Category Archives: Media

The Return of the Petite Prick: Could small cocks make a comeback?

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(Title stolen from Jessica Valenti. Most of the non-penis-related words below stolen from Simon Doonan, because COME ON.) 

The larger dick became the norm around the turn of the century, and it shows no signs of deflating. Radical cock augmentation is now ubiquitous, according to me, and to hell with the consequences. So what if you bruise your abdomen while running to catch the bus? So what if you can’t fit into any trendy clothes because your waist is a 34 but your rod is the size of a Shake Weight? It’s worth it to be the focus of female and gay male attention. Right?

A non-existent trend in restaurants—I like to imagine foodie insiders would call them pricketerias—would, if it existed, justify my desire to write phrases like “leviathan love muscles” and get paid for it, even though I’m basically making shit up. Examples might include Seattle-based Peckerheads, where the waiters are dressed as firefighters, football players and racecar drivers–but you know, slutty ones–and The Open Fly, which could have more than fifty—count ‘em!—locations nationwide, plus one in Canada, if we lived in a culture that regarded the male body as an object for consumption, like tasty hot wings. And then there’s the Back Door … But let’s not get distracted by asstaurants. Let’s stick with the topic at hand: With their phalanxes of liberally endowed, Speedo-clad serving drudges, these phallus palaces are poised to make even old-school Jumbo Johnson’s (that’s what I assume the old school version would have been called) appear tentative, restrained, and genteel, to mention nothing of causing my (similarly non-existent) insecure MRA brother to have a seizure.

Despite the worldwide embrace of enormous artificial dongs that I just made up, I remain convinced that the pendulous pendulum will, at some point, begin to swing in the other direction. Style is, after all, cyclical in nature. I know what you are thinking: Only a feminist could seriously posit the notion that big dicks might “go out of fashion.” However, being d’un certain age, I am old enough to remember when teeny peenies roamed the Earth.

Wobbly screen. Let’s go back.

It’s the early 1990s. I am at the movie theater with a bunch of my ladyfriends, none of whom are any more penis-obsessed than I am. We are here to see The Piano, a trendy, arty film starring Holly Hunter, Harvey Keitel, and Anna Paquin as I don’t even remember what, but also: Harvey Keitel’s cock. Apart from Jaye Davidson’s, I cannot remember an onscreen ween receiving more attention during my college years. The Piano and The Crying Game were kind of a long time ago, and I don’t actually remember how big either ballyhooed tallywhacker was, so it’s not a very good story. This concludes my paragraph about movie wangs of my youth.

Memories of the hype around Harvey Keitel’s flapping flute came flooding back when people started talking about the recent movie Shame. Shame is intermittently enlivened with– as someone who, unlike me, has seen it wrote– “hookers, pornography, masturbation and casual sex, all pursued with a resolve that can only be called grim.” Whenever the narrative starts flagging, I hear, off come the clothes, and here comes Michael Fassbender’s well-shaped natural manhood.

Not having seen it (except wait, I did see A Dangerous Method, and that might also have full frontal Fassbender? With all due respect to the very fine actor and his junk, I can’t recall that, either), I can only speculate as to whether the ferociously compelling Mister Fassbender, with his uninflated organ, might possess the power to usher out the era of the porno-wang. Can he put the natural wiener back up where it belongs? Might Shame repopularize the smaller shaft, or Hampton Wick, as it is known in the Cockney rhyming slang of Simon Doonan’s homeland? (It’s rhyming slang. Use your imagination, or Google “Cockney rhyming slang penis” like I did.)

My optimistic speculations fizzled—a bit like the elastic in vintage Calvin Klein tighty-whities—when a movie buff pal apprised me of the following fact: Fassbender’s dick is big! So much for the trend I made up to counterbalance the other trend I made up. Poop.

I realize that, as far as most people are concerned, there is no issue here. Most people are too busy enjoying the current era of well-rounded male characters and very little schlong in their mainstream cinema to give a thought to any alternative. In this regard, they are most selfish. After all, practically every movie has a pair of naked tits on a two-dimensional lady character in it these days, and if I know anything about equality, that means we should all be clamoring for more wooden male characters, if you get my drift. We are tired of seeing no motherfuckin’ trouser snakes on these motherfuckin’ screens, is what I’m saying! (I ask you: Who needs current jokes when you have a gift for humorous wordplay?)

