all you’ve fought for, THIS is how gay romance is depicted? As a stupid whim that can only happen when alcohol and impulse kick in? That it’s always meaningless and just a thoughtless act that happens? Yeah. Way to look out for your agenda. Way to support the stereotype that gay men are promiscuous and think only with their cock and nothing more.

This is not a controversy.

That everyone’s already forgotten about Haiti, that’s a controversy. Or a scandal.

So let’s talk about the important issues. All right? This is not one.

[PS: I agree with others that this is an obvious attempt by Mancrunch to get free word-of-mouth advertising. Way to fall for it, media.]

Heart attack, in case you didn’t know, is one of the most common demises after long battles with eating disorders. Why?

“When anorexia has become this severe, the heart is often damaged. Not only is there not enough body fat to keep internal organs like the heart protected, but anemia, which weakens the blood, and the poor circulation which results in a lower body temperature means that the heart is unable to pump and circulate blood as effectively as it might otherwise. The loss of muscle mass can also apply to the heart, meaning that the muscles of the heart can physically weaken, and an overall drop in blood pressure and pulse can contribute to slower breathing rates. Unfortunately, if not remedied, these risks can lead to death.”

- Excerpt found here.

In this more recent photo, it’s obvious she’s too thin. Her head is bigger than her waist. That’s beauty? Really?

My eating problems have been, and will continue to be, the struggle of my life. I can’t imagine the emotional and spiritual pressurecooker a life in Hollywood would have been for someone as fucked up as I once was. I can’t imagine how emotionally fragile teens and young adults navigate the psychic timebomb that working in the film & beauty-focused industries must be.

Every time another death like this happens, it takes weeks to find the cause. By then, the emotional impact of that celebrity’s loss has evaporated, and the angst over the stupidity of how they died and how needless it was, that just evaporates too.

There is no reason for anyone to die like this, assuming she’s dead of anorexia, but I daresay I’m not reckless to jump to that conclusion.

There is no reason an industry should sanction the kind of pressure many starlets feel to do this to themselves.

There is no reason you as an audience can’t stop supporting this endless vacuum life of never-good-enough by continuing to purchase magazines that perpetuate too-thin-is-beautiful aesthetics.

It’s time that we jump to conclusions. It’s time we get angry that somehow we’ve institutionalized Wasting Away as some kind of beautiful virtue that all women should aspire for, or that we seem somehow justifying the ever-fattening of our society by pleading for “fat acceptance” and talking about “weight discrimination,” instead of tackling both these problems in the education system.

Eating disorders, whether eating ourselves to morbidly obese deaths or wasting away via starvation, kill the soul long before they kill the self.

Kate Moss is famous for having said that nothing tastes as good as being thin feels. Really? She hasn’t had my chicken pot pie, man.

Life is meant to be lived — food savoured, bodies worshipped, comfort enjoyed.

Despite my strong beliefs on these issues, I will lose 30 pounds by next August. But I’ll do it still having beers and burgers, cheese and wine, because those are parts of life I should value too, and without guilt. The thing is? Food isn’t just about eating, it’s about who you’re eating with.

Food is community. Via community, food becomes communication. It’s about soul and companionship, slowing down and focusing on one thing in a moment in a big world. Food has always been the cornerstone to our societies — any society — and their social structure.

Because food and the celebration of it is so integral to our world — look at the dread of Christmas weight, because we all associate the treats with the warmth & glory of the season — people with these afflictions are robbed of much of life’s joy.

When someone suffers an eating disorder, it becomes toxic to every level of their life. They have to lie to loved ones, live duplicitously.  It kills the soul, then the self.

The tragedy here isn’t just that Brittany Murphy is dead.

The tragedy is, we all helped.

If you support the magazines and the industries pushing these unrealistic and perverted ideals of what “beauty” consists of, you’re helping to perpetuate this endless cycle of thin-is-not-thin-enough.

I haven’t bought a single beauty magazine in 10 years, and I’ve never seen obvious hot-chick-vehicle movies, so I know I’m not a part of this endless cycle of stupid. Are you?

Who else do I blame?

Men.

The guys I talk to claim they like “real” women. Oh? Well, Hollywood’s marketing this to you. Where’s your outcry? Where’s your steadfast roar about how great cushion-for-the-pushin’ is? Where’s your willingness to say outloud that a little extra somethin’-somethin’ works for you? Where’s your insistence that a size 10 is a perfect 10?

