Oh, Darling Ones,

The August Malaise has got me in its clutches. Bad.

I thought with all the neurological news, I might escape. Maybe, perhaps learning of the baby aneurysm in my brain would put my anxiety in overdrive and I’d be kept occupied by my fantasies of my imminent death.

Nope. The Lexapro is doing its job and I’m being uncharacteristically rational about it. Even Tuesday’s impending sleep study isn’t getting my anxiety too hopped up. I’m curious why I gotta be there at 7 p.m. when I usually don’t even climb into bed until midnight. That should be fun.

Instead of worrying about calamity, I’ve just been restless and bored like virtually every other August of my entire life. Sick of summer and summer food and air conditioning, all I want is everything and nothing.

Recognizing the Malaise and trying to ride it out is being seen as growth in these parts.

In attempt to soothe my restlessness I’ve:

• Spent an entire days listening to The Pointer Sisters
• Read one chapter in three books and quit because
• Watched every TV appearance by Cass Elliot (I recently finished a biography of her)

This last one led me to enter episodes of “The Midnight Special” on YouTube. Since I was only paying half-attention to the TV, I got pumped when I heard it say the next episode was going to be hosted by Seals & Crofts.

Imagine my disappointment when I started to pay attention and realized Seals & Crofts had zero to do with Sid & Marty Krofft.

This is why I ended up watching the first episode of “The Bugaloos.”

Now I understand why I am the way I am. I’m a little Benita Bizarre (weird old lady obsessed with music living in a jukebox or as Wikipedia describes her, “A jealous, untalented, unattractive, old crone”) and a little Bugaloo (also loving music, refusing to sell out and trying to me helpful and full of joy). This show is probably responsible for the whole GenX ethos. Seriously, just go read the episode synopses.

This show, that I loved when I was a little kid, pretty much predicted how my life would turn out. Neat, innit?

Restlessly yours,
Jodi

P.S. I finally found a book to capture my attention. It’s called Thistlefoot by GennaRose Nethercott. I’m only 1/3 in, but it’s super good thus far.

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Hey Darling Ones,

Last night I started Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma by Claire Dederer and it’s giving me fizzy, Pop Rocks brain in the best way.

This is wonderful because I’m bored to death of anxious prairie dog brain, which involves my inner-monologue shouting,”EVERYTHING IS WRONG IN HERE” every 42 seconds lest I forget I had a stroke and my body is now composed of floppy scoops and lead.

I’m only three chapters in, so I don’t have any real opinion on the book. However, I am already arguing with Dederer even though I haven’t heard her entire argument. I love to argue so much I annoy myself.

This isn’t about the book, though. This is about Liz Phair’s phenomenal album “Exile in Guyville,” which turns 30 today.

I’m linking this book and this record due to Dederer’s definition of fan (at least thus part of it)”

“An audience member is a consumer of a piece of art. The audience member is not defined by that piece of art. A fan on the other hand is a consumer plus. A consumer beyond. A consumer who is also being consumed. She steals part of her identity from the art, even as it steals its importance from her. She becomes defined by the art.”

There are problems with some of the latter parts of her definition, but we’ll get into that another day.

Instead, I would like to tell you that I, 100%, use Liz Phair’s art to define myself, and I have for 30 years now. So much of my identity is wrapped up in loving Liz Phair it’s hard to imagine who I would be without her.

Probably a boring buzzkill. Probably much more likable,

There’s a line in “High Fidelity” where Rob Gordon tries to argue one’s value as a person is based on what you like and not what you are like. While I wouldn’t go that far, I do believe the art you love telegraphs a lot about you.

I have a whole rant about dudes who love Arcade Fire (pre-allegations), Wes Anderson movies, and books by Jonathan Safran Foer or Dave Eggers or Michael Chabon.

So what do I think being a fan of Liz Phair and “Exile” specifically says about me?

That I enjoy sex but am wary of men, which is a rough as a heterosexual woman. I struggle with embracing my sexuality without being reduced to just that. It says I will never not call out a Guyville when I see one. Not even once. It says I love The Rolling Stones even though they’re problematic. It also says the things I love are not above scrutiny and critique. It says I’m cool, tough, vulnerable, and luscious (wrong record, I know).

It says so much more, but I am running out of steam. The most frustrating side-effect of the dumb stroke is that typing is not just difficult, but exhausting. Even when I take breaks, my floppy scoop gives up after a few hundred words.

I was gonna point all the writing I did on Liz Phair during I Will Dare’s 22-years, but I clicked through nine pages of archives when I finally got bored. I’ll add a bunch of links at the bottom.

So happy anniversary “Exile in Guyville,” I’m so glad you exist.

Love,
Jodi

As promised, some historical writing on Liz

Klosterman Should Keep Liz Phair’s Name Out of His Mouth

Even When Talking About Art Made by Women Men Do Not Value Art Made by Women

Your Collarbones are Overrated: On ‘Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville’ by Gina Arnold

Greatest Hits According to Me: Liz Phair, in honor of her birthday

The COVID Diaries: One Thing About the Ani & Liz Convo

How Do You Keep Your Mind Off All the Tyranny?

