#femme-spiration

[shade-without-color]

So I have been honoured to work for @inu-spiration on a Midokirin story that touched upon a genre that I have yet to try- Femmine Horror, in which the horror elements are focused on femme/AFAB experiences like for example: how we women perceive our bodies in the male gaze or the role of motherhood. (This is perhaps one of the many many examples I could make up), because I have been watching a lot of Bluebeard's Bride Tabletop Role-playing Game, hence me trying this idea

I will attach the creator Whitney's demonstration of playing this game in order to get the context of how I rolled with it

And I tell you that I am super squeamish about horror in general- but working on this story for the past 3 months has proved challenging for me, as the topics I write are super heavy but I am so proud of what is to come!

Quick trigger warnings: This excerpt contains gaslighting and violence against women. Please heed it with caution!

“Well yes…”, Midoriko clutched the chipped porcelain plate like a precious pearl in her hands, gazing at her lovely face “I am wedded to the master….”, she quickly stood her ground with little knowledge of that spectre in mind. The lovely lady, dressed in the most transparent  nightgown smiled a little, giving a coquettish gaze to her. “Oh….oh my dear….” She decided to grasp Midoriko tightly to the point that she cannot breathe. “Your master is of a beastly one…”, that the chipped porcelain plate broke into many shards, with one of them nearly piercing her foot, and her hands slowly growing into long talons. Midoriko shivered at the sight of her claws clawing over her shoulders, blood nearly oozing from her embrace, and the other hand plucking out the flowers from her hair, trying to blind her.

“And henceforth, I shall implore you to be submissive to him….”

God.

God.

God.

God.

Midoriko, quickly taking on her warrior position grabbed that large shard of that porcelain plate, stabbing that spectre, staining her wedding dress with her blood, which only disappeared into ash, floating away to the sky, to hear a creaking sound to see the servant staring at her blankly.

“Madam, madam, madam….I heard a loud scream from the corridors”

The young girl quickly curtsey to her, carrying fluffy towels and a clean bathrobe, only swallowing her to see her face and dress caked in blood- and Midoriko heaved a sigh of relief. “I am….” Midoriko tried to repress the trembling in her voice. “I…would like a bath right now….please” 

[ellethehufflepupp]

4. Are you in a relationship? 15. Do you have any piercings? 16. Do you have any tattoos? 38. Have you ever liked someone you didn’t expect to? 54. Is there someone you will never forget? 61. What is the first thing you notice in someone? 75. What’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for you? :3

4. Yups!

15. I have my ears, I used to have other piercings...

16. Not yet, but I have so many on a list for when I move out. First will be SPN, second will be HP

38. Not really? I guess like I never expected to talk become close to anyone on here, just because honestly I’m so high-key annoying ha. I guess I didnt expect anyone to like me xD

54. Honestly? All the people I’ve talked to on here, everyone has been so nice and friendly to me @femme-fatality @gee-wizard @quinlyandreveries (low-key platonic awe-spiration @asktheboywholived and @sirussly) and so many other honestly. 

61. I’m big about eyes and auras! 

75. My boo-thang does sweet stuff for me all the time so its really hard to pick the sweetest thing... Maybe giving me all the love and acceptance in this world :D

Thanks so much for asking me questions

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femme-spiration Friday: Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis in Thelma & Louise (1991)

Callie Khouri and Ridley Scott's 1991 film Themla and Louise has long been heralded as a feminist classic. An adventure film that values female experiences and relationships between women, the narrative also exposes the many dangers of modern American rape culture by celebrating the rebellion of two badass heroines who officially refuse to put up with even one more second of macho, sexist bullshit. Plus that kiss between Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis (it was unscripted, by the way—but Susan knew what was up), occurring just before the two women drive directly off of cliff instead of being taken down by The Man, has made the movie an equally lionized entry in the ever-too-sparse queer and feminocentric film canon.

But chances are, especially if you read this blog, you already know all of this. The goal of this week's Friday Femme-spiration post is 1) to remind you how awesome this movie is and 2) to inspire you to try out one of these spectacular man-eating looks during the next few weekends of transition between summer and fall. So cancel your weekend plans, readers: find your nearest DVD rental place, curl up with your boo and some popcorn, and take notes, because you are about to get SCHOOLED on how to smash the patriarchy with five easy outfit basics. Oh, and big hair. You're going to need big hair. Get out that teasing comb, femmes, because remember:  if your hair is flat, the patriarchy wins.

OLD SKOOL BFF SELFIES

As a frustrated housewife with a controlling husband and a strong waitress who doesn't take any shit, Thelma and Louise set off for a much needed girls weekend—but not before taking obligatory road trip selfies. With a giant Polaroid camera. Forget all this Instagram crap; Thelma and Louise do not fuck around. You can rock Louise's look by pairing some cat-eye tortoise sunglasses (like these by Vince Camuto on 6pm.com) with your favorite vintage scarf wrapped effortlessly around your hair. Complete the look with a red lip and the uncompromising desire to send all rapists to their deserved end in the fiery depths of hell.

When the two friends end up on the run after Louise blows Thelma's would-be attacker away, the drastic change in their situation comes with a drastic change in wardrobe and attitude. It's in this new, revised state that they blow up a trucker's vehicle after he refuses to apologize for making obscene gestures at them. Though I never made the connection until recently, it's clear to me now that my favorite pair of Batman: the Animated Series villainesses echo this moment in one of my favorite scenes of the famed Harley & Ivy episode.

To achieve this look, thrift some light or acid-wash high rise jeans like these by BDG and pair with a plain tee shirt, tank or a cut-off muscle tee. You can complete the ensemble with your newest fall ankle boots, western boots, or you can update the look with some buckle-heavy boots like Scoundrel by Seychelles (I'm currently coveting these like crazy but lack the dollars).

OR, consider rocking this amazing Canadian tuxedo. Keep the silhouette flattering like Thelma does by tying your denim button down at the waist. But however you choose to be sartorially inspired by Thelma & Louise, always remember to have your best friend's back. Because nothing compliments a pair of great fitting jeans like an unwavering commitment to the safety and well-being of fellow women. And also, you know, the unapologetic expression of love between female friends who choose the fleeting sensation of holding one another while soaring to their inevitable demise over submitting to the control of the men who threaten their freedom. Oh, and also, a gun. That too.

Until next time! xoxo, melina

[severelycalm-blog-blog]

"Viva la Causa"

Mayra Ramirez taken by Rio Yanez

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femmespiration Friday: Shannyn Sossamon

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Really it all goes back to this picture. 

It’s January 22nd, 2008, and I am strewn across the carpet of the Hampshire College Queer Community Alliance Center. My mascara is smeared, everyone’s is if they are wearing it, and we are speaking in hushed tones and gulping back Andre out of plastic cups. Earlier that day I received a text that Heath Ledger had been found dead in his 4th floor loft in Soho and to celebrate his life I’d assembled a few friends to watch Brokeback Mountain. The credits rolled, a few tears were shed, and I announced we were to cut my hair. After some light googling I found the picture I’d and my friend Rance set to work, transforming my shaggy shoulder length curls into something magical.