They’d best be natural-looking, smaller trouser snakes, though. At the end of the day, health concerns may well cut the cackle, which I assume is Cockney rhyming slang for something that makes sense here. After all, MayoClinic.com says that penile implants carry numerous risks, including that “in some semirigid devices, internal parts can break down over time. In inflatable devices, fluid can leak or the pump device can fail.” Yikes! More horrifying still: “In some cases, an implant may stick to the skin inside the penis or wear away the skin from inside the penis. Rarely, an implant breaks through the skin.” And since my tacky, played-out dick jokes mostly don’t work unless you accept the premise that all large penises were made so artificially by their (shallow and vain, though of course you won’t hear me say it!) owners, it follows that a wee willy is better for one’s health and thus the only fashionable choice in a rational world.

But let’s not end on such a downer. I simply couldn’t carry myself with an erect bearing if I left it there. With that in mind, I give you my current fave imaginary pricketeria chain name: Joysticks. Feel free to one-up me in the comments with a well-monikered pricketeria from your own imagination, since there is obviously not an actual one in your neighborhood because LOL, I mean really.

Bon appétit!

 

The Media’s Groping Problem

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Regarding the news that Arnold Schwarzenegger is getting divorced, in part because he fathered a child with a woman not his wife, Conor Friedersdorf at The Atlantic writes, “I’ve yet to encounter anyone surprised by the news. It’s because we remember. Eight years ago, on the eve of the special election that won him the statehouse, the Los Angeles Times published a scathing story about his groping problem.”

I didn’t remember, actually, since I was living in Canada at the time, not yet engaged with the feminist blogosphere and, as always, completely uninterested in Schwarzenegger news. So this morning was the first time I learned that, as James Rainey recalled in the L.A. Times earlier this week, “Eventually, a total of 16 women, 11 of them giving their names, described physical humiliations suffered at the hands of [Arnold Schwarzenegger].”

How did the public react to this news–apart from electing him anyway, right after they learned about the first six women to come forward? “Some accused the paper of a politically motivated attack, meant to hurt Schwarzenegger and prop up the struggling Davis,” writes Rainey. “They complained with particular vehemence about the timing of the story, published five days before the recall vote. At least 10,000 subscribers cancelled the paper, according to executives who were with the paper at the time.”

Of course they did.

Hey, here’s a bizarre thought that just popped into my head: Could folks maybe quit writing and/or publishing articles suggesting that Dominique Strauss-Kahn has historically gotten a pass on sexually assaulting women because that’s just how the French say howdy, but uptight, puritanical Americans would totally never let a powerful man get away with a pattern of unwanted groping? Because I’m pretty sure Schwarzenegger is a perfect example of uptight, puritanical Americans doing the exact same thing.

And since every bad thing he’s ever done will be news for the next cycle or two, alongside the Strauss-Kahn news, now is a really good time for a refresher course in the difference between consensual sex and assault.

  • Consensual sex involves all parties agreeing that this promises to be fun, so we should go ahead. Sometimes it is not as fun as hoped, but oh well.
  • Assault involves one party feeling entitled to take liberties with another party’s body, in the absence of consent.

So, whether Strauss-Kahn is “the great seducer,” for instance, has very little to do with whether he might also be “the great rapist,” because rape is not actually seduction gone pear-shaped. It’s a whole different thing! Similarly, any consensual affairs Schwarzenegger had over the years have very little to do with his “groping problem,” which would probably be better described as “a problem with giving a tiny rat’s ass about consent.”

That’s not to say these things are entirely unrelated, mind you. There are certainly points of overlap between being a cad and being a criminal: An overblown sense of entitlement, an apparent lack of empathy for anyone you might hurt, an erection. But cheating on your wife is not a gateway drug to sexual assault. They are two different things, one of them a crime. If you’re a journalist, please take a moment now to repeat that to yourself a few times.

And then please consider this: A man who’s known for grabbing women’s breasts and asses without their consent (a crime) is not just some amusing, slightly pathetic Pepe Le Pew cartoon until the day someone accuses him of non-consensual penetration. He was actually already a sexual predator! And yet, inevitably, as soon as someone does accuse him of rape, friends who are familiar with his history of non-consensual groping will rush to tell the press that the accusations are absurd, insulting, inconceivable! Sure, everyone knew the lion liked to chase gazelles and pin them down and bat them around a bit for fun, but he would never eat one. That’s just not in his nature.