Because I’m not hearing it.

Instead of all this bullshit “Aww, Brittany, we hardly knew ye” in-mourning-platitudes crap we’ll be hearing for the next week, let’s get real, all right?

Yeah, Brittany, we knew you had an eating disorder. We tried to shame and mock you for it, instead of help you. We didn’t point fingers at the industry that helped make you fitted for a size extra-thin coffin in your 32nd year. We didn’t say to ourselves “Well, she’s not alone, maybe there’s something needing fixing here.”

Because though we’ve said all that shit before it’s obvious we never meant it, because the magazines keep selling, we keep buying, and thin girls keep dying.

Wake the fuck up, world.

My nights were usually spent falling asleep to David Letterman’s wise-cracking punnery and stupid human tricks. There are something comforting about Dave. A friendly face every night. I sure as hell didn’t have Mom’s there anymore.

When, in January, 2000, I heard Letterman had been rushed off for and emergency quintuple-bypass, I was horrified. I’d just lost my mother. NOT DAVE TOO.

When, in 2001, the Towers were taken out by terrorists and Americans died in the thousands, it wasn’t the President or the Pope I spent my time waiting to hear from as the heart of America lay barely beating on the dusty New York sidewalks — it was Dave, Mr. New York City.When Dave finally took to the air after 9/11, no theme song played, no fanfare was made, no cheering or applauding was heard. It was this guy with a lump in his throat and a quiet uncertainty about what to say. He didn’t know how to return to work — just like none of us knew how to go back to our lives.

But he was trying. And so, we did too. In that moment, many of us felt closer to Dave than we’d ever felt before. Sure, he’d landed all the largest contracts in television history and was famous for chomping on big, fat Cuban cigars, but he still seemed like he was more like Us than he was like Them. After Dave came back to the air, within a couple days, so did Leno, SNL, and the Daily Show and everyone else. But they all waited for Dave.

Naturally, there are Dave-hating people in the world, but some kids torture cats. Whatcha gonna do? Can’t win them all, right?

And now Dave’s on the other side of the fence. Instead of everything flying off of Dave, he’s got himself in a sticky wicket.

First, he takes on Palin. Or, rather, he does his JOB and makes jokes about the stupid twat — since, if you’re going to make jokes about a stupid twat, she’s pretty much FIRST IN LINE for those honours — and she gets her panties in a twist and tries to take him on. Well, he’s still on the air and she’s quit politics, so I’m not really sure how that worked out for her. Dave, however, lost a few Republican viewers, which I’m sure had him crying in his decaf.

But then the bombshell’s dropped this past week. Doozy!

Dave screwed Vicki! Err, Stephanie Birkitt.* DOH! Okay, first, when I heard it was HER that was the woman he’d slept with on staff, I thought, “OH, I KNEW IT.” The chemistry was always there — she was always a bit uneasy and shy yet really comfortable with her, and he was always totally amused and giddy when she was around. Not a big shocker to know there’d been a long-lasting relationship there. And, uh, what a duplicitous mastermind — shagging a woman he kept having on the air in skits on the show!

That’s not the big issue, is it? He’s one of the most powerful men in television and he’s slept with underlings. OH, BIG SURPRISE.

That NEVER happens. Yawn. Wake me up when there’s a real news story, okay?

But then he ADMITTED IT. On TELEVISION. LIVE. Before an ACTUAL AUDIENCE. And he was CHARMING about it. Then he APOLOGIZED.

And, like, ohmigod, people still like him and he still has a television show. What the fuck? Now that’s news.

You know why?

Because honesty counts. What’s more? Accountability is rare, and, when finally seen in public places, a thing of beauty to be beheld.

Here’s the thing, folks. When you fuck up, admit it. Because everyone’s fucked up, and when you admit it, offer no excuses but genuinely try to learn from it, it’s almost universally accepted as People Being People.

I know my propensity to admit my asshattedness amongst friends and family ultimately endears me more to them. There’s nothing like defusing someone’s angst by admitting to everything and stopping their accusations cold. “Yes, I did that. I was an ass. I apologize. Every word is true. It never should have happened. It never will again. What do we do now?” But being funny somewhere in there, that helps.

Dave has mastered that ability and seems earnest about it.

It’s funny, there’s two celebrity “sex scandals” in one week and there are columnists out there including them in the same story, trying to gauge why public reaction is so muted against David Letterman, one of the most trusted men in America, while the rage simmers against Roman Polanski.

