“Oh my god I’m just so fucking weird and zany and arcane it’s bursting out of my body at any given second!” seems to be the constant exclamation emanating from what can best be deemed as the “super quirky! girl.” Unlike a standard-issue quirky “girl” in the vein of Diane Keaton as Annie Hall, this new-fangled breed seems to get their orgasms from being as irritatingly neurotic, whiny and chirpy (among other sounds) as possible. In a major sendup of the ultimate modern pinnacle of the super quirky! “girl”–Zooey Deschanel–a recurring sketch on Saturday Night Live circa 2012 called Bein’ Quirky with Zooey Deschanel drove home a point that many of us more The Craft meets Angela Chase–esque weirdos had long been feeling: these “women” are bullshit, and they don’t know from fucking quirky and the darkness it takes to be it. The prototype in pop culture came to its highest fruition with Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice and Christina Ricci in The Addams Family (kooky, quirky–there’s a rhyming correlation, see?).
Yet somewhere around the mid-90s, roughly three years after The Addams Family‘s release, the concept of the quirky “girl” took a turn for the worse in the form of one, Phoebe Buffay (Lisa Kudrow), the bia on Friends who was always just sort of there with no context or place as a “bohemian” (a.k.a. she was too flighty for a job) among yuppies. With her vexatious logic and non sequitur dialogue, the definition of quirky “girl” was redefined in a manner that could only be rebranded as “super quirky!” And now, as a result, we have to deal with “women” like Lena Dunham and sometimes, dare I say it, even Greta Gerwig. Geri Halliwell may have wanted to be taken back to her chico latino, but some of us would just like to be taken back to a time when the label “quirky girl” wasn’t synonymous with being intolerable and ineloquent as all get-out.
While, granted, options are extremely limited “out there” (out there being the cold abyss we call Earth), it doesn’t mean a “girl” should feel so confined by the lack of choice that she ignores the blatant signs of the sociopath “male”–of which there are many. In fact, some Valerie Solanas types might argue that all “men” are sociopaths, which, yes, seems like an increasingly viable thesis statement. Defined in its most simplistic form as someone “with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience,” many of the “men” living in Brooklyn fall under this blanket description. Antisocial attitudes, after all, don’t necessarily entail a shut-in who won’t leave his house (minus the part where most “men” are always playing video games). The behavior can also encompass a natural hatred of women and a tendency toward mind flaying (not an intentional Stranger Things reference)–e.g. one minute acting super attentive and into it and the next disappearing for days before reemerging onto the text scene.
Yet, because of New York City’s specific concentration of “men” paired with a simultaneous and ironic paucity of selection, “women” are so often willing to discount their gut instincts with regard to interpreting a sociopath’s very overt comportment. “Oh, he’s just having a hard time at work” or “Oh, he just has to focus on himself right now before he can fully devote his time to me” are some of the many infinite excuses a “girl” might use to justify out loud to her friends why she’s still putting up with the sociopath’s antics. Alas, she’s going to find it very difficult to justify to the corpse of first her mind then her body why she decided to endure the fuckery for so long. What? All to not be alone. Sod that, we’re all alone in our head anyway, and you’re better off inside yours than trying to enter that of the socio “male’s.”
Just when you thought there could be nothing more annoying than the into it “straight” “man” on Halloween, the Karen “I’m a mouse, duh!” in Mean Girls type shows up to the party or mills through the streets to remind you that, oh yes, there is a reason “men” still think they’re somehow superior. At the other side of the spectrum of the overzealous “straight” “man” seeking to perpetuate his childhood well into the adult years by acting too hype on Halloween is the unoriginal and/or lazy “woman” who decides to put cat ears atop her head with a slutty dress or some other seasonally inappropriate ensemble.
If she’s feeling truly “innovative,” she might even put on some Fabletics workout garb on in black, curl her hair and call herself Sandra Dee. Whatever basique effort she makes, the only thing that’s clear is that she doesn’t give two shits about the spirit of All Hallow’s Eve, so much as showcasing her body to impress some gross “guy” at a bar or, excuse me, “masquerade,” who wouldn’t appreciate a “woman” for her mind as manifested by the thoughtfulness of her costume even if she walked up to him as Judge Judy and bopped him on the head with her gavel to notice it.
It’s a dangerous thing as a “woman” to go against the enthusiasm of a viral hashtag pertaining to standing up against an endless history of “men” abusing their power via sexual harassment and/or assault. And while it’s a positive sign that an open and candid dialogue has commenced about centuries-long accepted behavior, there are more than a few complications to #metoo. First and foremost, there are still a lot of “women” who would rather not go into detail about the horrors of their bodily debasement. Some of us, after all, have suffered more than what can comparatively seem like a menial catcall.
Another problematic element is that rather than the hordes of “women” responding with their story managing to be heard, their trauma only seems to get lost in the abyss of the internet’s black hole of misery sharing. Rather than remaining a spotlight on what’s wrong with “men” in positions of power, the hashtag is a whirlpool of untrackable tales of suffering as they drown in the numbers. This then becomes antithetical to the point of forcing “men” to come face to face with their crimes.
