Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Pöpemöbile
The Pope’s arrival put that old Meryn Cadell song into my head, the one that goes, “we all here to see the pope, pope, pope, pope, pope.”
Her song “The Sweater” ("Girls, I know you will understand this, and feel the intrinsic, incredible emotion.") was genius before Weezer ever sung about the intimacy and depth of sweaters.
“Martina” was the first time I’d ever encountered an artistic (or any) communication of the muted, often daily, unease of being a female walking alone - at night and in bad shoes or just in general.
pump, pump, blow the dump
the steaming sewers
take the chance that only chancy chicks would take
and cakewalk home with icy brakes of spiky heels and clicks they make
and walk through your cold neighbourhood
but don’t get raped, knock on wood
Unless you’re a female you just don’t get the experience of catcalls and “playful” followers and hard-held stares. How men pretend that suddenly the whole world is small town america, - they’re just saying hi, they’re just being friendly, women like it they say, when they know full well that’s not what they’re doing and that’s why they’re shouting from cars, waiting outside of convenience stores and following you home from the mall. If a man gave them the finger, they wouldn’t say, “oh yeah! is that what you want baby!?”
If I were president (i know, i know) there would be a recipe for immediate corporal punishment: grab throat, throw to ground, beatings until there is sufficient whimpering, vary ingredients and amounts according to need. And one would be allowed to walk with a spark plug in hand, to smash the windows of offending men in vehicles who think that slowing down and pacing you while you walk is cute.
There would be public service messages on television, with rainbow graphics and shiny faces telling you to not be such an idiot all the time.
That’s just how I feel. If my humanity isn’t acknowledged I will have to act like a thing, a monster. Women don’t get credit for the courage they find and the normalcy and humor they apply to it. It takes balls to be a girl, to walk around being a girl.
The last week of my being a redhead one of my most memorable catcalls was, “Red huh?! LIKE MY DICKHEAD!”
cue Fugazi, Suggestion. shake fist. feel toothless.
Red was better than blond. Black is better than red. It weeds people out. Course, I also remember walking outside after having chicken pox for the second time (i know, i know) and I still had pox all over my face. They honked and yelled anyway, things it’s probably not legal to say to a 15 year old girl. They’re not being nice. And it’s not because you’re pretty.
anyhoo!
Meryn’s way of talking into and through her songs caught my attention. Fugazi and 7 Seconds could sing about being respectful to girls all they wanted in their prudish straight edge way, but finally, finally, someone who KNEW. It’s like she just couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t not be smart, couldn’t mimic and make the satire without also being the conscious voiceover. Like Jon Stewart talking to the talking heads. Like Henry Rollins’ spoken word but without the little pounces of violent outburst and untrustable identification with women (thanks though, i still love ya Henry!). She’s like good stand-up comedy, sung poignantly with a legitimate voice and without sentimentality.
So how cool to be reminded of her and learn that Angel Food for Thought is back in print! But how sad to read in her journal that she’s homesick the Lower East Side.
Maybe she left because that’s where the guy with the red head lives.
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