Do you see the difference? One guy treats women rather shabbily, and he should be ashamed of himself. The other guy treats women like inanimate objects he is entitled to do whatever the fuck he wants to, and he should be ashamed of himself and also held legally responsible for his crimes. The line between the two is really not all that fine or blurry, you guys! It’s actually pretty recognizable!

But when you have a man who is known for both cheating repeatedly and taking a handful of another human being whenever he sees fit, the reporting inevitably becomes a horrifying clusterfuck of conflation, rationalization and misinformation. So banging someone other than your wife becomes the moral equivalent of sticking your hand down someone’s pants without her consent–both filed under the rubric of “sexual indiscretions” or “regrettable pecadilloes,” while “rape” remains this whole other thing that only monsters far outside the general population would ever do–and then of course people start saying it’s ridiculous, puritanical bullshit to assume that just because someone would cheat on his wife, he’s probably also capable of rape, because THAT IS ACTUALLY TRUE.

It’s somewhat less ridiculous, however, to assume that just because someone would commit non-penetrative sexual assaults, he might also be capable of committing penetrative ones. In fact, that’s not very ridiculous at all. You follow?

This is not–NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT, not that this disclaimer will matter to the contingent who stopped reading after the first line and are now blogging furiously about my Dworkinian extremism–to say I think Strauss-Kahn doesn’t deserve a fair trial, or that anyone who gropes will go on to rape. It’s just a friendly reminder that groping is, in fact, a real crime defined by a lack of consent, which makes it substantially more similar to rape than it is to ill-advised yet consensual flirting, petting, or sex.

And if that’s still too confusing, then ask yourself this: How the fuck did a habit of grabbing fistfuls of boob become the hallmark of a “great seducer”?

Sweet Jesus, Again?

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I actually thought I was done publicly complaining about Dan Savage’s intractable bigotry, but here I am again.

Why? Because, instead of giving any real thought to the points raised by his fucking badass colleague Lindy West last week, he has simply quoted and linked to a post he wrote after I said the same basic shit three years ago. A post titled “Sweet Jesus, Kate Harding is Such a Dishonest, Paranoid Douchebag,”* and in which he A) accuses me of scrubbing a post by way of fake-complimenting my integrity (in reality, he didn’t find it because the post in question was published at Shakesville, not my site, and not long after that, a DDOS attack took Shakesville down, and when it went back up, a bunch of shit was lost) and B) delivers the delightful closing line, “And you are, of course, not allowed to say [that eating and exercise have any impact on weight]—lest the codependent thought police, in the guise of Ms. Harding, jump down your throat.”

Since that was published, I have had one (1) reasonably cordial e-mail exchange with Dan Savage on an unrelated matter, and he even said something nice about me in public once. So I sort of figured we had put that thing where he called me a dishonest, paranoid douchebag behind us? GUESS NOT.

And three years later, he still apparently cannot understand what people like Lindy West and I–and Marilyn Wann, who had the same conversation with him before Lindy was even born, I think–are saying here. I will try one more time to make the crucial point as simply as possible before I give up forever.

Dear Dan,

We are not asking for your approval of our choices.

We are not asking you to find us attractive.

We are not asking for your scientific opinion.

We are not asking you to stop secretly judging death fats or being vigilant about everything that goes into your mouth.

We are asking you to stop being a fucking bigoted dick in public.

And you keep saying no.

*To be fair, I’ll note that this was in response to a post of mine titled, “Sweet Jesus, I Hate Dan Savage” (which was a riff on “Sweet Jesus, I Hate Chris Matthews,” a blog that started up around the same time).  And if he had actually responded in kind, or even just gone with “Such a Douchebag,” I wouldn’t still be pissed in 2011. But “dishonest” is a fightin’ word, and he’s just made it an issue again.

Guest Post: Slacktivist Uprising

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By my friend Jess, aka @electricpenguin.

In 2004, my mom and I attended the March for Women’s Lives in DC. According to NOW, the organizers of the march, its aim was to “demand political and social justice for women and girls regardless of their age, race, ethnicity, religious beliefs, economic status, sexual orientation or ability.” We’re big fans of political and social justice and women’s lives and nondiscrimination, but all the same, we weren’t really sure what we were doing there. Women’s lives weren’t being actively threatened on a legislative level — no proposals on the table to outlaw abortion, no pending legislation about domestic violence or equal pay or rape or reproductive freedom or support for mothers. Women were there in force, chanting and waving signs, and we knew that things needed to change — but “What do we want? To live in a culture where women’s body autonomy is considered a paramount right, where women’s voices are taken seriously, where misogyny is given no quarter, and where women are treated in all things as fully equal and valuable members of society! When do we want it? Now!” isn’t much of a rallying cry.

