Wednesday, August 1, 2018
Fat - The Anthropology of Obsession Don Kulick & Ann Meneley, Editors Jeremy P Tarcher / Penguin 2005 $16.95 Fat is a word that's often on the lips as well as on the hips. Thirteen professional anthropologists, and one activist weigh in with a variety of international takes on the topic. Fat means very different things to many it seems, a subject no one is indifferent to. Reviewed is how every year in America billions of dollars are spent on books, programs, pre-packaged diets and fitness clubs. "Lite" foods are marketed to every demographic and contrasted with "food porn" as seen in TV commercials, magazines, on billboards and facebook pages. These authors, often imbedded with their subjects for up to a year, go global with stories of: fattening the young, beautiful brides of Yemen; studying teen girls in Sweden who talk about fat all day, every day and their obsession with how to avoid it; as well as the idealization of larger size in the fairer sex in Niger, Africa. Fat is viewed positively by an Italian heirloom grower and producer of olives and olive oil - some more expensive than champaign. In Hawaii, Spam's history in their diet is featured, describing how it is relished and incorporated into many ethnic dishes. One chapter tells how oversized women (BBWs - big beautiful women) and another chapter on very large, furry men called "bears," are both fetishized on line, in magazines and how they are sought after as partners. Fat activists in Toronto, under their homemade banner - "Pretty, Porky and Pissed Off" - emphasize that "fat comes in more than one size." They stage demonstrations accosting people on the street asking them, "Do you think I'm fat?" and have a street performance dancing in leotards to "Baby Elephant Walk," crushing lots of cakes with their ample backsides as the finale. [Who says the personal isn't political?] Also featured are super-sized rappers. Find out why they are lionized in some sectors the US music world. When it comes to fat the authors demonstrate "one size does not fit all." The academic and writing credentials of each contributor is featured at the end of the book, as well as a joint introduction by the editors who contribute a chapter each to the book.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
My Own Extra Room By Brandy Larson I’d made the decision. My second career – body worker – or as some people say masseuse . . . “cowboy masseuse” as an early client said.For most of my adult life I'd done the housemate thing. There'd been several happy years of domestic bliss, living with honey buns and privacy. But due to economic necessity, "roomies" had generally been my fate. Let me count the ways – Stone Manor Co-op, a tiny green room on the fourth floor, view of Lake Mendota shared with college friend Winnie, 30 tenants and a big community dining room in the basement opening out onto the flagstone terrace, midnight nude swims off the pier. My first rental house was on East Gotham Street, another group-living arrangement. My room was illegal, in the unfinished basement. We post-teenagers with our dogs banded together to make the rent. After my six-week hitchhiking tour of more than 1,500 miles, with $100, backpack and dog, I snagged an east-side flat, cycling through 3 different landlords, two honey buns and a handful of roomies. One of the last housemates there was a working girl – not that kind – who, after the interview confessed, she was pregnant. After the baby was born, mother and child shortly got their own place. I helped mom move in January when it was -14 degrees.Next was a second-floor flat with my room in the top floor attic. Over the years, there was an assortment of housemates – guys, gals, students, one honey bun and a former philosophy major 3 credits short of graduation working on the loading docks at Webcrafters. I kicked out another guy due to his head-banger, over-the-top boom box.It was around this time I started having recurring dreams of an extra room. In the dreams,I’d discover a hidden door, sometimes discovering a whole wing next to my room. I’d just wander around, admiring all that space. In other dreams, I’d be negotiating to move into a place with an extra room or even two. Meanwhile, I did have a whole house near Vilas Park with a sweetheart. I helped him transform it. It had been a party house for him and his West High buddies. I spent my spare time – between two jobs – scrubbing down walls and painting. The things we do for love. Once the paint dried, things went south.Then I found a double-chambered room in the original farm house of a former vast acreage on Commercial Avenue. Dave, the leaseholder, was a communist, he said, and the son of a captain of industry. He had a color TV and cable in his bedroom. There was a small black and white TV in the living room. I said why not share the TV wealth? Nothing doing, he said.Some communist.One day, I told him I'd had a dream that I was moving. Dave said that’s right, take your dog – he never liked Raven – you’re out of here.A first-floor flat on Jenifer Street provided the next batch of housemates, mostly students.My