If I were to trace my femme-fashion root all the way back through time, I’d place it back in 2001 when I was in the 7th grade and sitting in a cool dark movie theater , probably wearing an Abercrombie sweater and watching “A Knight’s Tale”. Of course I’d heard about her, Shannyn Sossamon, she’d been a DJ right? Plucked from obscurity (well, a gig at Gwyneth Paltrow’s birthday party) and anointed as the latest It Girl. I read Seventeen Magazine religiously back then, and still blame my anxiety around wearing white shorts on my overexposure to pulpy teen mags. Anyhow, I’d gone for Heath, as all my girlfriends went for Heath, but I stayed for Shannyn. 

Let’s suspend reality for a minute, forget the silly and overwrought conceit that sought to marry 70s arena rock with a medieval tale of honor and jousting. Forget bad accents and naked Paul Bettany (ew), what we should remember of A Knight’s Tale is Shannyn Sossamon’s triumphant entry into my style vernacular. In A Knight’s Tale she plays a disaffected princess, her rebellion coded into her impeccably edgy, plunging necklines, and shimmering green-gold eyeshadow. Needless to say I revisit this movie whenever preparing for a big event. 

Both onscreen and on the page of magazines, Shannyn Sossamon’s style is a jumble of contradictions with sublime results, walking the line between high-femme and tomboy, quirky and practical, vintage and ultra modern. Whether this is the calculated effort of a brand or if she’s styled as she dresses in real life, I don’t really know. The cohesion of her styling from role to role is remarkable; it’s as if she herself is the character, moving from story to story. I want to discuss these early roles and their influence on the development of my style as a femme.

Please don’t watch “The Rules of Attraction”. I did it for you, so you can avoid the overwrought and quite frankly disturbing tale of  East Coast liberal arts college debauchery. Ugh. I wish I could have the hour that I spent watching it last night back. I fast-forwarded through all the non-Shannyn parts and still emerged with feeling of time lost. When I first saw the movie in 2003 I was enamoured with her outfits, flouncy jersey-knit skirts worn with chubby platform sandals or sneakers for skateboarding. She rocks cropped turtlenecks and frilly high-collared blouses with messy grown-out hair and luscious full brows and manages to look effortlessly cool. Today I still love her brows and the audacity of sneakers with a skirt.

  However, I do not condone the newsboy cap. In fact, burn all newsboy caps. Thank you.

I didn’t bother re-watching “40 Days and 40 Nights” , the tale of a lothario, played by Josh Hartnett, who swears off sex for Lent and is tested when he meets a cyber nanny (don’t ask), played by Ms. Sossamon. In the film she sports her typical high-low girl Friday attire, mixing oversized hoops with a polished trench coat, a porcupine spiky updo with a simple black dress.

As a queer teenaged girl in suburban Maryland who preferred vintage dresses to cargo shorts, Shannyn Sossamon served as a style touchstone, proving that one could be a fierce, weird, and sexy femme. Despite the fact that she always played the romantic interest to a stable of Hollywood studs (Heath Ledger, James Van Der Beek, Josh Hartnett, etc.), in my mind’s eye she was always the coolest queer girl. When sneaking into my first gay club at the age of 16 I tried copied her trench and hoops look. 

And of course, the picture. I’ve chopped my hair off twice, both times inspired by this look. Of course it always turns out different; my hair’s natural texture evokes early Shirley Temple, but the inspiration still serves to turn out a cool cut. Shortly after my first foray into Sossamon shortness I was approached at a party by this girl, this fucking girl, upon whom I’d been crushing madly for months. She looked me up and down and said “I like it. I guess this is the real you.” And of course we went home together. And it was messy and she was mean, but that’s not the point. The phrase has echoed in my head for years, the idea of “the real me” and how it applies to my style. At college there was a trend, or was it a developmental milestone, when queers, upon arriving at campus, got their “Smith Haircut”. The chop usually occurred during their freshman or sophomore year, and it was widely seen as a declaration of sexual orientation. Mine certainly was. I wanted to be let into the club, seen and recognized as a queer girl on the prowl, and my hair most certainly signaled my intention. I have never gotten as much attention as I did right after the cut. 

 Sossamon short in 2008 with my dear friend Azad

Of course the novelty faded, and after about a year I began the arduous growing-out process, which is another story entirely. While Shannyn Sossamon seems to thrive with awkward in-between hair, I just hid in my dorm for a semester and watched the entirety of The Wire on dvd until I had a presentable bob, which honestly felt a lot more like my natural style. 

Today I still search her on tumblr when I am late to a party and still undressed. Despite the newsboy cap that she sports in at least 2 of the 3 movies I studied, she is the one relic of early 2000s fashion that I feels fresh and relevant today. Yes, she named her baby Audio Science and no, I have no idea what she is up to today, but let’s take this Friday to muss up our hair and honor my original femmespiration, Ms. Shannyn Sossamon.

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femmespiration Friday: Elaine Benes

Hey internets, it's Fuchsia, here with another guest femmespiration. You might not know it from my last post, but I grew up without cable. Actually, for the majority of my formative years, I didn't even have access to basic TV channels. I missed out on tons of stuff - I have only passing knowledge of "Saved by the Bell" and "Boy Meets World" and FORGET all of those Nickelodeon shows and popular music videos of the '90s. I can't even think of one to name because I literally have no frame of reference here. "Thriller"? Was that in the '90s? I think I saw it on an "Alvin and the Chipmunks" pop music parody videotape once. I don't know. OK I just looked it up and it's from 1982, I am really hopeless. I'm leaving this all in as indication of how clueless I am about this kind of thing. Anyway, before the Blizzard of '96, after which a delicious, candy-filled milkshake at the local ice cream stand was named, and during which my family's massive television antenna met its cold death on our back patio, my mom enjoyed watching "Seinfeld". I'd seen a few snippets of episodes here and there and managed to convince one boy in my second grade class that it was a show I watched and found funny, earning me my one (temporary) elementary school friendship. I knew some of the jokes - "yada yada yada"; "festivus"; and, most importantly, "not that there's anything wrong with that".

In post-adolescence, I started watching "Seinfeld" casually at friends' houses and quickly adopted its brand of neurotic, at once self-loathing and -aggrandizing humor as part of my secular jewish cultural identity. Even with my schedule of casual rerun-catching, I started referencing the episode when Kramer adopts a highway nearly daily when driving through the fair town of Northampton, MA. But after becoming familiar with the canon through more serious DVD watching and DVR-ing (yes, I have cable now), I realized something. Elaine is SERIOUSLY femmespirational.

Elaine's sex-positive-but-not-sexually-objectified single woman-in-charge is a rare breed in mainstream television. She avoids, for the most part, being pigeonholed as a result of romantic relationships; she is also relatively stably employed, although her job doesn't define her.

The honesty about the sexual life of women shown in Elaine's character is one of my favorite things about her. Take, for example, one of the defining episodes of the series' run - "The Contest". I think we've all seen it, but as a refresher - George's mother walks in on him masturbating while perusing a "Glamour" magazine, faints, and ends up in the hospital. This leads to the main four characters making a bet about how long they can stay "master of [their] domains". Elaine's buy-in is higher because, as Jerry says, "it's apples and oranges...it's easier for a woman not to do it than a man." Needless to say, when JFK Jr. shows up in her aerobics class...