This week I participated in #mooreandme, a Twitter campaign spearheaded by Sady Doyle. Our aims there were smaller: to make Michael Moore and Keith Olbermann acknowledge and apologize for misrepresenting rape claims, mocking the alleged victims, and massively boosting the signal on a false article that lied about the allegations and publicized the victims’ names. Just a quick apology, just two men, just supposed progressives who were supposedly on our side — it wasn’t exactly “political and social justice for all women.” And we didn’t march, and we didn’t chant, and we didn’t shout and raise our fists. We just asked, over and over, for them to acknowledge what they did wrong and apologize. Acknowledge and apologize. Acknowledge, please, and apologize. Don’t give us justice, don’t solve “women’s lives,” don’t even promise to respect us in the future — just acknowledge what you did wrong, and apologize. It was small, and quiet, and hopeless, and exhausting. And in the end it was much more meaningful and much more successful than that march six years ago.

People like science fiction writer Will Shetterly, late of Racefail ’09, disagree. They have accused #mooreandme of being “slacktivism,” zero-accountability faux activism that risks nothing and gets nothing done. “I’ve [been] beaten in the fight against racism,” Shetterly tweeted yesterday. “We were willing to march & speak out in public & risk being beaten because the cause mattered.” Activism in online spaces, where activists only risk being the target of ugly words, is thus both cowardly and meaningless — the risk is not enough so the cause doesn’t matter. If you don’t risk being physically assaulted or arrested, Shetterly said, you are a slacker. (Words, of course, are terrible when they hurt Keith Olbermann’s — or Will Shetterly’s — fee-fees, but a trivial danger when it comes to justifying online activism by women.)

Malcolm Gladwell aside, this is a wildly outdated objection. Dismissing online activism because nobody’s getting punched is like complaining that people aren’t printing and distributing political pamphlets, so nobody does REAL activism anymore. (As others have pointed out, #mooreandme is secondarily about inability to understand how the internet works — Keith Olbermann’s tantrum and huffy sortapology in particular show a misunderstanding about what it means to retweet something, who sees a retweet, and who sees an individual @ reply.) Dismissing all internet activism out of hand requires misunderstanding of either activism or the internet. Slacktivism is a great portmanteau word and a real thing — I’m not going to dispute that posting your bra color on Facebook, purportedly to “raise awareness of breast cancer” without saying the words “breast cancer” or “breast” or even for that matter “bra,” is inane. (A friend invented a brilliant ploy, in which activists start an offensively stupid and facile campaign in order to get people to donate to real causes out of exasperation and rage. I named it “smacktivism.”) But that doesn’t discredit a campaign like #mooreandme, any more than the existence of “Selleck Waterfall Sandwich” discredits Daily Kos. The internet, she contains multitudes.

Nor is activism a monolith. For one thing, though Will Shetterly has regularly proved himself unable to handle this concept, it isn’t limited to white cissexual men working oh-so-generously on behalf of the oppressed. Shetterly brags about endangering himself for the cause of civil rights, and hooray for that; as a white guy, he got to make that choice. If he’d been black, he would have been endangered every day by his lack of civil rights – and he would still be endangered by racism today, just as women are endangered by misogyny and gay people are endangered by homophobia and trans people are endangered by transphobia and disabled people are endangered by ableism. They – to risk speaking for others, we – don’t need to put our safety on the line. We live on the line. It’s pretty rich for Shetterly to call himself the better activist because he chose, at one time, to take on a portion of the danger involved in not being a white cis male.

