Does Orson Scott Card hate women or is this just a product of my over-analytical imagination? I was trying to explain to someone yesterday why I haven't read the Alvin Maker series, and I realized several things:
First, I haven't read enough of Seventh Son to be able to back up my negative impression of the female characters.
Second, all of the women in Card's Enchantment seem to be manufactured to make people believe that when women want power things go wrong, but Valentine in Ender's Game is really amazing, and even though her purpose seems to be to bring glory to Ender, she is a strong female character.
Third, the women in Frank Herbert's Dune books (okay, I've only read the first two) seem to mainly serve the purpose of supporting the male characters, definitely Paul, but also Duncan Idaho and at the beginning of the book Duke Leto. This seems strange because the Bene Gesserit, one of the main forces in the novels, are a Sisterhood. But think about it, Jessica is chastised for having a son instead of a daughter and then when she does have a daughter the girl is refered to as an "abomination." Chani, Paul's concubine, is a strange twist, too. She's a woman warrior--they're all strong women--but she's not a strong character.
Okay, granted, I haven't read these books in awhile and I may just be making all of this up, but this is what came to mind. I'm going through this trying to figure out whether these writers are really misogynistic or whether this just a trait of Science Fiction to write women in this way. I need to read more Science Fiction before I'll have anything to base a thesis on, but this is really starting to interest me--how are women portrayed in Science Fiction? It is a more plot-driven genre so it is understandable that secondary characters would exist mainly to highlight the main character, at the expense of their own character. These women all seem to have some kind of power (or perhaps more accurately powers like the ability to see the future or knowledge of spells, etc.), but they are in the shadow of the men around them. Does anyone else see what I'm seeing here?
I went to see Stars at the Paradise Rock Club tonight. Paradise is rapidly becoming my favorite venue in Boston. It might be that I just love riding the B-line.
I was very disappointed around noon when I heard that the show was sold out. That surprised me because I thought I didn't care whether I went to the show or not. I decided to head over to the Paradise after work anyway and try to rob some poor soul of their hard-earned ticket. After spending some companionable time with the other fans who'd waited too long to buy their tickets, I was offered a free ticket by a nice man on the guest list. Score. I like not planning ahead, it pays. My heartfelt thanks to that anonymous dark haired stranger. The show was definitely worth . . . more than I paid for it. Really, it was amazing, one of the best shows I've ever been to (not that my experience is that broad). The opening band, Magnet (a guy from Norway) was way too sappy and way too pissed of at America in general and the audience tonight in particular. He pretty much booed himself off the stage, we tried to cheer him up. People in Boston are nice, much nicer than people in New York. I noticed that this weekend. Today I even played the "you go first" "no, you go first" game with a man as we were getting off the T in Park Street. All that to say, Magnet brought it on himself, man. But Stars, they were fantastic! Every song felt like the climax of the show. So much energy, so much happiness. And it made me really happy when the lead singer (Torquil Campbell, what a great name) announced, "We know you all came to hear the songs about sex and death. Here they are." before launching into "What I'm Trying to Say." Sex and death, yeah.
In my life without Waffle House I have been forced to develop my own version of hashbrowns scattered, smothered, and . . . whatever. I fry potatoes and onions in olive oil, sprinkle them with roma tomatoes and then cover this mass generously with two-year-old cheddar. It's comparable, but still not the same. And my so-called friends refuse to bring Waffle House to me when they come north next month.
Along with the rest of the world, I've been watching the Olympics this week. It all seems so much more dramatic on our television, though, because it looks like the athletes are luging, skiing, and skating through a very dense snowfall (which I guess they'd call a blizzard here in MA). And speaking of MA, I learned a new word today: hosey. According to dictionary.com it means "to choose sides in a game," but according to the woman who used it it means "to call dibs," as in "I hosey the front seat." It's Boston dialect, straight from the source.
I was woken up today by a call from my boss, explaining to me that I didn't have to come in to work today because there was a blizzard. I looked out the window, didn't look like much to me, a lot of snow. When I think "blizzard" I think Pa having to tie a rope from the house to the barn so he could milk the cows. But no church and no work which is good because I am definately sick.
So today I plan to drink hot chocolate, watch movies, and work on this year's Valentine's Day mix. Sorry that I didn't get to that last year. I have the playlist, it's called "no venereal diseases."
We are back on audioscrobbler (last.fm, whatever), available for judgement by all and sundry.
(And by "we" I mean everyone who lives in this house and plays music on my computer. Mostly Courtney.)
I'm in the process of organizing the music on my new computer. It's turned out to be a much longer process than I thought it would be because of some unexpected iPod to computer transfer problems (don't ever use a program called "Senuti"). So I'm starting over again, taking everything off and loading it from my external hard drive and from my CD's. During this process, I was reminded of an article Ryan talked about on his blog a couple years ago, a beautiful piece called "Unpacking My Record Collection".
If I had a superpower it would be the ability to have public transportation meet me anywhere within one or two minutes.
We could really have used this superpower the other night when we decided to go see the 9:40 showing of Pride and Prejudice and left the house at 9:20. As we rode the bus to the T station at 9:35 I called the theater and told them we would probably be doubling the audience and they should definately prolong those previews for us. They were less sure about this plan. So sadly, we missed The Ball At Netherfield, but got in on the hot "turning about the room" action.
Now I know that some of you are still recovering from the news that I actually went to see Pride and Prejudice in the theater. Believe me, I am too. But get this, I kind of liked it. I mean, sure, it was still so damn sedate and reserved and Lizzie was still a brat, but this version was more . . . tolerable. No sex, but sexual tension. One thing that really helped was that the director finally got Mr. Darcy right. I'm not a Jane Austen fan and I haven't really read the book, but I've always strongly identified with Darcy and felt that he was misjudged. When he tells Elizabeth "I'm desperately in love with you, but I can't stand your family" he's not being a jerk, he's just telling her what he thinks she needs to know. He has a bluntness problem that I completely understand. The other versions of P&P show Mr. Darcy as a product of constricting manners and prejudices, this version lets him be more free, more genuine. One might say that this director understands that INTJ's are not just arrogant bastards. And I liked that.