burningbright

Yesterday in a moment of inspiration I called a fellow JET whom I don’t often see, and she had a friend over, so I joined them for a viewing of Stepford Wives and more.

(Skip the next couple paragraphs if you don’t want Stepford Wives: The Movie spoiled.)

My sci-fi devotee self wishes to point out that the movie would have been cooler if the husband had known from the beginning and planned to infiltrate and destroy the evil master plan of the Stepford Men’s Club and its secret basement, with his wife oblivious the entire time…or maybe not? Maybe I should read the book.

But what I actually wanted to say was that the movie touched on a deeper point, which is that women are their own worst enemy. Sure, so maybe the one-upped husbands were down with the idea of a cook-and-sex slave with a remote control. Who isn’t? However, the architect of the robot plan turned out to be a woman, which seems far more pathological since she betrayed fellow women into mind-controlled robot slavery. That little twist probably warranted at least as much attention as the remote-wielding hubbies, if not a major plot focus shift of some sort.

And the reaction it inspired in me? First, a thought. It was suggested in post-movie discussion that if men had babies it would put an end to a lot of bullshit, which may be true. Personally I think to even things out between the human sexes, all that needs to happen is for females to be bigger than males instead of vice-versa. Alas, making men pregnant or changing the size ratio of the entire population is probably not viable, so on a more realitic note things would almost certainly improve if women knew a few martial arts moves and could remember a) size doesn’t matter and b) don’t hold your punches.

Second, I want a little sundress and impossible heels so I can dress pretty too. Go figure.

After the movie we went to Matsue to a reggae club to dance. The DJ kept playing 15 seconds of a song and then cutting it off, which my non-clubbing self wasn’t hip to. My diagnosis was that reggae fans must have the shortest attention spans in the world (or be really stoned–which begs the question of why it’s popular in relatively drug-free Japan), but apparently that’s how it works, the DJ plays a clip to tease the crowd, the crowd recognizes it and begs them to play more, lots of interaction there…for hours on end. It’s like a group game of Spot the Reference. Sort of fun except I wonder, how do the audience members ever get to recognize an entire song if they only ever hear 10 seconds?

Anyway, not much dancing happened because the styles of the DJs were a little too slow, and after awhile I was falling asleep on my feet and suffocating from secondhand smoke. We left feeling somewhat unsatisfied as far as dancing went, but everyone agreed that the DJs knew their stuff.

Further 4 AM discussion included Quebec, whose political parties are divided almost solely along language lines, as opposed to abortion, stem cell research, or god(s). To the outsider it seems absurd, so maybe it’s a good reminder of the artificiality (and arbitrariness) of political divides.

Finally, I can believe there is such a thing as an Islamic feminist, and I can believe they must think similarly to me and we would probably even get along just fine if we were stuck in a small room together.

But if someone suggested that for the rest of my life I was going to have to wear this to go swimming, I would tell them where to shove it. Are you kidding me? That’s either a brave, deeply faith-inspired, or really buff woman who plans to tread water in 20 lbs of soggy, billowing lycra. From Dervish

May 15th, 2005
Categories: feminist . Author: ximena

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