Reading Monet’s post from Friday, made me want to post about something I first heard about last week.

The volunteer editors of Wikipedia decided that the American Novelist category was becoming too long and decided to move the female authors to a new page named American Women Novelists.

This little change may not have been discussed or even noticed, if it wasn’t for Amanda Filipacchi who discovered the change and wondered how come there weren’t two pages created, one for American Male Novelists and one for American Women Novelists. She wrote an Op-Ed about it for the New York Times and shortly after, that’s exactly what happened.

So you would think then that this was just an honest mistake. The editors of Wikipedia just weren’t sensitive to how wrong it is to qualify books by the gender of the author. But it doesn’t end here.

As Filipacchi describes in a NYT follow-up article, her Wikipedia page was altered. In twenty-four hours, there were 22 changes. Links to outside sources like interviews and reviews were removed. The link to the Op-Ed disappeared. Before this, her page had been changed 22 times over a period of four years. Much wiki-cyber bullying later and Filipacchi’s back on the list of American Novelists, but says, “Taking women’s names off the list of American novelists makes it harder and slower for women to gain equality in the literary world.”

To me, the Wikipedia incident is just another example that shows we still have work to do before women gain full equality, not just in the literary world, but everywhere.

My office at work is in a cluster of six with a student study area in the middle. The day after I’d heard about Filipacchi’s articles, I passed by the whiteboard in the study part and saw an old joke I first encountered years ago while I was a physics undergraduate student. Here’s the joke: Read more »

There are so many reasons why Drop Dead Diva should be a show I would not be caught…well…dead, watching. First, did I mention it’s airing on Lifetime? Second, it’s a soap opera with classic plot elements like secret babies, catty women fighting over the same man, amnesia, and the big one: returning from the dead.

Here’s the premise:

Aspiring model Deborah “Deb” Dobkins dies on the way to an audition for The Price Is Right and a mix-up at the gates of Heaven sends size-one Deb into size-sixteen lawyer Jane Bingum’s body. New Jane has Deb’s personality and memories, including the caloric count of every food and the current couture of every designer, combined with Old Jane’s intelligence and legal expertise.  Only two people know who Jane really is: Fred, her guardian angel–literally–and Stacy, New Jane’s roommate and Deb’s best friend, who is also an aspiring model, and just as ditsy as Deb. These two are  New Jane’s confidantes while she learns valuable lessons about personal acceptance and inner beauty. All while solving legal conundrums at Jane’s old firm, which just hired Grayson, Deb’s boyfriend and the love of her life.

I know, major gag reflex. And yet, I can’t stop watching.

My fascination focuses on the dichotomy of confident Deb’s personality sashaying Jane’s ample curves across the set, using moves plus-sized girls learn, at an early age, are not socially acceptable if your butt and boobs are too big for Victoria Secrets’ largest lingerie.

Read more »

Not a phantom kangaroo.

[Note: This post, which originally appeared on Tuesday, January 15, has been edited per the request of my employer. Names have been omitted and information has been clarified, in case anyone reading this blog was under the impression that Bark is an accredited news source on the subjects of ice cream and ice cream stores.]

Oh, were you waiting for me to finish the joke? Sorry, there isn’t actually a joke. (Though I did find this bizarre mention of kangaroos and German shepherds in a Wikipedia article titled “Phantom kangaroo.”) No, instead what I have for you is the story of a magical encounter, one that’s weird even by Spokane standards.

First, a little background. I work at a chain ice cream store, which shall remain vague and unnamed for the sake of protecting the feelings of the ice cream and other frigid entities. I started working at [the ice cream store that shall not be named] in high school, worked there on breaks through most of college until both of the stores near me closed, and then found myself back there this past summer when I was in need of a job. As far as jobs go, it’s really not so bad. (In fact, I quit a two week stint at the Safeway deli in favor of this job because I was convinced I was going to chop my finger off in the meat slicer.) It’s not especially labor-intensive, though at least five customers a night will lean over the glass partition and deliver some version of the line, “Wow, you must get really strong arms working here.” It’s not any more unsanitary than other jobs in the food service industry, it’s not intellectually demanding, and it seems to be a curious trend across this particular unnamed ice cream store franchise that the bosses visit as little as possible, leaving us kids to run the store on our own—a fact, lest I be misunderstood, which I really appreciate. You rarely find that kind of trust at other corporate establishments, where you can get the feeling they’re looking over your shoulder in a creepy, Big Brother–esque manner. And wouldn’t that be a drag? Plus—free ice cream!

