HUNGOVER AFTER THE VANITY FAIR OSCAR PARTY, I WENT TO A NEARBY GREASY SPOON AND PENNED THIS PULITZER-WORTHY LETTER ON A NAPKIN WHICH I THEN USED TO BLOT THE HINT OF VOM OFF OF ANNE HATHAWAY’S LIP:
Letter of Interest
1051 Cyberspace Ave
This Laptop, IN, 00000
Feb 25, 2013
As I read through this morning’s feminist ragings against the unabashedly lowbrow Seth MacFarlane, I began to question the very nature of my femininity (which is to say, the state of my breasts). Am I being gazed at enough? Perversely enough? Called “the lovely–” or “the beautiful–” enough? No. Of course not. I am neither dating anyone (yes, that’s right, let the gazing begin), nor am I friends with the cast of Jersey Shore. Who, then, will sing odes to my boobs (even when they are in dire situations cough cough The Accused)?
Blog after blog, live tweet after live tweet, I saw feminist movements being revived—the first-wavers getting huffy, the second-wavers reminding me that singing about boobs is really just a glaring denial of vaginas in and of themselves, and the third-wavers irate that women of many colors and ethnicities were left out of the misogynist gaze altogether. Don’t get me wrong: I love to get mad at misogynist men. Sometimes I make out with biddies to BOTH spite them AND arouse them (and from a pure love of making out with biddies). And as a budding (get it—it’s a flower word, so I’m relating to my gender, sexuality, and youth all at once!) filmmaker myself, shouldn’t I be upset that the only female directors invited to the club are daughters of the most valuable film estate (cough cough Coppola) or ex-wives of douchebag directors who we want to stick it to (cough cough when are we going to start making jokes about James Cameron instead of Kathryn Bigelow)?
But mostly, I’m just offended that Seth MacFarlane’s presence was so boring—so absolutely two-dimensional. After all, what high school bro hasn’t made up a song about boobs? Or been so desperately out of ideas that he has to make fat jokes about Adele? Or come up with self-incriminating homophobic jokes when Captain Kirk was around? I mean, isn’t this just like a shitty open mic night at the local townie bar–only at the Kodak, it’s not even ironic? If we really want to nab Seth MacFarlane right in the babymaker, the response needs to be exactly what his humor is not: sophisticated.
And so, toridotgov, I’m hoping you might help give us a new feminism—a feminism that listens to songs about our boobs and responds, “Hey boys, ever wonder why we aren’t singing about you?”
Your faithful, sexually-confused gal pal,
Lisa Hiton is a current nominee for the Pushcart Prize and a master’s candidate in Arts in Education at Harvard University. She single-handedly introduced the word “biddies” into the lexicon of the Midwest.