I have thoughts on Polanski, and I guess I need to finish the draft I began in which I assert that he’s an evil fucker who deserves far more than the price he’s so far paid for his crimes, but here is not the place to air them. There is no FUCKING WAY that what David Letterman has done — had consensual sex with women who find him funny and charming — belongs anywhere NEAR to a column that’s about what Polanski did — which was ply a 13-year-old girl full of booze, Quaaludes, and other substances, then rape her anally, orally, and vaginally.

RAPE against a child? Not a “sex scandal”, columnists. It’s a crime. Next to murder? It’s the WORST CRIME THERE IS. Because, unlike murder, they get to live with the consequences. Worst? When it’s a child? It defines how they will perceive the world for the rest of their life: Like violation is always a possibility, every day.

Why is the angst against Letterman so muted?

Because what he did was just sex.

We also don’t know if he really has an open relationship with his wife, but given the lack of response from her, and his lack of addressing his relationship in the “scandal” context, we can pretty much assume he does, indeed, have an understanding with his spouse.

In which case, it’s not much of anyone’s business.

Personally, I’m sick of the whole “no sexual harrassment in the workplace” thing meaning I can’t get shagged by way of my job. HELLO, it’s one of the only ways we get to meet people in the modern era. If you can’t fuck workmates, then why can you shag fellow students or other club members?

Is it SMART? Hell, no! But what’s SMART got to do with anything when it comes to the matters of the heart, anyhow? If we were SMART when it came to dealing with love, Shakespeare never would’ve had a career, man, and world peace would’ve been a lot easier.

Letterman had sex. At work. With people lower than him on the payscale. Shocker. Problem is, when you’re one of the most powerful TV men who’s ever lived, the words “beneath you” pretty much includes everyone.

But he came clean. He minced no words. He said he did what he did, denied nothing, and accepted all the blame. He didn’t turn himself into a victim, he didn’t get snivelly, he just laid it out there, and that’s that.

THAT is how you deal with accepting responsibility, people. Most politicians come off like assholes despite the fact that most of us realistically KNOW a lot of political marriages are political and extramarital encounters par for the course. Why? Demeanour and believability. Dave’s got it, they don’t. Too bad. Politicians spend too much time trying to seem perfect and not enough time being real, but that’s another story.

Thank god they don’t teach those skills in political-school, because at least Dave uses his powers for good — to make us laugh.

For that alone, I say he gets a stay of execution. My giggles’n’snorts are far too important to me in these less-than-sunny times.

Polanski, however, well, stay tuned for my thoughts on that.

*As for Birkitt, I woulda shagged Dave a decade ago, too.

More happily, TiVo ate some Breakfast Club and is serving it up fresh for me this morning — one of those few movies I can recite more than half. It’s surprising how many of those movies I can recite are of the John Hughes Library.

I  _am_ the John Hughes Generation. I’m so sad he passed away before 60, and bitter he stopped his brilliantly insightful teen movies when he did, back in the ’80s. I always wanted to go through college with John Hughes as my guide. Thank god Cameron Crowe peaked when he did. I’ve not yet written about Hughes’ death, though, and have been meaning to say a few words.

Everyone in my crowd has their own John Hughes memory. This is the biggest of them all, for me: The Breakfast Club.

It was a June day back in 1985. None of my friends (overstating it: “classmates”, not friends)  had seen this movie “The Breakfast Club” but I was sure they’d like it. And to show it to ‘em, I had the biggest, baddest party of them all. A slumber party!

Every girl in my class was invited. And… unbeknownst to Mom & Dad, so were most boys; I had hatched a master plan. It was a Saturday, we’d hang at my house, then we’d all head down to the FunFun Park… (I kid you not, I grew up a block from a park called The FunFun Park — explains a lot, no?) …and all the boys would meet us there. We could play for an hour or two (ahem, play) and then go back home, do our girl-thang.

It was the end of grade 7. We were all 12-year-olds and we were each just discovering that the opposite sex wasn’t so icky after all.

I invited many kids that day, but I had not invited Danny.* He was the goat farmer’s son. Guess what he smelled like? Yep. Mm, goat — HAWT.

We were in Grade 7. Seriously, kids that age a) don’t shower like they should and b) tend to be mean to those who don’t fit in. I wasn’t immune to being a cunt then.