Still, I know people my age who work salaried jobs at places where they aren’t required to wear an apron. Who wants to be in graduate school clear across the country and still working their high school job on weekends? (This is definitely the part I left out at my five-year reunion this past fall.) But to be honest, I enjoy my job too much to be embarrassed by it, even though I kind of feel like I should be. Sure, there were the three days this summer the air conditioning broke, the ice creams were melting in their pans, and our bosses saw no reason to close the store—and why should they when summer is the time the store makes bank, and really what’s 91° inside a store in July anyway?—and sure, sometimes college students think it’s funny to tip us, then cross their arms and stare—as though we’re going to burst into song or start twisting balloon animals or something ridiculous like that (can you imagine??), but it’s the strange and unexpectedly human moments that really make up for it. (And I know how many calories are in that shake you just ordered, you fratty doucher waiting to drop a dollar in the tip jar.)

So, because New Year’s Eve happened recently enough to not be totally unrelated, I’m going to count down my Top 5 [Ice Cream Store That Shall Not Be Named] Moments of All Time. Eat your heart out. Read more »

Milk and cookies indeed.

I picked up an Inlander last week and read through the Gift Guide section, last minute gift ideas for various subcultures/friends. And guess what subculture got a two-page spread? “Gifts for Liberated Potheads.” Ever since weed has been legalized in Washington state, people seem happier, dare I say jollier. So, in the spirit of the holidays, spreading good cheer, and celebrating current events, here is your holiday mixtape for the stoner in your life. Enjoy safely, friends. Happy Holidays. May it be festive, green, and full of joy. Read more »

I have a question for you, Bark readers. So let’s crowdsource it and see what we come up with. Why do we publish hardback original editions of books? As in, why do we publish novels or memoirs or even, occasionally, short story collections in hardback form? Why shouldn’t all new editions, which are currently released in hardback form, just come out in paperback form on their pub date? Related question: does this make me a socialist?

In the current model, some, but nowhere near all, new releases come out in hardback, and then are released later in paperback. The books released in hardback supposedly carry more prestige, and are able to generate more buzz and more reviews, which can lead to better sales, consideration for awards, and so on. However, many books are released in paperback, and the conventional wisdom is that it’s harder to generate national publicity for those books, because hardback first editions usually come from big publishers with a lot of marketing muscle, and thus it’s harder to get reviews for first edition paperbacks.

A hardback short story collection? It’s like seeing a unicorn!

The obvious answer is that hardbacks make more money, for both the publisher and author. My understanding is that the profit margin is significantly higher on hardbacks, but I’d be curious to know exact figures. What I’m wondering is whether, if all new releases were in paperback, the sales (in terms of revenue, not units sold) would be the same or greater than our current system. This is one of those situations where I’m ignorant about the business side of publishing, so if you have answers, please share.

Here’s the thing: I love books, and I buy way more of them than my income should allow for. I support buying books, and buying them often, and buying the books of people who are hardworking and good literary citizens and wicked awesome people. However, I actually cringe upon seeing that a hardback novel is $30. Thirty dollars? That’s two weeks worth of gas; nearly a week’s worth of groceries; ten lattes; three pairs of men’s jeans; 2-3 months worth of cat food; a nice bottle of whiskey to last through Spokane’s 4-6 months of winter…you get the idea. Do I value art more than I value those things? Maybe. But I could also buy two brand-new paperbacks for that price. Read more »

I know this is a blog about arts and culture, but on the eve of our national election, it is hard not to talk about it. Before I begin (okay, very slightly after I’ve begun), I promise to eschew partisan ranting. Not only would that be a waste of all of our time (I’m not going to change anyone’s mind, and if at this point I am capable of changing your mind, there is probably something very wrong with you), but the internet is already jam packed full of angry people who so very badly want you to see things their way. I don’t want to be one of those people. I don’t want you to see things my way, it would only emphasize my cosmic insignificance, which is apparent enough when I think about voting.

Speaking of insignificance and voting, I voted for Jill Stein. She’s not going to win. She will be lucky to get half of 1% of the national vote. My vote, like yours, does not matter. Have you ever cast the deciding vote in a national election? A state election? A local election? Of course not. And you never will. Elections often feel pointless and tiring. Luckily in my state of Washington, this is officially acknowledged, so they make it as convenient as humanly possible by allowing people to vote by mail. I received my ballot in the mail about two weeks ago, and to prove the old saw that “nothing is ever as convenient as not doing anything at all,” I almost threw my ballot away. (Okay, that’s not an old saw, I just made that up). Why? Well, like I said, I’m not casting a deciding vote for anybody or anything on the ballot, and to vote with any sense of reverence for the process, I’d have to go to the trouble of reading the Voting Pamphlet the State of Washington conveniently sent to me in the mail at roughly the same time as my ballot. Who has time for that? Not me (but I did it anyway). After all the links I shared in the last two months on Facebook about the election, haven’t I already done my part? Read more »