But enough about that, because if I kept talking about who was or wasn’t a gigantic butthorn in all this I’d never get to stop. I do have an additional point, though, which is this: There is more than one job, and more than one tool. Many oppressed groups, including women, still face bias that’s engendered in (or at least not counteracted by) the law. But law is at least starting to catch up to justice, while social discourse, including among progressives, lags behind. It is thanks to people who were willing to risk physical harm and arrest that we’ve been able to make the advances we have made. Civil rights protesters shed blood to change laws — nobody disputes that the risks were more immediate and the eventual results more monumental than when people type words to change a conversation. But those broad advances, while critical, were also crude. For the finishing work — for lifting tenacious ugliness to the light, for uncovering the frameworks of privilege, for crafting a progressive movement that truly values everyone it represents – we need different tools. To continue the work using only marches and sit-ins, because they are the only tools we’ve deemed to be valid, would be like hacking away at a topiary with a scythe.

When faced with unfair laws, it makes sense to disobey those laws and face legal consequences like arrest. But when faced with an unfair culture, it makes sense to disobey that culture — to refuse to make the assumptions you’re expected to make, to refuse to play by rotten rules. You can’t root out the privilege and bigotry festering at the heart of society by chaining yourself to a fence. You need to engage where the wrong is being done — which is now not just in the laws, but in the discourse. And much of that discourse takes place online. It’s not the only possible locus of activism, which is lucky since many don’t have reliable access to the internet and that in itself is something to be taken on. But it’s a valid locus.

#Mooreandme is not a slacker protest. It’s a different form of civil disobedience. We’re not flouting the law — there’s no specific unjust law, in this case, to flout. We’re not marching, because marching is meaningless here; our issue is not with the writ-large, protest-sign, bumper-sticker policies of progressivism, but with the misogyny that comes out when so-called progressives wink and nudge at each other in private, which Keith Olbermann and Michael Moore demonstrated and legitimized in public. We object to the conversation, and we object with conversation. We disobey the rules that say women should not engage powerful men. We disobey the rules that say women and allies should not demand accountability from powerful men for the harm they do. We disobey the rules that say women must not band together, that we must make ourselves small and solitary and vulnerable. We disobey the rules that say a threatened woman must back down.

That’s not slacking — that’s hard, and it’s powerful, and it can be (and has been, and will be) used not only against misogyny but against racism, transphobia, ableism, you name it. When people are made invisible by the progressive movement, when we are trivialized or marginalized by those who claim to support social justice, when we are not heard, the solution is to make ourselves heard. The solution is to make ourselves impossible to ignore. They won’t arrest us for it — they’re not the law. They probably won’t beat us for it, though they might, not because we’re nobly martyring ourselves for the cause but simply because there’s always danger in speaking when you’re not a white cis man. But they will flail and shout and complain in the tide of our voices, in the force of our indisputable presence. They will notice and acknowledge us, and that’s the fight we’re fighting now. It’s not a fight Will Shetterly wants to allow. It’s not a fight that makes him feel comfortable, or that makes Keith Olbermann feel comfortable in his magnanimous superiority. But isn’t that sort of the point? Those who decry internet activism as “too easy” need to wonder: Am I upset that it’s easy? Or am I upset that it’s possible, now, for people who aren’t me?

In which I rant about Assange support giving way to victim-blaming and rape apology

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For Salon.

As of today, even Naomi Wolf – Naomi Effin’ Wolf! — has taken a public swipe at Assange’s accusers, using her status as a “longtime feminist” to underscore the absurdity of “the alleged victims … using feminist-inspired rhetoric and law to assuage what appears to be personal injured feelings.”

Wow. Admittedly, I don’t have as much experience being a feminist as Wolf has, but when I see a swarm of people with exactly zero direct access to the facts of a rape case loudly insisting that the accusation has no merit, I usually start to wonder about their credibility. And their sources.

 

I wrote another thing!

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On Sarah Palin’s new reality show, for the L.A. Times online:

The claim that “Sarah Palin’s Alaska” is a wholly apolitical travelogue-cum-family tableau, meant only to showcase the rugged beauty of our largest state and the just-folksiness of its former governor, lasts about five minutes into the first episode.

That’s the point at which we learn that Sarah’s enjoyment of working on the “cement slab” outside (naturally the Palins would have nothing so fancy-pants as a “patio”) is hampered by the presence of a new neighbor, the writer Joe McGinniss, who’s rented the house next door while researching what Todd Palin describes as a “hit piece” on his wife. Sarah explains that Todd’s reaction to McGinniss’ arrival was to get out there with his buddies and erect a 14-foot-high fence between the properties (as you do), and before I can finish writing “immigration analogy?” in my notes, she clarifies: “By the way, I thought that was a good example, what we just did, others could look at and say, ‘Oh, this is what we need to do to secure our nation’s border.’”

