Guest Post on- http://dmhatingfemisfromhell.blogspot.com/

Harvey Weinstein, the uber powerful Hollywood producer made an empassioned plea in todays Independent, on behalf of his close friend Roman Polanski. A man who has suffered a miscarriage of justice so heinous, that he and many of his hollywood compatriots felt compelled to write about it on his behalf. Not since Live Aid have we seen so many celebs moved.Roman Polanski was arrested by Swiss Authorities at a film festival, for a ‘so called crime’ he committed, aged 44.When he was 44, the internationally renowned director took a 13 year old to the home of his friend Jack Nicholson. He promised to take her photograph for Vogue. He gave her champagne to wash down Qualube. Then he told her to get into a jacuzzi, and while she was dazed and confused, he raped her orally, he raped her vaginally, and he raped her anally. While she asked him to stop. She repeatedly asked him to stop. He told her to keep this a secret from her mother. She didnt.Then he plea bargained, and when he believed he may actually be punished for the crime he committed, instead of the one his lawyer managed to get a deal for- he fled. For 32 years. He didn’t dispute her testimony- he was just too important to let such a trivial matter affect him.Mr Weinstein speaks from the heart when he talks of the artistic merit of his friends offerings, and of the life path he took which was filled with tragedy. Mr.Weinstein talks poetically about the suffering caused by his friends ‘exile’ from the US. He dismisses the drugging and raping of a 13 year old child- as a ‘so called crime’. He speaks with confidence of the connections he and his friends have,  how they will use them  to get this ‘matter’ cleared up. Apparently he is going to go visit Governer Arnie, and others are going to petition the Clintons, they even have the ear of Nicholas Sarkozy.He tells us that Mr Polanski served his time  ‘whichever way you look at it’.  I may not be the brightest spark in the box, but in which country is living around the world, continuing to direct acclaimed films, a punishment? Apparently not picking up his oscar in person- is enough on the statute books that serve Mr.Weinstein and Mr.Polanski-to be considered justice. I had never seen that on our statute books.And herein lies the problem.  Mr.Polanski belongs to a set where the same rules dont apply.  His artistic genius, his survival of the holocaust, and the tragic loss of his wife- means that he apparently has carte blanche to do as he pleases. If Mr.Weinstein and Mr.Polanski, and their friends, do not view the drugging and raping of a child as a crime, the  question I have is -what is? At what point do your connections mean that taking children to the homes of your friends, then raping them is a perk? Sarkozy, Schwarzenegger, and Clinton  are not elected officials, answerable to the people-how could we have thought that?. Their ears are another perk of celebrity.Mr.Polanski, Mr.Weinstein, and everyone of the morally bankrupt celebrities who have spoken up about this ‘miscarriage of justice’, demonstrate clearly the world we live in.I am reassured to know that people with this kind of power, and this kind of money, fully believe they have the right to use the connections that they have, to help a friend evade prosecution for this ‘so called crime’. It makes me feel very positive about the world that the drugging and raping of a 13 year old child- is not rape as long as it is a powerful celebrity that is raping her.It reassures me that women like Deborah Winger, and Whoopi Goldberg are standing up to tell the world that this ‘so called crime’ is not really that bad, its not like its ‘rape rape’ after all.Oh wait, I am not reassured. I am fucking angry. Disgusted. Horrified. Dumbfounded.If a a 13 year old being repeatedly fucked against her will, after being drugged is not rape= then what is it? Angelica Houston described the child as one of ‘those girls’- I suppose she means one of the girls who aspire to live in the rarified atmosphere of her world, and didn’t realise they were only there to feed it’s appetites.We really do live in a society where celebrity is all, and rape is a perk to that celebrity- and while Harvey Weinstein’s words were abhorrent, the real disgust comes when you realise that this sense of entitlement and arrogance is a true reflection of his world.Of course Mr.Weinstein thinks this is a miscarriage of justice. THis might be justice not threatened by money, power, or celebrity, and justice where rape is seen as the crime it is. For the likes of Mr.Weinstein- it is  inconceivable that he may be subject to the same rules as everyone else, and that a womans right to say no might be important.Guest post on- http://dmhatingfemisfromhell.blogspot.com/(*added July 2010 -Roman Polanski in news this week, because the ‘justice’ demanded bv Harvey Weinstein, appears to have been delivered. Again)

Roman Polanski

Was going to write a post about Roman Polanski. You know- one that pointed out that this man drugged and raped a 13 year old girl. Didnt just sleep with someone whose age he couldn’t guage(like that is a defence for a 44 year old man, an internationally famous 44 year old man, sleeping with a 13 year old who was basically pushed there by her mother…).  But this post says it all so much better.Guess what? Not picking up an oscar, is not adequate sentence for drugging and raping a child.