"The queen is dead!"

Never have I been so excited to see a woman lose to a man on a TV show. Elaine's commitment to her preferred forms of birth control remains admirable. In one episode, she discovers that the contraceptive sponge she uses is going off the market and puts her potential partner through an interview process to rate whether or not he is "sponge-worthy"- sub "sponge" for the physicial intimacy it signifies and I'm sure we all wish we had gone through this with at least one previous partner, right? She later rejects him after fulfilling her needs because he isn't worth more than one sponge. Earlier in the series, she candidly discusses keeping her diaphragm with her, because "you never know when you’re gonna need it, right?" Her relaxed, but not hypersexual, attitude towards relationships puts her on the same playing field as the other three leads. Somewhat darker is Elaine's story arc in "The Stand-In", when her date, a friend of Jerry's, "takes it out" in a non-consensual situation.

About a million years ago, I took a class in Smith's film department on comedy, and one in the German department about films made during and about the Holocaust. In both, the oft-quoted passage from Charlie Chaplin's autobiography on using humor as "an attitude of defiance" came up. It can be difficult for comedy to toe the line between garden variety rape-culture-informed joking around and using the medium as a Chaplin-inspired coping mechanism for sexual assault. The episode is a perfect example of the latter - Elaine's blase attitude towards the assault and her reaction towards it shine a harsh light on her history as the butt of misogynistic micro-aggressions. During her conversation with Jerry about the experience, the contrast between her state of detached annoyance and his shock further drives that point home. Most importantly, throughout the episode the writers portray Elaine as THE empathetic character and put the ridicule on her assailant. It isn't a perfect episode (although both ultimately support Elaine, Jerry and Kramer go through apologist trains of thought), but all in all is surprisingly progressive in its airing and treatment of what would be, in real life, a traumatic experience. This is especially true due to the show's documented avoidance of the ubiquitous 1990's "very special episode" format; Larry David was quoted in an article about the show entitled "Much Ado about Nothing" April 1993 Entertainment Weekly as stating its philosophy was "No hugging. No learning." (NB - I found this using "Search Inside" in this book, which I think I need now) Since this is a femmespiration, though, I know that I should move on and get to the fashion. Even with the '90s revival in full swing, Elaine rocks some looks that are questionable at best. Her hair stays rather large throughout the majority of the series' run, which I totally support as a huge FUCK YOU to body-policing but maybe not as a contemporary look. All that said, some of her ridiculous outfits are direct predecessors to current trends; I'm not the only one to notice this. Take this ensemble, featured in seminal episode "The Bubble Boy":  

"Nothing is finer than being in your diner!"

 Appropriation aside (in my head this is a Pendleton jacket and therefore slightly less problematic), I love this pattern-on-chambray layering. I think I saw a similar outfit on Tumblr recently, or maybe it was a Madewell editorial or something. Elaine's dress in "The Hamptons" is something I wouldn't turn down at Savers. 

I might alter the length, but it's still great. Did you know that, according to the aforementioned Times article, Elaine's iconic fringed suede jacket actually belonged to Julia Louis-Dreyfus?

Hey, Meg? Melina? Could I pull this off? Because I really want to. Oh, hold on a second. Elaine, can you confirm that you are wearing a studded baby pink button down TWENTY YEARS before the punked-out pastel look came into fashion?  

Yes, you are. So sorry to have doubted you. Elaine isn't all blazers and granny dresses, though. When she wants to, she cleans up pretty well. In "The Shoes", she runs literal interference with an NBC exec who has quashed Jerry and George's sitcom dreams due to George's problematic inability to look away from the exec's daughter's breasts.

Their show is reinstated and Elaine uses her newfound influence to coerce Jerry and George to write her into their show. Although I'm leaving out many of my and Melina's favorite Elaine moments, I think it's about time to wrap this up. Maybe a part two is in the future. Until then: Elaine, even though you're not a lesbian, you're still a worthy femmespiration.

most screenshots & gifs from dailyseinfeld.com & seinfeldgifs.tumblr.com aka my alternating homepages; jacket photo from here, "the shoes" screencap from here

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femme-spiration Friday: Sherilyn Fenn in Just One of the Guys (1985)

"Look. What a fox. Dresses like Elvis Costello, looks like the Karate Kid...I'm gonna get him." So Sandy (Sherilyn Fenn) vows upon first glimpsing Terri, the new kid in school, in the 1985 classic Just One of the Guys. There's just one catch; Terri Griffith is actually a frustrated aspiring female journalist, dressing in drag in order to prove that she was denied an internship at a local paper because her teacher is a misogynist douche canoe. For what it's worth, she's right. Sandy is really into Terri's dapper drag makeover. But, while dodging Sandy's rather aggressive advances (there's a scene where she's touched that Terri felt like he needed to put a sock in his pants to impress her), Terri is busy falling in love with new best bro, Rick. It's a feminocentric revision of Tootsie (1982), with a plot at least as old as Shakespeare's As You Like It (1600), where Phebe falls in love with Rosalind-as-Ganymede while Rosalind is totally digging Orlando.

Despite containing a recuperative "reveal" and an attendant heterosexual union that attempts to stabilize the queer chaos of the narrative, this movie is pretty fucking perfect. K. first introduced me to these delicious 100 minutes of fine 80s film-making when we started dating five years ago. Unsurprisingly, it had been a favorite of his since high school, long before he had ever come out as trans. Perhaps even more unsurprisingly, it became an instant favorite for me, too. The gender bending and heavily homoerotic undertones folded into a campy comedy plot would have been enough. But when you add young Sherilyn Fenn into the mix and a truly swoon-worthy protagonist with some swagger, a slammin' skinny tie, and some Ray-Bans, I'm literally in femme heaven.

SWOOOOOON. amirite?

Fuchsia already paid homage to Sherilyn Fenn on Femmepirical Evidence, in an amazing post dedicated to the inimitable Audrey Horne of Twin Peaks. But Fenn is such a babe that I think a second love letter on this blog is more than warranted. Plus, Sandy's predilection for loud, bold prints and fantastically oversized head adornments offers an interesting contrast to the muted tones of Audrey Horne's early 90s/Pacific Northwest palette. I can't get enough of her leopard print/red bow combo in this scene where she finally convinces Terri to meet her at the cave for a picnic that night (read: beer & makeouts).

For her nighttime look, Sandy moves the print to her headscarf, opting for solid black in the outfit and adding some dangly earrings. Voila! The ideal ensemble for discovering what your desired partner might be packing in his jeans on a given evening.

Even in the face of continual rejection, Sandy's hair always remains gigantic & triumphant.

Sandy is also a master of pattern mixing, as this colorful ensemble demonstrates. Who else could pair this red and white striped vinyl/pleather mini skirt with a loud, cut-up graphic tee featuring creepy little cupid cherubs and make it look this flawless? In the abstract, it seems implausible. But here, it is clearly the perfect outfit for eye-fucking the crap out of that hot butch/transmasculine man of mystery in your life.