‘Soberish’ is Goodish

The COVID Diaries: Flap My Wings & Fly Away From Here

Day 18 of 200: Flap Your Wings & Fly Away From Here

Barb Abney, Sleater-Kinney & Being a 40something Woman Who Creates Things

The post 30 Years in Exile appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hi Darling Ones,

When I saw that my favorite podcast, 60 Songs that Explain the 90s, which happens to be the only one I listen to, was discussing Liz Phair’s “Fuck and Run” in the latest episode I was elated.

When I saw the guest was author Sam Lipsyte I deflated a bit. Not because I dislike Lipsyte, I’ve read and enjoyed quite a few of his books, but I was a little worried about how two men would discuss this ground-breaking, generation-defining work of art by a woman.

As we have discussed many times before, men do not value art made by women. This episode is a prime example of how even when discussing art made by a woman, men can actively not value art made by women.

Sounds tricky and impossible, and yet. . . it is not.

It starts out so well with host Rob Harvilla talking about the police station scene from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” and the way it illustrates how boys can get away with everything and girls can get away with nothing. Plus, he talks some about Material Issue.

RIGHT? Liz Phair + Ferris Bueller + Material Issue, this episode was me in podcast form.

This did not end well, though. Instead of learning new insights or seeing a new perspective on this 30-year-old song, this episode left me angry and frustrated.

I’m of two minds when it comes to men discussing seminal art by women.

Part of me, believes yes, yes men should talk to each other about art made by women (and nonbinary people).

The other part of me is all, “can’t they find one goddamn woman to talk about this?”

I wish they had found one goddamn woman to talk about this record.

The problem here, which is a problem with a lot of men discussing most anything, is they cannot see outside their own narrow, male perspective to even think someone who is not a man might see things a little differently. And that the difference in perspective is important and valid.

For example, at one point Harvilla is talking about the song “Canary” and how it has taken hindsight to appreciate it.

He says, “The resignation in her voice there, the exasperation. If I played this one on air at my college radio station as a 19-year-old yutz, I don’t know if I would have grasped all the nuances there, but who did, really?”

Who did, really? WHO DID, REALLY?

Well, to begin with me, a 21-year-old yutz when this song came out, and all the other young female yutzs I knew. Maybe, an entire generation of young women got the nuances there because Liz Phair was singing about situations we could relate to on a visceral level. Phair was singing our lives back to us (that line stolen from Neko Case’s “Guided By Wire”).

The sort of male-gaze-iness of the discourse only got worse once Lipsyte joined the discussion.

What is so frustrating is they came so close to getting it. Harvilla mentions all the “Guyvilles” that pop up around “Exile in Guyville.”

They even mentioned how sexist the reaction to Phair’s later work was and how misogyny may have played a role in how she was viewed. However, they continually conflated (male) rock critic reaction with fan reaction. It never occurred to them, or if it did they never said it, that there is an entire world of reception outside what the Dude Rock Establishment thinks.

And the worst part, and what underlines my point about men not valuing art made by women, is only one other female artist is mentioned in the entire episode. Phair is described as getting close to having a Courtney Love growl.

They did, however, mention: The Rolling Stones (obviously), Material Issue, Dave Berman, Urge Overkill, Nirvana, David Bowie, Jesus Lizard, and Fugazi.

They did not mention: Riot Grrrl, Alanis Morissette, or Lilith Fair, which might be asking a lot considering it’s a podcast about music in the 90s.

In my ideal world they’d have discussed Phair in league with the Stones and Morissette. They would have compared her to Bowie and Madonna.

It shouldn’t ever be all one or the other. This is how we get pink ghettos, bullshit “women in music” lists, and gender-nonconforming people being wholly ignored.

While you might be thinking, Oh, Jodi’s just going on about this nonsense again, it’s not nonsense. Pop culture is culture. As long as we continue to let men control the narrative without calling them out on their myopic bullshit, women (and nonbinary folks) will continue to be erased.

Never getting off this soapbox,
Jodi

The post Even When Talking About Art Made by Women, Men Do Not Value Art Made by Women appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hi Darling Ones,

I’ve told one joke and one excruciatingly long story recently that, well, mark me as a lady of a certain age who only speaks to other people of a certain age.

The other day a friend texted me a picture that took roughly one entire fortnight to arrive.

“The little bird inside the camera must have died,” I joked. Because in the Flintstoney days there was a bird inside the camera who chiseled the picture into, slate? Bedrock? A stone? The technology in The Flintstones was hilarious, but not very clear.

“There are fewer and fewer people around who will get that joke,” I said. I’m still debating if the slow disappearance of The Flintstones from the pop culture is going to be my villain origin story or if getting Flintstones fluency part of the common core curriculum is going to be the platform I launch my political career on. I got a lot to think about.