At school, the chatter was to a minimum about the party — most kids knew it was hush-hush. If parental units heard, Bad Things Would Happen. This was The Big Ticket. Our first attempt at going parentless, the summer before high school.  Whatever trouble could we get up to, out there, at the FunFun Park, sans Parental-Types?

I had visions of being the mastermind behind many a first kiss. SMOOCHIES galore! Oh, the excitement! Only two days left and my parents still hadn’t gotten wind of my brilliant scheme.

Then Danny phoned.

While I was literally washing my hair.

Mom took a message.

Ever so destructively helpful of her. Typical.

“I was just wondering what time we were supposed to come out there for the party at the… FunFun Park?”

“…The party? At the FunFun Park? There’s no party at the Fu… Fu–!!”

God help me. Oh, the tirade it unleashed. My mother was not one for letting a lesson go unfelt. And by “unfelt” I mean punctuated with several whacks to one’s tushy. Sheepishly I hauled my tenderized ass to school that Friday and told everyone rather dramatically “DANNY WRECKED IT. FOR EVERYBODY.” At least it wasn’t MY fault.

My party! Destroyed! All by the GOAT FARMER’S BOY. Dammit! Foiled!

So now it would be — sigh — a movie-and-popcorn-and-stupid-girlie-stuff night. No boys. Damn you, goat farmer’s boy!

The girls all still came over, gamefaces on. We’d have fun anyhow. (Damn you, goat farmer’s boy!)  Cake was had. We behaved. Then, 13 of us crammed into my bedroom for the night’s movies, and pajamaed up and readied for swoonery: The Breakfast Club and Rebel Without A Cause. I was a discerning pubescent girl.

The Breakfast Club blew our minds. All that teen angst and the hotness and the — RRR! — god, we loved it. I fell hard and long for the baddest boy of them all, John Bender. Oh, how I swooned. I watched it several times before returning the VHS on Sunday afternoon.

For me, The Breakfast Club became a foundation for who I would become. To this day, I don’t apologize for what I am. I don’t fit into any “typical” holes. I’m an acquired taste, and I really don’t care. I don’t have to justify who I am to anyone, and more importantly, I won’t. Hughes taught me that in both the opening and closing voiceovers of The Breakfast Club.

But that’s not all John Hughes schooled me well in. Among other things in life I learned from Hughes & his movies –

• Love, in all its stupidity, is a really big thing, and when hearts swell or break, it’s SUCH a big thing it’s probably worth writing a movie about, or at least a song.
• Whatever happens, it’s really, really important that it happen when there’s good music playing, because a good soundtrack makes everything all better.
• Image is everything but can also be uniquely you, because Molly Ringwald looked fuckin’ hot in that quirky Pretty In Pink dress. Ducky kinda worked it in his own hot-dorky-way too.
• Story is eternal, human struggles are common when they’re matters of the heart, and the geeks shall inherit the earth or at least the really hot chick every now and then (especially when they can rig serious equipment in their bedrooms when the folks are outta town).
• Bad boys are hot, but they will break your heart. So will the good guys, though. (I blame you, Ducky.)
• If you’re stuck somewhere and have time to kill, marijuana might be fun.
• If you’re REALLY smart, you’ll ask for a computer for Christmas, because look how well it worked for Ferris.
• Always know at least one good dance move, and have a big bag ready-packed, because you never know when you may have to jam.
• Insecurities are like dustbunnies; they’re hiding everywhere, and everyone’s got ‘em.

We’ll miss you, John. Thanks for the memories.

So, hey… what’s YOUR memory?

*All names have been changed to protect the identity of children of goat farmers.

Are they getting married? Well, that will all depend. This could be (and likely is) all just a big ploy to get people reinterested in a comic that has steadily but increasingly sucked for the last two decades.

Veronica? Over Betty? Really?

You see, the problem with this infinitely stupid story’s plot development — Archie hookin’ with Veronica — is largely that it’s continuing to perpetuate about a million stereotypes that one would hope we’re finally past.

Personally, I’d rather see Betty and Veronica scarfing down a pint of Ben & Jerry’s as they cuss out men, then fall into a troubling kiss, and leave the schmucks like Archie to fend for themselves as the girls enjoy a dalliance with the Dyke Side.

But, no, what we have is a geek with a shitty car who somehow manages to have not one, but two hot chicks who are totally smitten for him and doing catty things to win him over and lock the other girl out. Oh, great.

