All of my days are blending into one lonely night. I keep hoping that you’re on your way over, but I’m probably losing sight. Just when I started to feel good, You called me up on the phone, Askin’ how I’ve been and what am I doin’. And I say, “Nothing much at all. In fact, I haven’t really been home.” I’ve been wandering around.
This is it. I can’t keep lying to myself. It will hurt, but I can’t keep saying that I don’t care, when I do. Fuck, I do. I hate that I care. Do you think I want to feel like this? Like the wind is constantly getting knocked out of me? Like there’s a possibility that I’ll step out of the role I usually play with you? I need to do what it takes to move on. I need to do this for me, because I can’t keep ending my night with drunken tears.
Well, this is meant to be a story about people who are so beyond need, who want and have figured out that it’s never too soon to make demands of this life, this world, this everything. It’s about how nice it must be to just decide I will not be nice, I am never sorry, I have no regrets: what is before me belongs to me.
I think for men this attitude is second nature, it’s as much in their atmosphere as snow is in an Eskimo’s. They don’t even know how much they assume.
But for a woman, to assume she has to be not nice, it puts her outside of the system, outside of what is acceptable. She can be a deeply depressive Sylvia Plath, a luxuriating decadent Delilah, a homicidal adolescent Amy Fisher, she can be anyone who decides that what she wants and needs and believes and must do is more important than being nice. She may, in fact, be as nice as can be, but as soon as she says catch me if you can I’m so free this is my life and the rest can fuck off and die - as soon as she lays down the option of my way or the highway, it’s amazing how quickly everyone finds her difficult, crazy, a nightmare: a bitch.
“If she had condoms in her house, that would just fuckin’ throw me off. That’s just tacky.”
Shitty, offensive celebrity says shitty, offensive thing. I gotta be honest, I’m so vehemently furious that this asshat and his band of prancing ninnies even exist in music that any bullshit, sexist comment this brainless fuckwit might spew is eclipsed by my horror at what people like him have done to the music industry.
I'm reading the book "BITCH: In praise of difficult women."
So we’ll “adjust” - the word Betty Friedan used over thirty years ago in The Feminine Mystique to describe how intelligent Seven Sisters types learned to accept the notion that Mop & Glo was intellectually stimulating - and if we’re from Venus and they’re from Mars, we’ll learn to speak Martian. We’ll follow The Rules: We won’t call them, we won’t ask them out, we won’t talk about ourselves, we won’t make snide comments, we’ll be good.
Well, I for one am sick of it. All my life, one person or another has been telling me to behave, saying don’t let a guy know you’re a depressed maniac on the first date, don’t just be yourself, don’t show your feelings. And the truth is, this is probably good advice, men probably don’t like overbearing, hotheaded women who give blow jobs on the first date. In all likelihood the only man who will ever like me just as I am will probably need to believe I’m somebody else at first. I probably do need to learn to behave. But I don’t like it. It seems like, all this, all these years of feminism, Mary Wollstonecraft, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Simone de Beauvoir, Virginia Woolf, Gloria Steinam, Susan Faludi - all that smart writing all so we could learn to behave? Bra burning in Atlantic City - so we could learn to behave? Roe v. Wade - so we could learn to behave? Thelma & Louise - so we could learn to behave? The gender gap - so we could learn to behave? Madonna, Sally Ride, Joycelyn Elders, Golda Meir, Anita Hill, Bette Davis, Leni Riefenstahl - all those strong, indefatigable souls so we could learn to behave? What good really have any of those things done if we still get the feeling that we have to contain our urges and control ourselves in the interest of courtship and love? Did Germaine Greer importune us so long ago with the words “Lady, love your cunt,” and did Anita Radikovich regale us with her tales of the sexual picaresque in The Wild Girls Club so we could be told never to succumb to sexual abandon on the first date? After all this agitations, along comes The Rules to tell us that we’re not even allowed to accept a date for a Saturday night after Wednesday.
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all of our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
If I had to describe myself in so many words, I'd say: 20-something female who can't decide on a hair color and who likes waffles, coffee, listening to music at absurdly high volumes, and laughing even when your jokes aren't that funny.
"Are you so unhappy?" he said. "I’m not unhappy, back there. I’m nothing. There’s nothing to me," she said. They stared at each other. The sensation between them was intense, exhausting. She thought that this man was her savior, that he had come to her at a time in her life when her life demanded completion, an end, a permanent fixing of all that was troubled and shifting and deadly. And yet it was absurd to think this. No person could save another. So she drew back from him and released him.
It’s a sad day in Philadelphia, as our worst fears have become a reality. Tastykake is no longer Philadelphia-based. The maker of delicious dessert foods like the Butterscotch Krimpet and the Peanut Butter Kandy Kake has been mired in financial debt for the last few years after moving from their location on Hunting Park Avenue to a sparking new facility at the Navy Yard in South Philadelphia. In addition to those costs, traditional ingredients such as flour, milk, and eggs are now much more expensive and Tastykake had trouble keeping up.
While we are unsure whether this means that the company will no longer produce Tastykakes in Philadelphia, what this does is change things forever. While the company is still universally loved in the Delaware Valley, it no longer something that is exclusively Philadelphia owned, operated, and consumed. This sale will likely make Tastykakes available up and down the east coast, if not nationwide.
It was a good run while it lasted. Thanks for being such an important part of our childhoods and of the city we love, Tastykake.
I really appreciate when artists covering a song stay true to the artist. Joshua James does exactly that with his cover of Sufjan Stevens’ “To Be Alone With You,” which is one of my favorites from Seven Swans. [This comes from a Seven Swanscover album.]