(Photo Credit: Agence France-Press)

So I came across this post from the Guardian sometime last week. It talks about how Saudi Arabia has plans to move toward 100% renewable energy reliance — wind, hydro, solar. It’s a controversial announcement that some are decrying as window-dressing; others as wild, expensive social engineering. I wouldn’t know. I’m not an economist, nor am I an environmentalist, nor am I a prince of the house of Saud. All I can say is that it’s a desert country bordering on the Persian Gulf, so they would certainly seem to have all the required components — sun, sand, water, wind. Sun sand water wind: the flow of syllables feels like a kind of litany, a prescription for making do with little.

I’ve never been to Saudi Arabia myself, only to Iraq and to Kuwait, neither of which are the same but which are as close as I will likely ever get. I’ve never known a Middle East not shaped by war; hell, prior to my own sojourns into the Middle East, I had never before even experienced the desert. I was from the shores of the Great Lakes — what I knew of desert, translate into dunes of high green corn; translate into lone poplar trees standing watch at the sides of dirt roads. Before we boarded the plane that dropped us all stomachs-lurching into Iraq, our time in the Middle East was spent at Coalition staging points in the middle of nowhere, interspersed with long rides in buses driven by Pakistani men who smelled of hair-oil. We rode with shades drawn, so that locals wouldn’t see the soldiers inside; we were instructed never look out the windows but I did so anyway. The view I found was bright, clean, like sun on hardwood floors and bare white walls. I sat with a rifle between my knees, peeking outside, and with an unaccustomed fullness of knowing thought only: The desert is perfect. 

Now, I try to envision those empty spaces dotted by windmills, a bare bright garden like the one I see when I go home to visit my family. Back where I’m from the locals complained for years about the aesthetics, the potential noise of the turbines; a general sense of “not in my backyard” prevailed. I wonder if desert tribesmen will say the same thing now as those pipe-chewing oldsters, clucking tongues as they look at the distance and set up their tents. Read more »

Found this cool graphic over at GalleyCat. Sorry for the long post, but I didn’t want to cut the picture.

Well, maybe not entirely. In the meantime, I can use it to cover my mouth, which is stained purple from cheap wine.

I’m kind of a grown-up. I live by myself in an apartment. I have a job. I buy my own groceries. I even have a cat that I have to provide for, which is kind of like having a child. But I’m not really a grown-up. I still can’t budget my money. I don’t clean my bathroom as often as I should, and I bought a bottle of wine last night even though I’m broke and out of toilet paper. But one day, when I’m a real adult, these are the things I will have:

1. An espresso machine. Because I don’t currently know how to operate a coffee maker, but some day I’ll be able to make you a latte.
2. A record player. I will appreciate the smooth sounds of ’30s jazz, but only on vinyl. I’ll be able to sing like Natalie Cole and Ella Fitzgerald and I’ll finally have a way to play this signed Flosstradamus record, which is otherwise entirely useless to me.
3. A porch swing. To sit in after a long day of being a role model and balancing my checkbook.
4. A globe. Somehow hanging raggedy maps with the city close-ups ripped off on my wall with Sticky Tack isn’t the same as having a big globe on a gold stand that I can put in my study.
5. A study. (See above.)
6. This picture of John Berryman, to hang in my study.
7. Built-in bookshelves. Hopefully these will be in my study too, but I’d be ok with having a separate library as well.
8. A subscription to the New York Times. I’ll read every issue and actually be knowledgeable about current events and on Sundays I’ll do the crossword in pen.

Note: I know having these things won’t really make me an adult, but sometimes when I imagine myself as an adult, these are the things I have. I also have a horse, but I was trying to be somewhat realistic here. What about you? What do you want to have when you grow up?

So I mentioned in my last post that I now work at a call center. This fact is still true. I was certified today to take calls on the floor, which means, starting tomorrow at the earliest but most likely Monday morning, if you call into this particular company, you could get me on the phone being peppy, cheerful, and eager to help you do whatever it is you need to do.

The company I now work for is a major credit card company. As such, I have to learn a whole lot about credit cards, how they work, and how they should be used, in order to better assist my customers. It took roughly two days before I learned, hey, I’m not using credit cards right. At all. In fact, I basically had the fear of God instilled in me on the use of credit cards.

Since I, once again, am slammed for free time (sleep, where did you go?), I’m going to enumerate all the ways in which you probably shouldn’t use a credit card, and in which I have used credit cards.

Pictured here: Terror.

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