But, in my humble opinion, the real pièce de résistance of this film is the look Sandy dons for her final and most aggressive attempt to seduce Terri. Her voluminous locks pulled up high & her bangs as teased and mighty as ever, a sexy lumberjack Sandy shows up at Terri's house with a gift: some "kissing fish" in an appropriately bow-adorned bowl. Oh, and this:

Yep. Just sliiiightly upstages the kissing fish. Of course, a panicked Terri gives Sandy the slip, trying to push her off on her sex-crazed little brother, while she slips out of drag to go on a date with the douchebag fratboy boyfriend she will soon ditch in favor of Rick's loving embraces. And so Sandy's bold, unapologetic desire for Terri is never satiated—the single greatest tragedy of 80s teen film, and perhaps of all time, if you ask me.

At least there is this. Terri & Rick finally express themselves--at prom.

But even though Sandy never "gets" the Elvis Costello butch of her dreams, this film will forever remain a distinct site of pleasure and celebration for me, and, I imagine, countless others. Within a mainstream culture where representations of the identities, aesthetics, and relationships that I find most tantalizing still remain scarce, the fleeting moments of sexual tension between Sandy and Terri are much more than the opportunity for a cheap laugh.

They are tender, valuable, erotic, and, in some small way, sustaining. Even if I'm left forever fantasizing about an alternate ending—one where Sandy's discovery of that ill-fated sock crammed into Terri's skinny jeans is just the beginning. xoxo, melina

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femme-spiration Friday: Kim Kelly of Freaks and Geeks

It was the fall of 1999. Each week, I sat in the living room, rapt with attention, eagerly awaiting the next episode of Freaks and Geeks. Between the young, talented cast & the show's perfect blend of humor, drama, and sentimentality, I was hooked. The retro early 80s setting didn't hurt either. Classic rock! So many girls in flannel! Still, as much as I loved the show, the obvious invitation to identify with the central character of Lindsay Weir sometimes proved a little painful. A geeky brunette middle schooler, I desperately wanted to reinvent myself to be a little tougher, a little cooler—and Lindsay's frequently humiliating but charming endeavors to fit in hit juuuuust a tad too close to home. Remember when she hosts that kegger & decorates her parents' house with trippy posters of unicorns before putting out lots of cheese puffs in conveniently arranged bowls? Yeah. I mean, I didn't have any unicorn posters. But you get the picture. Maybe that's why Lindsay wasn't the reason I tuned in each week. For me, it was always about Kim Kelly. I knew that I was nothing like her, and from her first appearance in the series, I was mesmerized. I found myself forgetting to breathe whenever she was on screen. Sure, it was the blonde hair, the full lips, the intensity of those blue eyes. But it was also something else—something I had never really seen before on television. Guys, Kim Kelly was pissed.  She was really, really fucking angry, and she wanted everyone to know it. Whether her concentrated wrath was directed at Lindsay, the injustice of her class position, her mother and stepfather's dysfunctional relationship, or—most frequently—at her boyfriend, Daniel Desario (James Franco), there was not a chance in hell that she'd be quiet about it. Kim's anger, like everything else on the show, is not without a dose of humor; her (male) friends' responses, a mixture of annoyance and bemusement, invite the audience to register her extremity as verging on the ridiculous. And yet, there was something really transgressive and important about seeing Kim release that pure, unadulterated rage on screen time and time again. I had never seen anything quite like it, and my heart pumped faster with every slap administered to Daniel's face, every wild scream of blind fury, every reckless drive into the park to run over that girl who was trying to steal her boyfriend (because what else would you do?).  It was exhilarating. I couldn't get enough.

Sure, she was terrifying. And (at first) not exactly the best at nurturing female friendships. But she was also just so powerful. 

Although I couldn't find a clip of the amazing scenes in her car (just check out the episode "Kim Kelly is my Friend" on Netflix), I can offer you this fantastic glimpse into the experience of breaking up & making up with Kim Kelly.

  Years later, when I re-watched the show in college, it became clear to me that (surprise!) my fascination and quasi-identification with Kim had always been entrenched in desire. "I mean...I think I just want her to like throw me up against a locker or something," I confessed to some of my friends and fellow viewers. At first, my admission of this crush met with utter scorn, but I'm happy to announce that a text message conversation that took place earlier this week finds me vindicated at last. The verdict is in: Kim Kelly's unbounded Amazonian aggression is hot.

The geeks cower in awe.

Let's just say that if Kim Kelly were my girlfriend, I wouldn't even get mad at that dumb shell necklace.

I know we usually talk about clothes in these posts, so let's all just take a moment to appreciate the fact that Kim always looks great even though she wears that same blue coat every single day. She's thrifty--something we appreciate at Femmepirical Evidence. "10 bucks, this coat cost me," she brags in an early episode. Of course, she (kind of) stole it; she switched price tags and conned the store owner. Lindsay, whose father owns a shop, is horrified. But I, for one, admire her obvious commitment to sticking it to the man in the relentless pursuit of fashion.

She can also be relied upon for really sound advice. 

Significantly, Lindsay offers one of the most important assessments of Kim on the show. "Just 'cause a girl speaks her mind doesn't make her a bitch," she retorts after hearing her brother complaining about her new friend. This was important for me to hear as a baby teenaged proto-feminist—and it remains as vital as ever today.

Damn.

These days, my unrequited love for Kim Kelly is nurtured by my Netflix account & my continued attachment to the actress who gave her life, Busy Philipps. A lifelong aversion to Courtney Cox (except as Gale Weathers, of course) has prevented me from becoming too familiar with Cougar Town, but I have seen enough to rejoice at the bright, bold, ultra feminine styling and sass of Busy's character, Laurie Keller—who might deserve a femme-spiration post of her own.

And, further, who among us had not devoted hours to googling and fantasizing about Busy's romantic friendship with Michelle Williams?

I guess if I have to sacrifice my dream of being Kim Kelly's girlfriend to someone, Michelle Williams is a pretty deserving opponent. Just look at them. 

And anyway, no matter what, I'll always have the memories. 

In rage, sarcasm, and solidarity forever,

melina

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femme-spiration Friday: On the Unexpected Multilayered Politics and Outfits of Flashdance

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Friends, I wound down my Pride in Seattle a couple of weekends ago by sprawling on the couch with a ton of friends, all of us dehydrated and overly gay-fied, to watch Flashdance for the first time. I am still thinking about it. I don't know how I managed to go so very long without ever seeing Flashdance, but 27 years in was TOO LONG. Let me tell you a little something about Jennifer Beals' character, Alexendra “Alex” Owens, I.E. my new butch/femme idol.

What a feeling, INDEED.

Amazing thing about Alex No. 1: Alex works as a welder by day and exotic dancer by night. Take a look at this helmet hair. Flawless.

Via Hotlead.

Alex is a working class lady, a sex worker, and empowered by both. Especially the sex work.  Flashdance came out in 1983, and I think it's safe to say that even today, few movies feature a female lead with a similar story, played by a biracial actress. On top of that, her gender expression is wildly complex, going from a Talking Heads esque business suit, to beaded flapper dress, to grunge jeans, to leotard throughout the course of the film. My favorite outfit starts out in some amazing genderfuck tuxedo drag, only to end up as a backless dickey that screams “I am the hardest femme in here, so don't fuck with me while I eat this shrimp cocktail.”