Because, as we all know, broke-ass geek-girls would never, ever have two guys fighting over her in a mainstream media piece (hence why Betty’s always out in the cold). No, instead geek-girls are shown fumbling and trying to figure out vibrators, clinging desperately to men who probably shouldn’t be clung to and who can’t get “normal” girls but who reject the geek-girl, and they’re shown praying to be accepted within the narrow confines of their geeky universe. Or else, a la most ugly-duckling-themed flicks, geek-girl transforms into hot-chick and then wins guy who never noticed her before.

Yeah, nice double-standard there.

Veronica’s a manipulative, two-faced bitch who thinks her money puts her in another class of morality. There’s what’s right, then there’s what Veronica wants. So, she wins the guy.

And even if this thing changes, and suddenly Archie realizes he’s dooming himself to taking a submissive backseat to a woman who’ll treat him like a doormat, I think, if Betty forgets the whole sordid history and agrees to marry the Schmuck, I’ll still be disgusted.

Which is sad, because I was a Ginormous Archie Fan when I was growing up. My $1.85 went out on the Archie double digest with GLEE, I’m telling you.

But then again, I was 12, and my tastes have evolved a smidge since then.

After almost 70 years, Archie’s storyline is stagnated with stereotypes that we really need to get past. We need to stop thinking it’s amusing when two chicks fight over the same unenthralling guy. Women need to stop being portrayed as finding their self-worth through the men they pursue, because it’s not just a cute story, but a destructive pattern in society today.

The nice, cute girl shouldn’t come last place anymore. We should be past that as a society — particularly when Archie choosing the cunty girl actually goes against his character type and is bad fuckin’ writing.

It just feels so futile, sometimes. All these arguments.

It’s 2009. It’s an exciting time to be female. Things are changing SO quickly for us. I’ve been an edgy, independent chick my whole life, but now it’s becoming more the norm for younger women, and it’s fantastic. Just last week I was on my scooter in capris and sandals and this 70-year-old woman comes over and tells me how she rode a motorcycle a few times in her 20s, but that it was never really accepted for her “station” in life, and she always felt robbed by propriety because she LOVED riding. And she told me how rewarding and rejuvenating she thought it was to watch today as more and more young women weren’t being held back by appearances and propriety anymore.

And then there’s Archie. Banging the same old a-woman’s-only-good-if-a-man’s-chosen-her drum — the same ol’ chasing-men-not-life female type that SOME of us women are trying to move past.

It’s time.

It’s time that manipulative self-serving bitches and jerks are exposed as the wankers they are, and not exalted by culture.

Or maybe it’s time Archie just fucking ceased to exist. 70-year-old relationship dynamics have no place in 2009. It’s a brave new world, a place for brave new art, not tired old stereotypes, because we have brave new relationships that are defying our millenias of social history.

2009, baby. Lovin’ it.

Fuck him, Betty. Move on, girl. Get a cat or something.

Hey, wait, isn’t this how the whole chick-with-cat stereotype started? Aww, shit.

[Note: These opinions of mine are strong. Aren't they always? But it should be said that I think it's with irony, too, as the majority of sex bloggers I've followed on Twitter tend to speak of condoms as necessity, not options. I believe the sex blogging community is indeed having responsible sex more often than not; this posting isn't about their personal practice, it's about the image they're portraying in their writing, which I would like to see more match their reality.]

I know the perception is that condoms aren’t sexy.

I know it fucks with the cadence in real life, stopping the action to fumble for protection, but putting on a condom CAN be hot. It CAN be incorporated into the play.

So why don’t smut writers include donning protection during casual sex scenes they write?

People are using less protection than they were 10 years ago. In fact, reports in the UK are that a staggering half of over-30 singles regularly have unsafe sex.

How fucking dumb are these people? Well, pretty dumb. If you’re having casual sex without a condom, I think you’re a fucking moron. If you’re not in a longterm absolutely safe monogamous relationship and you’re not using condoms, guess what? Yup, moron.

STDs have been caught by an amazing 1 out of 4 current teenage girls. I don’t even want to think about my generation. The stupidity, it seems, is endemic.

Sex bloggers want to carry this “rah-rah, we’re sex-positive!” mantra, yet I notice a conspicuous absence of proactive sexual protection happening in their stories. Unsafe sex, people, is NOT sex positive.