favorite all-time housemate was Keiko, a Japanese woman working on a bachelor’s degree innursing. Always sweet, sunny, amazingly considerate, Asian serenity every day. If I’d been a guyI’d have asked her to marry me!I had a very stressful sub-teaching job when I decided to get a massage from the famous Cherie. A light bulb went off. Ten years previously, my mom taught me to give full-body Swedish massages after she took a six-week course at the tech school when she retired. On Cherie’s massage table, I just felt it in my bones – and muscles – this is for me!Soon after this, I had another extra-room dream. I opened what looked like a closet door. I stepped over the threshold. Velvet clothing in glowing gem tones was hanging from a tall door jamb. I moved through the entryway into a series of airy rooms. Shortly after this dream, I met Michelle, a certified masseuse, at a party. I asked if she would be my teacher. She said she’d be happy to instruct me which she did in six lessons for free. After the first lesson, she said I was a natural.A housemate had moved out on Jennifer Street that summer, and I borrowed Mom’s massage table. I self-apprenticed at half-price for a few months in my first extra room, then I found another flat on East Washington. The day I set up my massage studio there with help from Signe, the new housemate had a friend helping him move in. Thirty minutes after setting up my spiffy new studio, I offered a free massage to the moving helper. Here I was, doing massage on a handsome guy in my own dedicated extra room.
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Brandy Danu Madison, WI One comment - "accepting one's station in life." I recall my mother's friend & her "white room." It was a museum type "living room." On the occasions we went there I stood at the doorway wondering about it. We were never "entertained" in there. I asked my mother about it and she said it was for special guests. My family, tho comfortable didn't have a room just for show or an occasional cocktail party. My mother would comment on her more affluent friends having a - beautiful home - with a kind of longing for an upgraded existence. We had a spill-proof Naugahyde couch. I recall going to a friend's new condo. Her young nephew was there and he said - this place feels like a hotel. Yesterday I was at an acquaintance's home. It was suburban and all the homes had the exact same type of grass, which was long and luscious. There were no fences so the backyards seemed more spacious than just me and mine. Of course the lawns were maintained with pesticides and commercial fertilizers. This kills all the natural microorganisms in the soil. I live in what was described as a "dusty old house" on the phone by the landlord, sight unseen I said "I'll take it" and I did. Built in 1908 with few recent upgrades in the kitchen or bath and not one closet on the first floor, I enjoy the house a lot with its big (dusty) Midwestern porch & swing and "wild" back yard. My furniture is "piecemeal," the overall effect is shabby, tho I like to think of it as some kind of chic. A humble Bohemian world, but mine.
In 1983 I moved to the very conservative Iowa County for a teaching job in Mazomanie, a bedroom community of the very liberal Madison, WI, Dane Co. and rented a farm house out in the country. 1983 was a presidential election year and I had to go to the home of the local county clerk's home to register. It was an old farmhouse that hadn't seen a lick of paint in years. The dining room was cluttered with craft supplies. The clerk was a friendly grey haired woman. We chatted and I filled out my voter registration form. I think she offered me some tea. On voting day I arrived at the polling place, registration postcard in hand. It was in a little wooden building about 12 feet square, staffed by 3 people who undoubtedly personally knew all of the other voters from this rural area. The voting booth had a gingham curtain for privacy, the ballot was on paper and was to be marked by an X and slipped into the little slotted ballot box. Angela Davis was on the ballot running for president (as a Communist?) that year and I was going to vote for her as a protest vote. (Just for the record, I am not now and never have been a member of the Communist Party). I'm a Social Democrat. Of course in all of Iowa County I doubt that there was one other person who was voting for Angela Davis. They had my registration card with all my information on it. The word redneck pretty much sums up the orientation of that area. My guess is the minority party (Democrat) population of the whole county was undoubtedly very much in the minority to say nothing of a down ballot black woman. It occurred to me that there could be some kind of repercussions from the vote on my - private ballot. I had visions of a drive-by in the night, shot guns firing away, hunting is very big in Iowa, Co. I doubted they would go to the extent of burning a cross in my front yard, but I didn't want to find out. I bit the bullet and voted for Mondale. Iowa Co. most likely went for Reagan as did the rest of the country...it was "Morning in America."