Meat, side-boob, cuffs. Say no more, Beals.

 Of course, Flashdance is not without its problematic moments. Alex gets hit on relentlessly by her much older boss, who apparently doesn't understand her response of “I just don't think dating the boss is a good idea,” and figures that rescuing Alex from getting assaulted in the parking lot after work basically means he can follow her home (stalker much?) and be invited in. For now, set aside your feelings of creepy manipulation, (don't worry, it continues through the movie! You can always come back to it!) and enjoy Alex taking control of her life and enjoying sex without suffering the consequences the way most women in film do.

Which brings us to point 2: Alex knows how to work her sexuality and derive pleasure from it.

Mawby's, her night job, is the most avant garde strip club EVER, and she feels truly alive dancing there. The sexual politics between Mawby's and the other strip club in town, the Zanzibar, are fascinating. The women working at Mawby's are portrayed as having great camaraderie, and a lot of autonomy over how they create their dances, which all the off duty steel workers LOVE, even though a lot of them include no stripping, and such likely unusual in a Pittsburgh bar qualities as: social commentary on the role of television; kabuki face paint; and drag.

Meanwhile, Zanzibar is all nude, all writhing on the floor, all the time. The women who work there are portrayed as having fallen so low that Alex even has to go rescue her buddy Jeannie at one point, and bring her back to Mawby's, the gentler, kinder, family strip club. I'm not too thrilled by this rescue scenario or the politics behind it, but performance artists gotta stick together, amIrightladies?

Alex is secretly saving up for her ultimate dream, which is to become a much less interesting dancer at the Pittsburgh Repertory Ballet, where through years of rigorous schooling in how to “make a line” and stand on your toes in painful shoes, she will eventually become the dancer of her dreams, and someone will give her flowers, because the leading lady “always gets flowers.”

Sometimes the leading lady gets herself a beer instead.

 But here's the deal. Alex isn't like these formally educated bourgeois queens! She's a tough dancer with a tough pitbull, and a lot of thoughts about sex that she can only tell her priest. She's never been to dance school. She has to fight every step of the way.

Jerks.

In doing that, she throws off so many stereotypes about women in film, and reinforces so many others. She's committed to making real art, and the women stripping at the Zanzibar aren't. She's committed to finding love, but her main love interest treats her like a child. She doesn't take bullshit from her boyfriend, unless its getting her somewhere. But ultimately, she gets what she wants, she does it while looking fierce, and she doesn't let anyone tell her who she can be. Not the fuckers at the Pittsburgh Ballet, not her boss/boyfriend, not even her own crippling self doubt. As femmes, we often struggle with being invisibilized, not only by straight folks, but by our own queer brethren. We can be dismissed as not femme enough if we're rocking jeans one day, and dismissed as too straight seeming on the days we wear skirts. Queer policing is a real and douchey sprinkler of douchery, threatening to soak all our silk dresses (and denim jumpsuits!) if we walk into the wrong party dressed the wrong way. But Alex doesn't give a fuck if anyone believes she's gay, or a slut, or a terrible ballerina (well, maybe that last one.) She wears all the legwarmers, AND all the bowties. She will eye-fuck your ex-husband while eating prosciutto. And she'll make that blowtorch look elegant. Dance on, Alex. Flashdance on.

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femme-spiration Friday: Selena Gomez

My love for Selena Gomez manifests itself in a lot of ways that are heartfelt. One might say she is the role model I didn't get to have, my main muse; others might find it somewhere between annoying and creepy (the majority of people who scoff while they ask me how young she is are actually the same age or younger than her), but anyone who knows me knows it is not a guilty pleasure. I am a genuine fangirl, artist, and self-proclaimed scholar of Selena Gomez. Reasons I adore Selena Gomez are frivolous and profound, rooted in longing, desire, celebration, and an unfinished girlhood (neither of us had Quinceañeras). 

After her success as the first young Latina protagonist to star in a television series on the Disney Channel, the now twenty-one year old Selena Gomez continues to rep her Mexicanidad in her post-Disney public image, pop music, and acting career. Named for the Tejana singer, Selena occupies a long overdue, totally rad position of a mixed/Latina teen icon at a time when more than ever young Latinas and mixed heritage girls need role models. Like any teen star who recently transitioned into womanhood, I realize she has sported and continues to rock a variety of styles and not all of them are flawless or free from valid criticism, but I’m going to share a few of my favorites.

I. Selena Gomez as Alexandra Margarita Russo

I first fell under the spell of Selena Gomez in her role as Alex Russo on Disney Channel’s Wizards of Waverly Place. This show came late for me. I was already 17 when it debuted, and in college by the time I discovered it. I didn’t grow up seeing images of my family portrayed in popular media. Most of my upbringing and identity formation happened around cultural clashes and differences, assimilation, de-assimilation, and struggling to be understood both in language and sexuality. It was sometimes painful and it was oftentimes humorous. Wizards uses humor to explicitly address the realities of mixed Latino families struggling to maintain their traditions and vaue systems in the face of white/anglo hegemonic U.S. ideals, without making Otherness a punchline.  

Alex is all about kicking back in converse, not the idea of wearing a fluffy pink dress for her Quinceañera.

The show can spark conversations for all kinds of mixed families, and does important work by celebrating a new type of young mixed Latina. So where do the outfits come in? Alex's style is actually pretty crucial to the way I think this show breaks free from stereotypical representations of Latinas in popular culture.

Why they couldn't hook it up with a spray can, I don't know. You'd expect Alex to find a way around the 18+ rule.

So let me get real for a second:

The Latina body has endured a complicated and prescriptive experience throughout the history of Hollywood cinema and television. There are very specific types and tropes that still dominate roles available for Latina actresses today. In many ways, mainstream media characterizations of ethnically and racially ambiguous Latina bodies have the power to destabilize and disrupt essentialist, traditional notions of Latina identity and authenticity. 

Alex Russo is flaca (not curvy) and she dresses in a generally gender nonconforming style (she loves jeans, shorts & converse sneakers) and her character isn't concerned with U.S. Anglo notions of beauty and femininity and defies assumptions about Latina identities. Alex Russo is very outspoken, artsy, mocks the idea of getting makeovers or having slumber parties, and is not interested in achieving popularity or excelling academically in school, preferring to earn her notoriety for her rebellious personality and artistic talents.

As bummed as I was when the series ended, Disney somehow read my mind and produced a special entitled Alex vs. Alex, which features an evil doppleganger villian who kills it, making my goth Disney dreams a reality. Alex actually has a few darker moments throughout the series, but this look is by far my favorite:

The villain stripe is a slippery look that very few have been able to pull off, but it's on point here and we'd expect no less from the franchise that created some of the most iconic and beloved villains.  More Disney villain femmespiration here.

Which brings me to another great look...

II. The Post-Justin All Black Everything

Something that I love about Selena is that she doesn’t really have one singular style (re: Taylor Swift or Demi Lovato), nor can her style really be traced in terms of the evolution of trends (re: Miley Cyrus). Lately, Selena has been sporting some darker, edgier looks that I whole-heartedly admire and would totally wear. 