 

Whew!

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I just sat down at the internet, thinking I wanted to write a blog post to keep my momentum going, but I really did not want to spend too much time on it or get myself too riled up. Easier said than done. I was just about to admit defeat — everything I might want to blog about would take me at least 3 hours and 85 “fuck”s — but then Jezebel came through for me.

Yesterday in Central Park, the world’s smallest dog met the world’s tallest dog. And somebody took a picture.

That’s exactly my blogging speed right now.

Oh, but before I go, I also want to plug Rebecca Traister’s liveblog tonight, 7:30 ET at Pam’s House Blend. I started reading Big Girls Don’t Cry today, and so far,  it is everything I hoped for — which was a lot, because Rebecca is pretty fucking awesome.

That’s all I got.

Congrats, Jaclyn and Jessica!

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Hey, guess what made Publishers Weekly‘s Best Books of 2009 list?

Yes Means Yes! Visions of Female Sexual Power and a World Without Rape
Edited by Jaclyn Friedman and Jessica Valenti (Seal)
Activist writers Friedman and Valenti present an extraordinary, eye-opening essay collection that focuses on the importance of sexual identity and ownership in the struggle against rape in the U.S., as well as a number of related issues, including sexual pleasure, self-esteem and the mixed societal messages that turn “nice guys” bad.

The anthology includes not only an essay by yours truly, but many by writers I love, including Kimberly Springer, with whom I did a Q&A here. Congrats to everyone involved, and thanks, PW!

Impossibly Beautiful

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OK, let me begin with both the latest media news and a couple of copyright violations. I am one of the “Women We Love” in this month’s Chatelaine! (My dear friend KB, writing from Toronto: “Jesus H – you’re in the Women We Love issue with goddamn ALICE MUNRO! And your photo is bigger than hers!!!” Heh.) And because I don’t live in a country where I can buy Chatelaine and neither do most of you, I’m totally posting a scan of the spread, sent by KB:

kate_chatelaine_spread

The photo was taken by the amazingly sweet and talented Becky Hill, and the text, by plus-size modeling agent and entrepreneurial genius Ben Barry, reads in part:

[W]e are not going down, because Chicago’s Kate Harding is on our side. Kate, 34, shares Susie Orbach’s vision for her generation; she is a fat-acceptance crusader who uses the voice and vehicles of today to rip apart the fictitious links between weight, health and human nature, to expose why diets don’t work and set us on the path to peace with our bodies. Combining sharp wit and compelling arguments in blog posts and tweets — as well as in her book, Lessons from the Fat-o-sphere — she reminds us that fat is still a feminist issue. For now. The more we learn from Kate, the more we will free our time and money from trying to change our bodies and turn to rediscovering ourselves.

There’s more, but since the whole thing is only two paragraphs, that’s copyright violation #2. In return for Chatelaine’s unwitting generosity, I offer this: DEAR EVERYONE IN CANADA, PLEASE GO BUY A REAL COPY RIGHT NOW. BETTER YET, SUBSCRIBE! LOVE, KATE

OK, so about that photo. I look pretty, right? (If you disagree, drop dead.) In the spirit of the “Impossibly Beautiful” series at Shakesville, I want to talk about how I got that pretty. In this case, it wasn’t Photoshop (though there might very well have been some — since it’s not screamingly fucked-up, that’s not the point this time), but it was still artificial as hell.

I arrived at Becky’s studio with my hair and make-up already done for a big-deal magazine shoot — or so I thought. Already on my face and hair at that point: Moisturizer, primer, foundation, powder, blush, mascara, eyeliner, lipliner, lipstick, lipgloss, eyebrow powder, eyeshadow, leave-in conditioner, Kiehl’s Silk Groom Serum, hairspray — much more of all of it than I would normally use. Oh, and I’d hot-rolled my hair, because I’m retro like that.

Then Becky introduces me to Antonette. Who is there to put another layer of pretty much everything on my face (right over top of the first round), re-curl my hair, and put another bottle or so of hairspray on it. This is very similar to what happened before I was on CNN, with one exception: Antonette uses airbrush make-up. Which involves instructions like “OK, just don’t inhale for a minute while I do this.” Also, she put that shit all the way down my chest.