There is a growing apathy about the dangers of AIDS, HIV, and other STDs out there. The Bush administration made sure of that. We’re still at an infancy in science and medicine. We don’t really know the far-reaching implications of things like repeat yeast infections or vaginismus. You have to wonder, though, what medicine might suspect if American health carriers will often reject women for coverage if they’ve had multiple innocuous little yeast infections, since some suggest it leads to higher instances of cancer.

We take too many risks as a society. So many problems today are so easily fixed after the fact and for so cheaply that we fail to take the precautions we would be well-advised to take. Look at the economic recession, for instance. Thinking about consequence isn’t exactly today’s society’s strong suit, now, is it?

Casual sex is a way of life for many, and that’s just fine, we likes the sex. But it needs to be safe. Not only for you and your would-be partner, but for all those who’ll come after the fact. You owe it to society to use a rubber.

Sex bloggers are on the cusp of what I see as being a new kind of sexual revolution. We’re changing, opening, and lightening up, en masse. As a society it seems as if we all suddenly woke up and realized that getting laid’s kinda a fun thing to do, and often no one even loses an eye. Besides, it’s a recession: Sex is cheap! As long as you skip the dinner-and-a-movie thing and stay home with a pirated DVD and a box of Kraft macaroni, you can get your shag on for less than $10 for two. No date in the world can match that financial payoff.

Sex bloggers make sex hotter, make it more ubiquitous and attainable. Bloggeurs de smut come in all shapes, sizes, incomes, styles, and genres, and they represent us. They’re real. But if they/we’re not talking about the supposedly unsexy things like condoms in a way that sensualizes them, then I feel they/we’re shirking some of the responsibility I think they/we need to uphold.

We, in the literate and informed public, want to shame the mainstream media for failing to be thorough in their reporting, for often failing to take the proverbial “greater good” into account when creating stories for our consumption. Yet sex bloggers do the same, crafting stories of convenient appeal without including the not-so-exciting necessary behind-the-scenes preparations leading up to the end results we see so gloriously splayed for all to enjoy. It’s deceptively neat and tidy.

Hollywood has failed to uphold its social responsibilities in showing condom use in motion pictures and television. My hope is that sex bloggers can be better, more socially responsible, and more realistic than Hollywood has proven it can be.

If some 17-year-old happens upon some smutty story and reads that a condom was used, and they think about it before they get to shagging that next or first time, then isn’t that something that we sex bloggers as a community should be pursuing?

Can’t we take the preaching out of condom use and bring it back to being a bit sexy? I know we’ve all had those times when getting the condom on was actually half the fun. Isn’t it time we make that more known?

When it comes to Hollywood stars, they just didn’t get better than Paul Newman. The best of ‘em, he never let it go to his head. Probably more famous for his salad dressing and tomato sauce, the guy was a different kind of idol.

In a vapid, pointless society like Hollywood, where it seems weight and fashion matter more than anything, Newman never subscribed to being ordinary. He had a Porsche 356 engine put into his VW Bug, for god’s sake. He wore a beer bottle opener as a necklace.

He was a bad boy who wasn’t bad. He gave $150 million to charity. He helped kids. But he celebrated antihero and loser roles in his movies, rather than pursuing the roles of perfect goodlooking people (like Tom Cruise often does, for instance). He embraced that side of him and we loved him for it.

If there’s a Hollywood guy I wish could be emulated more often– from the blue eyes and the incredible ass to the heart of gold and the mischievous smile– it’s Paul Newman.

Later, Paul. It’s been real.

Has Shepherd ended it with Rose? Are the sparks officially back with Grey? Has acclaim for their major medical breakthrough yielded exciting new times at the hospital?

Is George a resident, or is he yet to take the test?

Callie and Dr. Hahn? Sizzling. Do they take a pity fuck with the lonely, “growing” Dr. McSteamy?

And so much more! Man, I’ve loved this show from the first commercial I saw before the pilot. I was so stoked when this first started airing. I’m glad to say it’s never disappointed me yet.

One week, girls, one week!

In an article coming out in the UK’s GQ, she’s said:

The actress also stated in the candid interview with British magazine GQ that it would be hard for women to press charges against someone they had planned on being sexually active with.She told the publication, “I was (date-raped), yes. A couple of times. Not with excessive violence, or being hit, but rather being locked in a room and made to have sex against my will.”

“I don’t think she (a female rape victim) can have that man into court under those circumstances.”

