Listen to Sean Bean. He knows what he's talking about.
Since their invention in the 1920s, motion pictures, or “movies” as we know them today, have become the primary source of visual entertainment for the bored masses everywhere. Starting with Charlie Chapin’s black-and-white comedies, the movie industry flourished and branched out into numerous and diverse genres, ranging from violence to romance. While evolving into one of the most lucrative industries in the world, it seems to have retrogressed in terms of social evolution. Modern cinema has reverted back to the image of women as man-obsessed, lovesick neurotics and curbed the progress of feminism that so many extraordinary women have toiled to establish throughout the decades.
The most popular genre of movies nowadays is the “chick flick,” a romantic comedy or drama aimed towards pre-teens, teenage girls, and women. These movies range from sweet love stories to ridiculous assaults on female empowerment, but they rarely find the right balance of romance and gender equality. The main premise of the majority of these films is the timeless fairytale of a woman needing a man to save her in one way or another. They may not all be locked away in towers or poisoned by evil witches, but in some way, the women portrayed have some overwhelming life crisis that only a handsome man is able to solve. Oh, Hollywood, you are so very naïve.
The representation of women in cinema goes beyond their characters, but spills over to their real lives. We tend to forget that actors are people, too, and that they, like any other human being, have insecurities and bad hair days. Recently, “Missing” actress, Ashley Judd, has come under media fire for supposedly having cosmetic work done on her face. This verbal attack was harsh and the media outlets involved went so far as to call her a “cow” and a “pig” and claimed that she “better watch out” because her husband “is looking for his second wife.” Now, if a man had gained a few pounds between episodes, it would go completely unnoticed or wouldn’t receive as much media frenzy, but as a woman, Judd experienced an outpour of negative remarks and denigrations.
As someone who refuses to take an active part in the vilification of female actors in the media, Judd decided that this time was different and that she had to take a stand, not just for her sake, but for women everywhere. In an open-editorial for The Daily Beast, Judd defended her “puffy appearance” that sparked all those vicious rumors and confronted the malicious criticism of the media towards women. “It affects each and every one of us, in multiple and nefarious ways: our self-image, how we show up in our relationships and at work, our sense of our worth, value, and potential as human beings (Judd, 2012).”
This blatant misrepresentation and mitigation of women’s true worth, which transcends their weight and beauty, has to stop. Yes, we are turning it into a feminist discussion, because it has been a misogynistic one from the start. Women are more than girly, irrational, love-struck chumps and they deserve to be characterized as more than that. We must cease and desist this onslaught of female degradation now. Women participate just as much as men. Where is our self-respect and our compassion for our fellow women? Have we forgotten the hardships we had to endure to achieve our most fundamental rights as women? Have we forgotten how, for centuries, male-oriented society has attempted to crush the female spirit and thwart our search for equality? The Conversation must change. Women must change. One by one, we can change the Conversation from one of derogation to one of empowerment. Cunt power!
The relationship one has with one’s favorite writer or book transcends the traditional facets of typical human interaction. Granted, mine borders on psychosis, but you can’t say that it’s not genuine and heartfelt. Most people never get the chance or don’t even bother to experience the deep bond between writer and reader. They scratch at the surface of literature, never quite making it to the fiery, mind-blowing core. Their experience with language remains about as satisfying as a sneeze that doesn’t quite come out. This is precisely why I hold my favorite writer so dear, so close to my heart at all times.
I live in a universe that revolves around books, James Joyce’s books, to be exact. The world of James Joyce is a weird and wonderful mélange of never-ending alliterations and intricately embroidered wordings, all coalescing to create a truly profound and magnificent work of art. Needless to say, I have spent many a day ditching classes, averting homework assignments, and neglecting life by sitting around and sharing a bottle of whiskey with James. The man is a genius. I have attempted (and am still trying) to accumulate a lifetime of worldly knowledge in order to be able to comprehend James’ works on a fuller scale. I have read history books, learned ancient and foreign languages, studied psychology, philosophy, poetry, and literature to understand every word he wrote. I am not a fan. I am not a groupie. I am not an aficionada. James and I are involved.