Poem-borrowed from another blog!

Poem I liked from another blog-

postmodern truth 3.0 the intuitive skinny response

ISisit truethat postmodern peopledo not believe inabsolute truth?and if sowhy cant wefind any real-life peoplewho fit this description?and if there are nonebut only straw men?then whoisourenemy?becauseif we cant find an enemy(where are all those atheistswhen we need them?)how will ministriesraise money?oreven worseif postmodernpeopleareactuallyMORE opento the story of Godthan peoplethoughtthenwhy haveour churches failed so miserablyto attract them?andwhose job is itto communicate the gospelTHEIR JOB to understandor OUR JOB to createunderstanding?andthereforedoes THE CHURCHneedto changethe way it isdoing things?but theniftransitionmeans changeand change brings lossand nobody likes to lose anything thenit may be easierfor the churchto just point the fingerat the emerging generationand say that we failedin theGreat Commissionand it is all your fault fornot holding to the paradigmthat has worked for our fatherswe have good newsfor modern manbut not for yousorryif you can changethe way you process informationthen we have a messagefrom Godfor youforapparentlyeither God is not ableto speak to you inyour languageorwethe churchneed to go backto the drawing boardand yet if we are honestwe have too much investmentin our drawing boardto rethink itin todaysworldunlessof coursewe begin to believethat the story of Godis already making senseto postmodern people who seetruth personified in The One AbsoluteHe Who Can Be TrustedHe Who IsIs TruthIs WayHe isLifeIS

Morrissey!!

”You’ve managed to deduce that I’m a racist from 1) my lyrics (Bengali in Platforms: “Don’t blame me, don’t hate me, just because I’m the one to tell you that life is hard enough when you belong here”). The transvestite Bengali will never ‘belong’ in Britain but that’s not my fault; it’s society’s fault. It’s not my prejudice; it’s everyone’s prejudice. It’s my ode to the outsider. No racism here.2) the Finsbury Park gig. I draped myself in the Union Flag (see The Who, The Jam, Bowie, the Spice Girls etc.) during the height of Britpop. So very sorry if that denotes racism.3) my comments. I have lamented the death of a palpable British identity. See Gordon Brown on the same issue last year: “I am not alone in believing that a stronger sense of patriotic purpose would help resolve some of our most important national challenges, make us more confident about Britain’s role in Europe and the world, and would help us better integrate our ethnic communities, respond to migration and show people the responsibilities as well as rights that must be at the heart of modern citizenship.”So where does that leave your claim? You’ll be hearing from my solicitors.”Dear Mr Morrissey(?),I completely accept that I did not see you eating a pork pie outside Harrods. I have never stood outside Harrods, and you appear to be a committed vegetarian. That was a joke. I am deeply sincerely very very sorry. As for my statement that in my opinion that you are a racist. Yeah, I kind of stand by it.The difficulty with artistic interpretations of your deeply ‘ambiguous’ lyrics, as ‘ode to the outsider’ is that they are very much that. Open to interpretation, and I dont interpret ”The gates of england are flooded. The country’s been thrown away’, and your statement that ‘bengalis dont belong here’ as an ode to the outsider, I dont interpret it like that at all.And if you are going to make your statements as odes to the outsider, it may be best to try a little harder not to sound like Enoch Powell.As for palpable english identity-which ‘identity’ would that be? As a country which has been formed by immigration, and emigration, since the days of Picts, Celts, Anglo Saxons, Normans, right through to Eastern European, and South Asian immigration, I struggle when confronted with people who use the example of immigration, as some kind of threat to this ‘identity’. If you would like to further define this ‘identity’, then please, enlighten me. As the granddaughter of immigrants, I would like to know how I fit into this identity. I do drink a lot of tea, and listen to Radio4, does this help?When your ‘ode’ to the outsider, is combined with this deeply held concern, about british sense of identity- I am afraid, Mr.Morrissey- that I do not interpret your lyrics as an ‘ode to the outsider’ at all. I find more paralells to Enoch Powells river of blood speech-your ambiguous lyrics, become altogether LESS ambiguous.As for your draping yourself in the Union Jack. As a flag, which in its very design, amalgamates several countries flags, to create one national identity, I have always found it ironic that you feel that the draping of this flag could be perceived as racist. I cant think of a better celebration of the way that the british identity has been formed, through evolution, immigration, and the co-opting of this flag by so called ‘nationalists’ has always amused me greatly, although saddened me.I apologise for saying you ate a pork pie- you clearly didn’t. But as for the rest- there you go. You write ‘ambiguous’ lyrics, you contextualise them with rants about the ‘british identity’, and ‘gates opening’ and ‘throwing the british identity away’, and your artistic interpretation of your lyrics differs from mine. My interpretation of your comments is that they are in fact, racist, and the day I cant call someone a racist, when they express racist views, for fear of upsetting them, is the day political correctness has ‘GAWN MAD’.As for hearing from your solicitors. I currently have £17.57 in the bank, sue me, you can have it. If you really want to spend your time taking legal action against me, then you clearly have more need of something constructive to do with your time than I.“The gates of England are flooded. The country’s been thrown away”