To compound it all, there is the very real possibility that two words aren’t going to change “men’s” perception of themselves (especially Lars Von Trier or Woody Allen) or the out of hand situation. As social media specialist and sexual assault survivor Wagatwe Wanjuki put it, “I know, deep down, it won’t do anything. Men who need a certain threshold of survivors coming forward to ‘get it’ will never get it.” Of course, one doesn’t want to believe that it’s all doom and gloom. Clearly, there’s a sea change afoot, and even if #metoo does nothing other than to encourage “women” to at least seek therapy for their PTSD, well, then, that’s still something. It’s just a little fucked up that you’re looked on as some sort of anti-feminist for not wanting to join in on admitting to and/or sharing your rape story.
For as in the vein–historical-wise–as the “Women’s” March that took place earlier this year, the #metoo phenomenon that transpired on Twitter on Monday, October 16th after Alyssa Milano tweeted on Sunday has somehow lost sight of one very important fact: who actually came up with the notion? Though Milano mentions “a friend” suggested the idea to have any “woman” who has ever been the victim of sexual assault or harassment reply “me too” to Milano’s tweet, will we ever unmask the actual identity of said friend?
Before anyone knew it, media outlets like The Hollywood Reporter were simply going with headlines like “Alyssa Milano Launches Me Too Twitter Hashtag to Raise Sexual Assault Awareness.” But without this nameless friend, would any of these droves of “women” who have come forward even been able to at least revel in the comfort of mass solidarity? Doubtful. And yet, here Milano is lapping in the glory with comments like, “While I am sickened and angered over the disturbing accusations of Weinstein’s sexual predation and abuse of power, I’m happy — ecstatic even — that it has opened up a dialogue around the continued sexual harassment, objectification and degradation of women.” Alright, but just remember that the dialogue was started by the friend you’re keeping out of the spotlight. Then again, maybe she’s one of the few “women” who doesn’t want the world to know about her sexual violation.
Possibly the only female celebrity who has ever owned up without shame to having nude photos of herself leaked is Madonna. Rather than shy away from the controversy, she welcomed it, declaring what became a now illustrious New York Post cover titled, “I’m not ashamed.” Though the photos were highly violating and sold to Playboy and Penthouse by the skeevy “art” photographer against the then freshly famous pop star’s will, she didn’t try to play the innocente about her past.
Most “women” who do sexually “devious” things before becoming famous in order to become famous will attempt to distance themselves from the scandal of their photos or videos (even Paris and Kim initially acted appalled by the “leak” of their respective sex tapes) upon their “unexpected” release. This false display of martyrdom rarely comes across as authentic and only serves to accent the perpetuated sense of puritanism Americans feel about sex. Why not just admit to the public that to be naked is to attract surefire attention? No matter how the sands of time billow forward, this is the one tactic that has and will probably always spark interest. Acting shocked by it isn’t fooling an increasingly jaded audience who, at this point, just wants you to take your top off and shut the fuck up with that faux “Oops” bit of yours.
Ever since the pilot episode of Sex and the City, when Carrie Bradshaw declared to Big that she was experimenting in having “sex like a ‘man,'” a modern revolution has been afoot. Or maybe you could count it from the time Janeane Garofalo as Vickie Miner in Reality Bites tallied up the number of guys she banged in her diary every time one of them left her bedroom in the morning (adding many a question mark behind said names). Whatever you trace the origin of “female” promiscuity as a source of pride to, the bottom line is that, in general, their sole motivo for doing it is to prove something to a “man”–that is, that they can be just as callous and emotionless as a non-human purported to have a penis. But to be “slutty” for this competitive, vengeance-driven reason only serves to strengthen a “man’s” point that a “woman” has no gender identity of her own.
She isn’t having sex with a robust number of “men” for pleasure, she’s doing it for the bragging rights. And this doesn’t make her any better than a “bloke” who does the same thing. Rather than solidifying the perception that she is a feminist, the woman who gets satisfaction out of “men” as conquests and not as people is only debasing herself, lowering her values to the level of the former stereotype of the sexually appetitive “male” before we all got saddled with the current generation of 30 & unders obsessed with porn and video games to the point that it’s completely stamped out their sex drive for a flesh and blood girl.
Be that as it may, “men” are still, for the most part, the ones who get the reputation for “looseness” because they continue to remain the gender with the ratio in their favor. The only “woman” who has ever truly enjoyed boning an endless barrage of “men” for sport is Laura Bell, and that’s only because she got the “bow down to me” title of Queen of London whoredom. Every other “notorious” “whore” (e.g. Samantha Jones and Vivian Ward) went home wondering if they might ever find someone to share their bed with on a consistent basis. “Women” just aren’t disloyal enough for the lifestyle of the philanderer. Anyone who tells you otherwise has gotten her heart broken and is just trying to fuck the pain away.