Incidentally, I was telling that same friend a few days later about my irrational hatred of people who partake in Renaissance Festivals in any way, share, or form. Performer, vendor, visitor, I dislike them all with a white hot heat I usually reserve for Gwen Stefani and marshmallows.

For the record, the RenFesters were the worst and would roll into the gas station I worked at in costume and try to speak Olde English while buying a pack of Camel Lights and a bottle of Mountain Dew. Barf. And they’d clog up the local Perkins with their loud-talking dramatic asses proclaiming about being “a professional actor.” The only thing worse than a 23-year-old former journalism/political science major turned gas station attendant is a 22-year-old current drama major/Renaissance Festival performer. Just kidding, drama majors past, present, and future are the worst. Why do you have to be so loud and dramatic all the time? I beg you, please stop turning everything into a performance. I love you, but y’all are a lot for us introverts.

One time, as a 30-something grown up I ended up at a party filled with former drama majors and forensics competitors and I’m still emotionally scarred by the situation. As someone who does not have a great quantity of chill or coolness, I can say without a doubt I was the chillest, coolest motherfucker in the joint. That’s saying a lot.

Anyway, as I was in the midst of my irrational tirade about RenFesters I started complaining about people who would come into the gas station for directions and then argue with me about it. Like dude, and it was always a man, I live and also am not lost. Why are you arguing with me?

I stopped in the middle of it and said, “I guess people don’t go into gas stations and ask for directions anymore.” Because, why would they? But in the early 90s people stopped in the gas station all the time asking how to get to Valleyfair, the RenFest, the casino, Canterbury Park. It was a side-effect of living in a tourist trap town.

Thank you Mapquest and GPS for saving all the gas station attendants who came after me.

Anyway, I’m old and obsolete. The end.

Love,
Jodi

The post Unplanned Obsolescence appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hi Darling Ones,

This afternoon I told a couple of clients I wouldn’t be available on Monday because it was my birthday and my sisters are coming to town. That’s when it really, truly hit me that god willing and the creek don’t rise, I’m gonna be fifty years old on Monday. 50. FIIIIiiiiIIFFFFFFfffffttty. Five and zero.

I do not feel emotionally prepared to be fifty. I’m way too immature for such a wise & wizened age. The word ‘boner’ still makes me laugh until I can’t breathe. I spent some minutes today arguing with a Buzzfeed poll about Bob’s Burgers.* Last week I cut my own hair because it was bugging me. I frequently go three days without changing my shirt and pants. Just last night I nearly burned Supergenius HQ down because I got distracted making sausage & peppers and not to brag, but 24 hours later despite having the windows open all day today it still smells like incinerated onions in here.

Who decided it would be a good idea to let me be this old? I’m super thankful, but I feel like I’m gonna give 50somethings a bad name.

While I might not be emotionally ready to be fifty, I have been kicking around this planet long enough that all my pop cultural references and cultural touchstones date me.

For instance, I have been really very busy with the work. I’ve signed on so many new clients/projects the past two months you ought to be referring to me as your favorite Spinster Tycoon.** One of the odd traits of your favorite Spinster Tycoon is gallows optimism. It’s like gallows humor but for optimism where you know you’re being stupidly hopeful in the face of ridiculous deadlines but that doesn’t stop you. I love meeting ridiculous deadlines. It makes me feel alive and like I’m using all my superpowers

However, I’m a dual-personalitied Gemini. So even while I’m saying yes to the deadline with my face, my brain is all “your mouth is writing checks your ass cannot cash.”

Which brings us to my dated cultural touchstones. Aside from my blabber mouth, WHO WRITES CHECKS ANYMORE? Nobody. I bought checks when I switched banks in like 2016 and have written two since then. One was to a plumber who did not approve of my choice in personality-defining, hard-to-read check design (pictured above) and the other was to the furnace repair guy I thought was gonna hit on me but instead saved me $300.

I’m not even 100% sure that my checks look like the ones pictured above. In my memory they do, but I’m definitely too lazy to go dig out the checkbooks from the bottom of my China cabinet drawer.

In another ode to my aging GenXdom, I googled the phrase “mouth writing checks your ass can’t cash” to make sure it doesn’t have hideously racist origins. As far as I can tell, it does not. However, the origins are still pretty sketchy. Apparently, a similar phrase is from the movie “Top Gun” which I have never seen because I hate Tom Cruise that much. I hate Tom Cruise so much that I’m still mad he was in “The Outsiders.” I hate Tom Cruise so much I’ve only seen about four movies he starred in and two of those were for Cameron Crowe related reasons.

Anyway, my ass has some checks it needs to get to cashing. More later,
Jodi

 
*Silence of the Louise is the best episode of Bob’s Burgers and I will die on this hill (and all the other hills). I know I have said in the past that Carpe Museum is the best episode due to the “weiner, weiner, wang” chant and copious use of Regular-Sized Rudy, but I changed my mind.

 
**At least I got this going for me. While I’m an abject failure emotionally, creatively, and fiduciarily (probably, I just thought this third one was funny) at least I got some thriving freelance mojo happening.

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