So. At this point, I have already had a far more serious hair and make-up job than I did for my friggin’ wedding photos, and that’s only the beginning. Because Antonette (who is such a doll, and if you are a Chicagoan in the market for the sort of make-up job that involves holding your breath, you should call her) comes with us to Earwax, where we took that photo (on their back patio, which has a fabulous circus-themed mural, hence fat lady behind me). And not only does she touch up the hair and make-up every 10 seconds, but she keeps rearranging my belt and skirt — and cami and slip and chub-rub-preventative bike shorts; Antonette and I got to know each other reeeeal well — to make sure everything’s smooth and perfectly positioned. Every time I take a fucking breath, she fixes the two hairs I blew out of place, the fabric that’s bunched up — imperceptibly to all naked eyes except hers — and the belt that’s now a millimeter lower than where she wants it.

And on top of all that, Becky and her assistant are running around maniacally, finding the best angles and best light, adding light where it’s insufficient, asking me to move an inch (literally) this way, then an inch back, helping me up onto the bench I’m standing on, then down so they can move the whole bench an inch that way, then back up, back down, move the bench, move the Kate, change the light, WAIT! NOW YOUR HAIR’S STUPID AGAIN!

And all that was before we moved on to the second location, just in case the 8 bazillion photos she took at Earwax weren’t to the photo editor’s taste.

It was actually a really fun afternoon — they were great, it was a novel adventure, Becky bought me a smoothie (which is, in fact, the price of my affection) — but holy crap, even if I had been born with genes that made me 6 feet tall and thin, I would not last one day as a model. Total time invested in getting this one photo: 4.5 hours.

Anyway. So far, I have gotten numerous responses to that photo, including but not limited to:

  • hubba hubba
  • Gorgeous!
  • DAMN!
  • Awesome picture Kate!!!!!!!
  • Rowr!

And even I am willing to say that yes, the FOUR OF US, not to mention the art department at Chatelaine, made a very nice picture of me. But now it’s time for the reality check. When I’m on my own? It comes out more like this:

2gayestlook

It takes a village to make a magazine-quality photo, y’all. Don’t ever forget it.

(Oh, and for the curious who haven’t already learned this from the 90 other times I wore the same outfit in media appearances and posted about it: Dress and belt are from Igigi.)

Media darling

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Craig Lassig for tht NYT

Craig Lassig for the NYT

So, this picture was taken the day after my wedding reception, when I could barely walk, was so tired I wanted to die, and — stupidly not having anticipated either of those eventualities — had to give a reading. And then had to meet up with a photographer for the New York Times right before that. Best planning ever. But at least this one picture turned out surprisingly well!

In case you’re wondering, the giant, black-and-white finger growing out of my left shoulder belongs to a model in the Victoria’s Secret window display behind me. (The juxtaposition of her and me was supposed to be all deep and shit, but then the lighting didn’t really work out.)

Anyway. That photo, by the lovely Craig Lassig, accompanied this Thursday Styles piece by Mandy Katz, which was a sidebar to this article. Two mentions of the book in the NYT in one day! I am beside myself! And also beside a giant, black-and-white finger.

In other fancy media news, Lee Randall wrote a terrifically flattering column about Shapely Prose in the Scotsman yesterday. And then the following conversation took place on Twitter.

KateHarding @randallwrites Just saw it now! Thank you so much!!

randallwrites @KateHarding no, thank you. i need such regular boots up the jaxsie to keep me relatively sane.

KateHarding @randallwrites I will be the boot up your jaxsie any time. Though I’m only guessing what a jaxsie is.

Lee kindly confirmed that a jaxsie is exactly what I suspected it was.

Also, I just set up an interview with Never Say Diet over at iVillage, and in the course of that up-setting (uh, wait…), I discovered that Linda Vongkhamchanh wrote the most fantastic review of Lessons there, over a month ago! WAY TO FAIL ME, GOOGLE ALERTS. Anyway, check this out:

Harding and Kirby, both self-proclaimed fat girls, have founded the ultimate fat girl’s bible, with lessons of positive body image, healthy living, and most importantly loving yourself and being healthy in your current body and at your current weight. It’s possible to be fat and healthy, just as it is possible for someone to be slim and unhealthy. Interesting concept, right? It totally goes against society’s view of women, where skinny is in and fat is just not all that. We love us some revolutionary non-diet literature! And, not to mention, their witty firsthand accounts that go along with the life lessons for the rotund reader make them all the more trustworthy.

Love!