From cut outs to sheer details, Selena has switched it up with plunging necklines and fully embraced the color black, (both on and off the red carpet) which I could not be more thrilled about as a woman who can never find a damn thing in heaps of black clothing. It’s in these looks that I really find inspiration in for my own style.

The dark cat-eye is key to pulling off this look & it's personally something I never leave the house without.

III. Honorable Mention: Casual Street Style

Selena is actually pretty low key in her day-to-day outfits. She sports a lot of flowy, lose fitting tanks, graphic tees, and beanies and she loves a good flannel. Her flannel look is always effortless and she always looks comfortable. 

  Big thanks to Meg & Melina for inviting (and trusting) me to do a femmespiration post on the one and only Selena Gomez.  besos y abrazos, lz

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femme-spiration Friday: Lelaina & Vickie from Reality Bites by Candace

My best friend still denies it, but she absolutely destroyed my VHS copy of Reality Bites when we lived in our first apartment together. 

And I deserved it. I watched that movie like it was my job. I can still quote every line and cadence. I’m amused -- and somewhat embarrassed -- by how every time I revisit it I discover that there’s some weird reference I didn't get back then. Because despite my best efforts, at 18 years-old it turned out that I did not actually know everything.

No one has ever looked so great while running a credit card scam. Or had such a great haircut. 

Winona Ryder plays Lelaina Pierce, fresh-out-of-college graduate and hopefully documentary filmmaker in the age of MTV’s The Real World. “I’m making this documentary about my friends. It's really about people who are trying to find their own identity without any real role models or anything.”  Obviously.

This is basically the expression I had on my face throughout my late teens and early 20s. And maybe last week. 

Vickie Miner is her best friend, played by Janeane Garofalo. Vickie is that real friend you need to call you on all your bullshit. And if your Lelaina Pierce, you have a lot of it. 

My love for Janeane is endless. 

Now Lelaina Pierce is inherently flawed. But she’s Winona Ryder. Who is also inherently flawed. So in my mind this all sort of works. Meanwhile, Vickie is a fucking rock -- even though she spends the majority of the film terrified that she has AIDs because of all the sex she’s had.  This movie is a Gen X classic, with characters who fill their personal interactions with so many pop culture references that the real dialogue and honest emotional moments start to feel like the commercial breaks in the television show that is their lives. 

I recently battled it out with a colleague at work who insisted that I was a Millennial and not a member of the coolest generation.  “You can’t just chose what generation you belong to. I can’t just decide that I am a Baby Boomer,” he said.  But if you’re on the cusp it isn’t so simple. Being born in the late 70s early 80s is a little bit like the generational equivalent of being ages 11-13. Tweenage. Stuck between childhood and adolescence. If you’re my age you grew up in the shadow of everyone’s cooler, older, authentic Gen-X sibling. They were old enough to go to Nirvana concerts before Kurt died or whatever. They got Singles and we got My So-Called Life (note for editors: can I just call the post about Rayanne Graff right now?).  But they couldn't keep Reality Bites to themselves. 

If GIRLS has taught us anything (oh boy, here we go), it’s that the more awful and unlikeable you can make your character, the more realistic you are attempting to be (see what I did there? I called all those girls unlikeab--oh forget it). Lelaina is kind of awful. But unlike Dunham’s creations, I can relate to her ways of awfulness. I can understand falling into a pit of depression over not knowing what you want to do with your life and then racking up a giant phone bill with your psychic that you manage to pay off through an elaborate scheme that can only be described as a credit card scam involving a gas station.  Lelaina and Vickie are just trying to make their way through the world. They’re trying to not become their parents. They’re trying to figure out what adulthood is actually supposed to be. And all throughout my early (...mid...late) 20s, I could find reflections of my own confusion inside their cheesy references.  

As a Gemini, I find that it is completely appropriate to adore two characters equally at the same time. Its part of that whole twin/dual identity thing. These two are yin and yang.  Reasons to love Lelaina: 

She runs out of coffee filters and then makes a pot with toilet paper and sings Schoolhouse Rock songs to herself while braiding her hair (see above).

Her “work clothes” are these insanely oversized pants that she pairs with the world’s literal largest black blazer (it comes down to her knees) and a sheer button up.

She is putting all her energy and heart into making a documentary about her friends, poster children for Generation X, but somehow elevating their pop culture references with reflections of real emotional turmoil (see also: Douglas Coupland).

Reasons to love Vickie:

She kind of has her fucking shit together on a pretty basic level. If even she doesn’t realize it. 

Vicky’s outfits steal the show. It's like shopping at a vintage store and grabbing everything that is big and colorful and bold. Yet she works at The Gap and we also get to see her wearing khakis and chambrays throughout the movie. 

She's funny and nothing is hotter than humor. She keeps everyone in line, including her self indulgent BFF. That's the kind of person you want in your life. 

Oh and since I think this is actually supposed to be a blog about fashion on some level, I think I am contractually obligated to point out that Lelaina and Vickie’s outfits are stellar. And so 90s. This is basically the makeup of my entire closet: floral dresses and jumpers, oversized button downs, and sleeveless shirts. Bonus points for really cute short haircuts. 

My dream is that I will someday have what it takes to rock a vest like this.

Look at this fucking vest. What is even happening here? 

As a mature (ha) adult woman now I can finally look back on this movie and file it under “nostalgia” instead of “active, relevant emotional go-to films.” But just because I think Troy Dyer probably cheated on her in the fictional world where the film continues and Michael was never good for her anyway. As I’ve said elsewhere (yeah, this is not the first time I have spilled digital ink over this movie) I like to imagine that Lelaina and Vickie grew the fuck up, got their shit together and now run a business doing something cool. They’re probably consultants. 

These tights. That is all.

Because isn't that the American dream job of Generation X anyway?

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femme-spiration Friday: Julie Newmar

Batman: Catwoman...well, I—you're...well, you're very beautiful, Catwoman. Catwoman: Yes. You're quite right. I am. Batman: Your...propinquity...could make a man forget himself. Catwoman: I don't know what that means....but it sure sounds nice. Batman: I refer to...the nearness of you. Catwoman: Batman! Let's throw caution to the wind. I mean, after all, we're two adult human beings, and we're both interested in the same thing—happiness. I can give you more happiness than anyone in the world...

In the above scene from the 1960s television series Batman, a sensual and arresting Julie Newmar as Catwoman tempts Adam West's Batman to abandon his life with Robin for a more pleasurable future with her. Of course, she's only trying to get close enough to make him inhale her poisonous perfume; she drops her seductress act with dismay when nothing happens, exclaiming that  he "should be writhing around in the floor in pain!" Although the campy 60s series is much less dark than the early 90s animated franchise that played such a pivotal role in my early feminist and queer development, in this scene Julie Newmar is everything I love in a good villainess: completely and utterly confident in her own sexiness without the slightest indication of needing masculine romantic validation. As with Poison Ivy, her seductive posturing is merely a way to gain control, of exploiting the available weaknesses of the patriarch who strives to limit her agency by thwarting her attempts to derive pleasure from the material possessions she steals.