I remember the first time I read Eveline in my English literature class. Every word gave me premature ventricular contractions. Each word was like a delicious little truffle, flavorful, intense, and palpable. Everyone else was annoyed by the banality of the story, but not me. No, I was enthralled by the truthfulness and rawness of it. I could touch the velvet curtains, see the dusty old photograph frame, hear Eveline’s mother howl “Derevaun seraun! Derevaun seraun!” in a mad frenzy, and I could feel Eveline’s uncertainty and sorrow. It was all so real to me, as though I’d jumped right onto the pages and the black inked letters were my playground. I went and bought Dubliners the next day.
I could relate to all of his themes. He wrote of unrequited love, of homesickness, of melancholy, of the soul, of the twisted inner workings of the human mind. He wrote to survive in a world that is detached from itself. It wasn’t about money; he wasn’t very rich. It wasn’t about fame; he wasn’t very popular. It was about stories that were bursting from the streets of Dublin onto his papers, teeming with life and reality. He never stooped to tokenistic clichés and insincere hypocrisies. His characters were as real as you and me, maybe even more so. The harmony of his writings transformed them into the lyrics of a birdsong that serenaded every cell in your body, because you could remember and feel every emotion his characters were feeling. Ulysses is my favorite book, in case you were wondering at this point, because it encompasses every single theme and emotion a human and a soul could possibly endure. Stephen, Leopold, and Molly, they each agonize, brood, reminisce, delight, loathe, suffer, and love, all in one magical odyssey. Why would I ever want to read anything else?
When I found a collection of recorded readings by him, I sobbed like a madwoman and nearly passed out with glee. I hung on every word he uttered, savored the cadence and melody of his voice, and listened to him read and talk and breathe and chuckle and gasp between sentences. It was like listening to an old friend excitedly sharing a poem he’d discovered while rummaging through a dusty, old library. He sounded familiar and friendly, witty and mischievous, like a best friend who’ll give you that knowing, rascally look and make you laugh till you pee your pants. I think I’ve a little crush on him, to be perfectly honest. It’s the eye patch. I can’t resist a pirate. I would gladly live in a psychotic, imaginary world inside my own unhinged mind where he and I were blissfully married and drunk, happy and adorable like the littlest elf.
Did I mention that he also started out as a medical student? He was also a tenor, played guitar, and spoke ancient languages. He could probably cook, too. I can’t wait for the zombie apocalypse to start, because then I’ll get to date him. I’m quite thrilled about that. His genius and his talent are unfathomable. His awesomeness is infinite. My love for him is perpetually boundless. And if ever, someone dares to undermine his magnificence, I will politely punch him or her right in the babymaker. Now, excuse me while I get back to my bible and enjoy this ice cream that I’ve mixed with a shot of whiskey. Sláinte!
They say it’s the little things in life that count. I can personally attest that, because of you, this is undeniably true.
We met when I was young, reckless, and immature. You were going through your Turkish phase and I was going through my chocoholic phase. It was an awkward time for the both of us.
I have to admit, sadly, that I didn’t really like you all that much when we first met. I thought you were a tad too bitter for my taste, but oh, boy, was I wrong about you. Once we had the chance to get to know each other that one afternoon at Starbucks, we became inseparable. Despite our differences, we overcame bad first impressions and explosive diarrhea to become the best of friends.
And, as Will Ferrell once said, “Once it touched my lips, it was so good”. There was no turning back. You’ve become an integral part of my everyday life. And even when Tea and I started hanging out, you were totally cool about it, which I appreciated.
I can’t even begin to imagine what my life would be like without you now. You’ve become a dear, old friend who is always there for me during those dark, uncreative, unenergetic days and nights.
You’ve brought my friends and me together on countless occasions, given me the motivation to keep writing on those nights when the inspiration just couldn’t find me, and awoken me on those mornings when I just wanted to sink into my bed or kick a bag of kittens. You’re the perfect icebreaker, the perfect conversation starter, and the perfect afternoon companion. And well, without you, how else would I throw away $8.00 each day?
So thank you, Coffee. Here’s to many, many more beautiful, happy cups together!
The coolest beans in town. 