Blondie

When I was 6, I told my teacher I wanted to be Audrey Hepburn. She informed me that that wasn’t going to be possible, as Audrey Hepburn was in fact, Audrey Hepburn. I spent my life trying, and ended up like Holly Golightly’s less cool sister. I have now decided that I do not want to be Audrey Hepburn. I want to be Blondie. I would have been very good at being Blondie. Alas, I think the job may already have been taken.

Internet saddo.

My name is ‘deeplyflawedbuttrying’. I am an internet saddo. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference…. (That was a bit of AA humour, in case it went way over your head..).I read this thing the other month, that said that housewives and mothers were on the internet, more than pretty much any other demographic, and I am holding my hands up, I am one of those women. I use twitter, I manage my life through facebook, and I blog. There, I said it.I have friends. Friends who I love dearly, friends with children, friends without children. I still retain who I am, and all that malarkey- but there is no getting away from it, if you want something that will mean that for a significant portion of your time, you will be locked away from the world. You have motherhood.There are times when, as a parent, you can become invisible. This may sound melodramatic-but invisible is the only way to describe it. There is no job to ensure that you are seeing lots of adults, the physical requirements of parenting a young baby, mean that  the diurnal rythms that govern everyone elses life, have no relevance to yours. THere is noone to pop in at 5am when you are up. When you are tied to a chair feeding for hours at a time-nipping to your mates to see someone is really not an option. Any time after 6pm is written off, as its bathtime bedtime.When you have a partner, you find yourself sucked into a tunnel, where only you, your partner, and your baby exist.  When there is just you, it can be a very lonely tunnel. After bedtime, when everyone elses evening is starting, you are in your house- you can’t leave. Not for the pint of milk you forgot to buy, or for a swift half. The hour or so of housework you need to do, once child is safely deposited in bed, means that actually, visitors arent that helpful- because you wont get chance to actually sit down and talk till 9-9.30. And there certainly isnt anyone about at 3am, when you have still not slept.Generally, if you have young children, many of your friends are in the same position.Being a single parent is like being the walking embodiment of the age old question, about that tree that fell in the woods. If there are no witnesses to your existence, then do you exist at all?The shared custody arrangement I have with my ex, means I get a lot of breaks from it, but I still spend a considerable portion of my time in that tunnel. And its a tunnel, where the constraints of actually sitting on the phone to have a conversation, are too demanding. Fuck, even maintaining a conversation on msn is too much commitment. And this, is where my saddo internet habit comes in.Many of my friends are in exactly the same position as I. They cant sit and talk on the phone- most of them have two or three(some mentalists have 4-5) equivalents of Rachel, tugging on their sleeves. And here is where facebook and twitter, come in.Facebook and twitter mean that each of us, in our little tunnels, have a link to everyone else.  A link that doesnt require you packing the upteen things that an outing with a child needs, or require you to sit and ignore your child, while you speak to your friends. Through facebook we can talk through the day, stopping to check who is saying what. When I couldn’t get Rachel to take her medicine, a facebook status led to a 37 comment discussion, which resulted in a pharmaceutical sales rep friend of mine, finding out that I couldnt freeze it, but I could set it in Jelly. A facebook status update that I was ill, and having a shit day, resulted in a mate turning up, and taking Rachel out so I could rest.So for as long as I am a parent, my laptop sits open in the corner of whichever room we are in. I stop what I am doing to check facebook, I scream on twitter- and I occasionally upchuck on this blog.I am an internet saddo-but without the internet, I might go nuts. So I am an internet saddo and proud. To all those overwritten articles, dissing social networking as self indulgent,  the thing that is killing communication. Fuck off.  Social networking means that all the houses, with me and my friends, at the mercy of young children, in our isolation, have a link. A link that we can use, while continuing to do what needs doing. A link that prevents our invisibility on the days when its just not practical to see another adult.Cool it may not be, necessary it is. I dont have a telly, but my laptop, and my radio, keep me sane and visible.

Things I miss about having a baby.

3am. The only light on in the house is the baby’s bedroom. Me, on a chair next to her cot, with her feeding, while I ‘sh’, and stroke her hair. She finishes, breaks her latch, and flops her head onto my shoulder, asleep and full. Her face looks slightly drunk. Lifting her back into her cot, as slowly as I can, for fear of waking her.