Plus, I mean, me-OW.

There are a lot of reasons to love Julie Newmar, especially as Catwoman. The hair is high on the list, with her perfectly set coif ranking only second to Barbarella's in terms of 60s dos I dream about every single night of my meager 21st century existence. The campy high-femme sassiness she brought to the role of Catwoman is up there, too (as she explains, she would often stand to the side filing her nails during fight scenes, clearly filled with ennui at the prospect of watching men flex their muscles). And we can't forget those killer curves. It's easy to see why Newmar emerged as a major sex symbol of 60s television and film, and a figure that frequently featured in gay male subculture (see To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar—a baffling but fascinating 1995 American remake of Australian classic Priscilla Queen of the Desert—starring Patrick Swayze. If you have no idea what I am talking about, watch them. They are about drag queens, and once you see Priscilla, watching the Matrix will never be the same again).

On the set of To Wong Foo in 1995

This image pretty clearly establishes why Newmar played so many femme fatales & temptresses.

But I have an even more personal reason for finding Julie Newmar to be an ultimate source of femme-spiration. In 2000, the actress was diagnosed with Charcot Marie Tooth, a progressive hereditary neurodegenerative disorder that has slowly restricted her mobility to the point where it has become difficult for her to walk. It's the same neurodegenerative disorder that I was diagnosed with at age 10. I had never heard of a celebrity with CMT—let alone someone who was such a cultural icon, known for her unapologetic sensuality and singular beauty. Over the years, I've struggled a lot to combat internalized ableism within and outside of myself & my communities, and to find a way to understand myself as beautiful within a body that experiences pain and mobility restrictions—a body that does not work or look or move like "normal" bodies. Growing up with a whole mess of doctors telling me that I had a life of comfort brand shoes, leg braces, and mobility issues ahead of me made me feel that I had an icicle's chance in hell of ever feeling sexy or feminine. I quickly vowed to disappear. I think this should probably be part of a larger post, but as an adult, it's been vital for me to define a femme identity that allows me to reconcile my disability with my expression of femininity and sexuality. Queer spaces (along with graduate work in disability studies) have allowed me to do this in a way that felt utterly impossible during adolescence, and for that, I am forever grateful. Although I had already made great strides towards embracing my body by the time I first read about Julie's diagnosis, I have never forgotten the tears of joy and laughter that streamed down my face when I read her flippant discussion of her increasing loss of balance and mobility. "People might think I've had too much to drink," she quipped to a reporter [an assumption I was all too familiar with], "but I never drank, smoked or took drugs my entire life. If I'm out in public, I just grab on to some charming, darling fellow who can steady me."

By the way, can we talk about how fabulous this whole look is here? She's 79, and rocking the hell out of those red lips & that hat.

As charming, flirtatious, and utterly confident as ever, Julie Newmar has seemingly responded to the diagnosis as Catwoman might have responded to Batman's pesky interferences. The disease is not something she feels the need to hide in shame or to preserve a sense of attractiveness, nor do the diagnostic terminology and increasing changes to her body even remotely preclude her sense of her own femininity, desirability, or sensuality. Instead, they become just part of the plan all along, a new dimension of her campy, femme affectation—simply more evidence of her daring, presumptuous, and utterly delicious presentation of herself as the kind of woman that a "dear, charming fellow" would be pretty freaking jazzed about steadying. But again, it's a momentary steadying—in a body that others might interpret as losing its agency and ability, she's knows she's in control. It's not the only way to conceptualize disability or to frame the complex negotiations of body/mind/identity that emerge when we confront mainstream ableism and its refusal to engage with disabled bodies as desirable, as desiring, as capable of embodying, challenging and transforming our cultural ideals of femininity and masculinity. But it's a frank acknowledgement of her body's limitations that becomes linked with, rather than opposed to, her sense of desirability and strength. And it's a pretty rad rejection of a whole lot of problematic misogynist, ageist and ableist BS. 

And for that, Julie Newmar will forever be a source of femme-spiration.

xoxo, melina

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femme(companion)spiration Friday: Brienne of Tarth

There are two kinds of people reading this post right now. The first is the kind of person who does not watch Game of Thrones. If you belong to this particular group, you're probably experiencing a range of emotions: Confusion, perhaps disinterest, and almost certainly the delicate mix of deep vicarious embarrassment and schadenfreude that comes with finding out someone you know watches a show about warring kings in a made-up medieval universe. Please bear with me as you struggle with this reality. The second kind of person reading this post is the kind who does watch Game of Thrones. If you belong to this group, you're probably also experiencing a rainbow of feelings, most notably a creeping sense of exposure and vulnerability. Admit it: You're interested in a post about a character in a fantasy show. A fictional woman created by a fat, bearded man who looks like he moonlights as a serial killer is of actual interest to you, and this makes you uncomfortable. It's like you've walked into a party wearing a green velvet cape that you can't seem to take off, and everybody who looks at you knows that you have a collection of decorative swords. It hurts. But even you, cape kid, can work through your shame to pursue your curiosity: Brienne of Tarth, glorious butch in literal shining armor, as femmespiration? 

...Well, no, not exactly. 

When Melina asked me to write a Femmespiration Friday post for today, I'll admit that I was fresh out of ideas. As you know, Ursula is my main bitch, and as someone who is tenuously femme at best I can't say I have the greatest repertoire of inspirations to draw from. It occurred to me, then, that I might perhaps be best served by speaking from the heart, by discussing someone who isn’t femme per se but instead, like me, is a top-notch FEMME COMPANION.

Let me start with a cursory introduction to femme companionship. This is an identity I have only recently started to articulate, but which resonates strongly with me despite the battery of inapplicable scenarios the phrase sometimes conjures. I am not a nursemaid to a convalescent femme. I am not paid by the state or by private employers to accompany a femme in any capacity. As a veritable lesbian Adonis, fountain of obvious and irresistible sexual energy, I clearly have nothing to do with the impotent, flaccid euphemism “female companion.” So set those associations aside, dear readers, and contemplate the femme companion as a positive identity all its own.

Femme companionship, it should be clarified, is not the exclusive purview of those sexually involved with femmes, nor does it necessarily identify participants as butch. A femme companion – as defined by me, so take this shit with a grain of salt – is a non-femme who derives pleasure, fulfillment, a sense of purpose or other positive feelings from the company of her femme friends, who she assists in various tasks with respect and without any weird chauvinist-chivalrous bullshit. Sewing sequins on shit, carrying extra shoes, studying online hair tutorials and clipping cosmetic coupons are some examples of femme companion activities. Unsolicited actions, including the carrying of femmes over puddles of water, the explanation of sporting activities to femmes, and the management of a femme’s household repairs are some examples of douchebag activities, and should not be lumped into the same category.

