Tonight I’m moderating a chat with Mary Elizabeth Winstead about All About Nina, a woman-directed indie that couldn’t be more culturally relevant if Rachel Mitchell were grilling it at a senate hearing. Starring the brilliant Winstead, it focuses on a sexually traumatized female comedian who is as searingly funny as she is self-destructive. Women like this don’t get put on big screens, and they should. Because, as we were painfully reminded this week, that’s how most of us move through life— afraid we’ll never heal but too strong to fall apart completely. We’ll be discussing all this at a 7:30pm screening at 42nd Street’s AMC25 theater and would be so grateful if you joined us. Honestly? Everyone could use the support right now.
Tickets are still available; join us!
Archive | Feminist Matters
Erma Bombastic’s Bruja Penicillin
Monday was a full moon, an especially powerful one since it followed on the heels of the autumn equinox. Both aspects were all about conserving energy–letting go of what wouldn’t serve in the long, dark nights to come.
That made so much sense that I didn’t want to waste precious energy talking about it. Actually I didn’t want to talk about anything, which I feel more and more as toxic masculinity holds the country hostage in its hideous, withered talons. People keep saying this is its dying gasp, but if there’s one thing I know about power theory, it’s that those who have power never willingly cede it. Revolution is always necessary for systemic change, and most of us in the second year of 45’s oligarchy are too rundown to be as radical as is required.
To be clear, I don’t just feel this poison in the political realm–I feel it in my personal life, my professional life. My DNA. My pussy. And it’s exhausting. Male entitlement has completely drained me. I feel ill–headachey, dyspeptic, itchy, restless. I check my phone a billion times a day, I toss it across the room a billion and one times more. I’m not hungry, I’m too thirsty. You get the point.
So when I got home last night from a particularly trying day on the front lines of the cockacracy, I eyed that big beautiful moon and my disaster of an apartment (I’ve really let things slide since Beau stopped coming by), and resolved to concoct a special chicken soup. This witch’s brew didn’t heal me all at once, but it infused me with the power and wisdom and charisma of Diana and Sophia and Oshun and Yemaya and both Marys and of course Aretha. Also it tasted pretty good. I woke soothed and energized, ready to rise like a pheonix from this country’s flames.
Here’s the recipe. Continue Reading →