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
The Uninvited Guest I felt just like the uninvited fairy, but my rejection soon turned to curiosity. There must be a way to find out what was going on at the all female new moon party that had not included me. Maybe lurking outside an open window, the usual way, could succeed. I headed in the direction of the gathering as the last hint of day disappeared into the sea. Stars peeked out in the velveteen sky as I blended in with the shadows. No sign of the ghost of the new moon yet. Pierced tin lanterns decked the veranda. The door was open and a filmy curtain veiled a view of the activity inside. There was music, laughter and the rise and fall of feminine voices. A tail of mist was creeping from the slight depression near. I crouched outside the walled yard noticing scent denser than the usual evening floral bouquet. Feeling a little light headed, I suddenly sat down hard onto the ground... I was startled when I looked up to see a hint of the dark side of the moon already well up into the sky. I stretched my neck from side to side to see a slim, faintly glimmering tail attached to my hind legs! I was low to the ground but unconcerned as I put two feet in front of two more and slipped through the gate, leaping up the stairs to the threshold. I was slipping unnoticed along the wall toward the dark of a couch when I heard a shriek and everything went black. Then a crescent of light appeared at the rim of my trap. Two slim hands swooped down, scooped me up and I was swiftly plopped into a bird cage. "I just love these little sugar lizards," someone said. A dozen pair of eyes were on me. "It's pretty hard to catch one," said another. "They are actually geckos," said a third. Someone slipped a nugget of cake into my enclosure and a jar lid of - what else - Champagne. The party continued and I was slide-lined on a counter in the kitchen, so couldn't succeed in my snooping. No conversations could be made out from here. I sized up the door to my small prison. I figured I could easily escape much later in the night and and slip out a window to a spot where I was praying I could resume my original form.
Monday, September 28, 2015
Extremes of Style - A Too Brief History, by Brandy Larson There is a love/hate relationship with Extremes of Style. It's a condition of the - times. Old School - "don't go to extremes." The Roaring Twenties, my first example of the past 100 years, was an era of extremes. WWI rearranged a society reeling from the carnage and terrible new technologies of the day. The traditional values of moderation in all things morphed into the "new extreme styles" - the era of jazz, booze and maybe even cocaine. Hemlines shrank, women apologetically wore make-up in public, even Great Aunt Iris, the product of a Seventh Day Adventist home, became a jazz trumpeter. Her sister, my Grandma Gladys probably became a flapper! But what goes up, must come down. With the Stock Market Crash of 1929 and the ensuing grind of The Depression, for most people in America, extremes of desperation, not style, marked the daily struggle for survival. Then WWII bent people's minds in new and extreme ways, but also lifted the US out of the economic pit. Americans were hunkering down, coping with the horrors of an ever more powerful war machine and national rationing of gas, sugar and meat. One extreme was women wearing pants and entering industrial production in the factories of the war economy. Once the smoke cleared, The Fifties were born. A new optimism prevailed, along with the Baby Boom. Women were whisked back to the home. A more mobile society, suburban "don't rock the boat," the nuclear family, aprons, Doris Day and Pat Boone were the spirits (?) of the day. Extremes, it seems had gone out of style. Once Elvis hit the airwaves and the Ed Sullivan Show (I remember seeing him on our tiny black and white TV as a young kid), and teenagers got behind the wheel of the family car, things would never be the same. In The Sixties Rock n' Roll morphed into the British Invasion, then Hard Rock and the Rolling Stones, and "the mini-skirt's the current thing - unn-ha" (Nancy Sinatra. Panty hose were born. And "the pill." The Civil Rights Movement can't be called a style, but long overdue - shook things up. There was widespread