Every single time I have sex, it is a choice. Every single time I choose to be active, my partner’s receiving a gift from me. If I don’t say yes, it’s not a choice. If there’s no choice, it is arbitrary and a situation of force.

Force means rape.

Rape is wrong. I don’t give a fuck if I know someone, had planned to be active, think he’s cute, flirted with him — if I haven’t made the choice and consented, it’s rape. Period. This is what “no means no” means.

If Mirren didn’t have the balls to stand up against men who’ve forced her to have sex, then that’s a shame. She’s not alone. Until more women are strong enough to say, “You know what? I didn’t ask for sex. I didn’t want sex. He took it. He forced it.” and protest, then the fight will remain as hard and unbalanced as it is.

That said, I think charging for date rape is a pretty extreme action, and one must really consider just how strongly they protested. I think a whispered “No” is different than a forceful “No”, and if it’s going to be a date rape charge that can ruin a man’s life, then a woman needs to know she protested in a clear and direct manner.

Perhaps Mirren doesn’t think she protested adamantly enough. Maybe she just resigned herself to sex. Maybe this is why she thinks of it differently. I don’t know.

I’m on the side of women in this situation, but the only thing that concerns me about date rape are the number of men who’ve been accused in situations that seemed a little shades-of-grey. It’s so fucking tricky to be balanced on this, but I think the important thing is, making it very plain that the answer is “No.” Be heard. Speak loud. Shout. Say it like you mean it.

And if they choose to not hear, they deserve to be charged by law.

David Duchovny has released a statement to say he has checked into a facility to deal with sex addiction.

Duchovny’s one of these guys who lost his virginity at 14 and was sexually involved with a married woman at 16. He’s always oozed sexuality. He plays a sex-addicted writer in Californication. He voiced-over the sex-filled Red Shoes Diary erotica series. The guy’s been all about sex for a very, very long time now.

Unfortunately, sexual addiction still isn’t taken very seriously. Most people think, “Hell, go for it. If you can get laid that much…” Someone like me, writing a sex blog, and talking about sex addiction is probably about the stupidest topic to write about. How many of my readers fall into that category? How many sex bloggers do? Or do any? How common is it, really? Do we even know?

I often look at sex blogs and wonder, “How healthy is your relationship to sex? How much does it command your life? How many relationships has sex destroyed? Or has it been a problem at all?”

I’m sure a few sex bloggers fall into the sex-addicted category. I’m sure someone in your day-to-day life does as well. I know I don’t.

But when you live in a society that sells sex everywhere, yet has a very Puritanical approach to sex, just how do you straddle both while celebrating your sexuality in a sex-positive way that doesn’t lead to unhealthy behaviours? With great difficulty, I guess. But most people won’t have that difficulty. Sex is an aspect of their lives, not the majority thereof.

Sexual addiction, like any addiction, is a progressive disease. Over time, the search for sexual highs begins requiring more and more risk and ante-upping to receive the same reward. This is a great explanation of the disorder.

A reader wrote me long ago about sexual addiction. Her long, long letter was heart-breaking as she detailed her inability to act in ways that stopped hurting her life. She told of how sex had destroyed almost all her relationships and continued to have her acting in ways that she found were highly destructive in all areas of her life, even engaging in unprotected high-risk sex when she didn’t have the control to delay for a few moments. She was the extreme, the other end of sexual addiction. The heroin junkie of the sex world.

My response was here.

I think, though, in light of the Duchovny scenario, it might be wise to take another kick at the can and define anew the difference between extreme enthusiasts and addicts. Because just because someone’s getting laid a lot, loves it, and seems compulsive about it doesn’t mean they’re an addict.

They could just be really, really lucky. It’s the nature of the behaviour that defines it.

In the meantime, Duchovny’s one of the coolest celebrities I’ve ever met. Funny as fuck. He used to come into my bookshop every Tuesday morning when he was shooting X-Files here in town. He’d buy a book, a copy of the New Yorker, would shoot the shit at the counter for a moment, always made us laugh, then he’d collect his dog outside, go get a venti drink from Starbucks, wander down to Kits beach, and walk his dog, read, and drink. Does that sound like an evil sex-addicted bastard to you? A lech?

Just another guy with a difficult time on his hands and a compulsion for something he’d clearly rather be doing a little more without. I hope he sorts his shit out. He rocks. I’ll ponder the sexual addiction conundrum in the coming weeks.