teenage rebellion born of affluence of the new middle class and the daily tragedies of the Viet Nam War morphed into mass political protests of the "Anti War Movement," the Hippie Era and mind expanding drugs. Seen as EXTREME, and certainly a Style. Huge sectors of society were turned upside-down with the" turn on, tune in and drop out" frame of mind. And the reinventions of Feminism (former wave of the Suffragettes of the early 20th Century and finally voting rights in1920). Bras were burned, there were women's consciousness groups (what are they talking about in there?. Women got college degrees and "good jobs," they were elected to office and started their own businesses, they waited to get married. And the Black Power Movement, a part of Power to the People. Modern Extreme Style became ever more the norm, rather than the "other form." We are the product of our times. Somewhere along the line my youthful freedom and optimism got lost, as well as my ability to keep up with the happening trends; the Yuppies, the New Wave, the Punks, Gen X/Y, Millennials and Helicopter Parents, etc, which sometimes seem like Extreme Styles in every way. Extreme Style is an attractor of the affluent, the arty, and as ever - the young. It is a challenge to the creative and the entrepreneurial classes that feed the desire for something NEW, fresh and exciting (did I say profitable?) Old School will NOT do. But, once again - what goes up, must come down. The Extremes of digital technology have totally altered our world and our attention spans. What Andy Warhol once described as our little corner of "fifteen minutes of [individual] fame," has become 15 seconds - about twice the current average attention span - and a new selfie every twenty minutes - Style. A recent trend was to get "unplugged," which is how I spend my vacations. Parents of young children are advised to avoid "screens" for the kids until age 3. (I never saw a TV until I was 5!) There are still things that transcend the ever-present hunger for Extreme Style, like last night's Super Moon / Blood Moon / Full Lunar Eclipse (9/27/2015). The cloudy sky cleared at the very last moment to reveal this wonder to Madison, WI. The last time this occurred was 1982 and the next time will be 2033. I loved to see the moon slowly changing back from red to silver, peering cooly down our frantic world. On this finally clear night the eclipsing moon appears the same to me as it did the the pre-Celts of Stonehenge and to homo sapiens wandering out of Africa. For a shining hour or two, I'll escape - Extremes of Style
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Dusk was arriving in the North Country on the longest day of the year. The crescent moon rose in the southwest sky. Venus, her bright companion, close by. I heard the drumming from a distance. A crowd of over a hundred blocked the view of the fire from afar. Closer an inner ring of dancers moved this way and that. A slim tall man in a blue mask did a low, angular dance engaging the fire. A pretty girl in a belly dancing outfit shimmied and glimmered in the flickering light. The many drums changed their cadence from time to time and cheers and whoops came up from the crowd. A chant was started by a small group up front, but the words weren't clear, so no one joined in. The moon peeked in and out of the wispy clouds. The fire was low and very hot. Fire keepers held their posts holding shovels and rakes. Three skinny teenaged girls tried to get a circle dance going, but were discouraged by them. In any case, the circle was too tight and the fire too hot for that. I was dancing and toasting. I shed a layer and turned my back to the flames. I remembered a Native American sweat lodge I'd attended. Soon I dropped back to the outer rings into the cool night air. I'd just finished reading "The Druids" by Peter Berresford Ellis this very day. The solstice festivals were the major events of the Celtic Europe. I envisioned Stonehenge and an Arc-Druid in long robes, his staff in his hand, young girls dancing hypnotically with flowers in their long hair, their bare legs flashing in the firelight. Drenched in sweat I decided it was time to go. The youngish crowd would continue into the night. I'd had my moment honoring the path of the Earth around the sun and my Scottish ancestors.