This brings me back to today’s inspiration, Brienne of Tarth. Brienne is a badass lady knight sworn to protect Catlin Stark (current complicated mother figure, former HBIC) and charged with the safe return of high-profile captive/resident nancy boy Jamie Lannister. Her character is played by actress Gwendoline Christie, who coincidentally is super cute:

Anyway, Jamie Lannister is, first and foremost, an incestuous little shit, but as is revealed throughout his journey to the capital with Brienne, he’s not all bad. In fact, he and Brienne develop a relationship that many on the vast and treacherous internet are quick to categorize as romantic – I would never suggest this, given that Brienne is CLEARLY batting hard for team homo, though the high holy golden rule of hetnorm recuperation suggests that they’ll probably bang at some point. That said, whatever their connection, it is obvious to anyone that Brienne would throw down for her femme friend Jamie, and is deeply committed to returning him to palatial luxury so that her other femme, Catlin, can get her kid back (spoiler alert: this is a horrible plan). Brienne will raise a sword to anyone who threatens the pretty-boy kingslayer, and is equally comfortable kicking ass in a pink dress as she is in a suit of shimmering armor.

What makes Brienne a phenomenal femme companion, though, is not her willingness to take up arms for her femme buddy, but her understanding that this relationship is reciprocal. She is not so slavishly devoted to ideas of masculinity and femininity that she refuses help from her more feminine counterpart; in fact, he saves her ass from a giant fucking bear:

This, friends, is what a femmepanionship should look like. It’s not about clothes, or about physical strengths or inclinations – it’s about reciprocity, respect, and getting the motherfuck away from enormous carnivorous animals.

xx Ali

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femmespiration Friday: Drew Barrymore in Poison Ivy (1992)

Hi friends! It's been a while since I've set aside some time on Friday to gush over whatever 90s dream girl happens to be dominating my brain that week. We've had an incredible series of Friday Femmespiration guest posts over the past few weeks, but I hope you're not sorry that it's time for me to delve back into my one true gift, my one genuine mission in this world: sharing my uninhibited enthusiasm for 90s babes in films of dubious commercial success that can be watched through Netflix instant. This week: a young, seductive, and big-haired Drew Barrymore in the cult classic Poison Ivy (1992).

If you're like me, you've lived through some uncomfortable, soul-searching moments where suddenly realize that your tendency to objectify/idolize (fine line, amirite?) an adolescent Barrymore miiiiight be verging on creepy. Consider, for instance, Drew in 1989's Far From Home:

 Yeah. She's 14. Whoops. Of course, Drew had lived through quite a bit by 14—frequent nights at Studio 54, trouble with alcohol by age 11, and addiction to cocaine and a bout with rehab by 13. In any case, there is something really thrilling about her particular brand of unselfconscious sensuality. And Poison Ivy, which she filmed at 17, was an important moment in solidifying her image as a more adult actress who could play the hell out of the whole bisexual, irresistible teen-seductress-with-daddy-problems role. It's also an important moment in solidifying her as one of my most honored 90s babes. From the giant, wild blonde curls, to her staple motorcycle jacket, nose ring, and red lipstick—I was captivated right along with Sara Gilbert's character, Sylvie, in the iconic tire swing opening.

I knew before watching Poison Ivy that it was going to have a very limited threshold of enjoyment for me before the romantic & sexually charged friendship between Ivy (Barrymore) & Sylvie dissolved into Ivy's full scale seduction and conquest of Gilbert's dad (Tom Skerritt) and a whole bunch of sick/absent mom creepiness. I was right. But at least first we got this:

Honorable mention to Sara Gilbert for this look (not pictured: white socks & combat boots)

I mean, do I even need to comment? I'd do pretty much anything to have a mane like that. Except maybe hook up with Tom Skerritt. Ivy's look is pretty grungy and badass for the early part of the movie, and of course, I can't get enough of that motorcycle jacket paired with a series of cropped shirts, boots, vintage shades and a dangling cigarette. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a femme fatale in some cutoffs and leather.

However, the movie's twisted plot also conveniently allows for Ivy to experiment with a more glamorous look, as she begins to wear Sylvie's mother's clothes and fantasize about herself as Georgia's replacement. It's hard to deny that this narrative allows for some truly amazing eye candy.

 Obviously red becomes a common theme here. The movie is nothing if not subtle.

 I'm going to end this post before I offer too many spoilers (although I'd be remiss not to mention the yellow dress in the above .gif), and because I need to get ready for K.'s drag show (I'm sure a post will be forthcoming!). In closing, Poison Ivy is certainly not a masterpiece of modern cinema, but it IS fantastic example of why Drew Barrymore will always and forever be my 90s Queen Supreme. And remember, next time you are wondering what to wear to seduce your best friend & adolescent crush's father before causing a potentially deadly car crash and trying to replace her mother in your own fantasy version of their family unit (oops, spoilers), look no further.  It's this:

And make sure it's raining, obviously.

Until next time! xoxo, melina

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femmespiration Friday: Sisters of the Moon, or Stevie Nicks is my Spirit Animal (& our shared Spirit Animal is a Gypsy Wolf)

This Sunday is Stephanie Lynn "Stevie" Nick's 65th birthday and I can tell you right now that she doesn't look a day over fabulous. I'm Chloe, and Stevie Nicks is more than my femmespiration, she’s my INSPIRATION. I was lucky enough to see Stevie perform live with Fleetwood Mac at Madison Square Garden this April and it was rad, like exceptionally so.  Like so rad that I came home and bought tickets for their Jones Beach concert in June. Unlike most people I was a Stevie fan (really!) before I knew Fleetwood Mac's music, or more appropriately, before I knew the music I was listening to was played by Fleetwood Mac (those eternal two-for-Tuesday jams that everyone knows, moms bouncing in the driver's seat, cousins twirling out on the dock at sunset). I stole Stevie's album, Trouble in Shangri-La, from my mother in 2002, and spent a year listening to it on repeat, wondering who the sorcerer was. This is the album cover of Trouble in Shangri-La, and if you've ever been sort of a cape (read: fantasy nerd), then Stevie's outfit probably caught your attention as it did mine. The corset, granny boots, and handkerchief skirt could have come out of my mom's closet from anytime between 1979 and 1992, or out of many of the books I’ve enjoyed between 1999 and now. So this was my introduction to Stevie Nicks, this album, not a trace of Lindsey Buckingham to be found artistically, just Stevie warbling over synthesizers dramatically and, in my mind, wandering through mystical landscapes, cape flowing proudly. Fast-forward to 2011, when Stevie Nicks became less of an artist I liked and more of an artist who made me cry on the floor in my apartment. A friend introduced me to Tusk, which is Fleetwood Mac’s strangest and most exciting album as far as I’m concerned. I only listened to two songs during this period of my Fleetwood life: “Beautiful Child,” and “Storms”. I’ve heard Fleetwood Mac be described as Divorce Rock; these two songs pretty much crystallize that notion. I tell you this because that’s what Stevie does to you. She makes you listen, and when the listening is over, you sort of want to curl up and cry, or somehow take her into yourself and keep her there. You may not know this, but over the course of her career Stevie’s gotten a lot of flack. She’s flake, a ditz, a mooncalf, not talented, blah blah blah. It’s all crap. Stevie’s music stays with you, Stevie stays with you. No -- she haunts you. They say that 2013 is the Year of Fleetwood Mac. I’ve been having the adulthood of Stevie Nicks. Stevie wasn’t a feminist, she said so herself, but she was an independent woman and despite being a rock pioneer, she took a lot of that aforementioned flack for the very basic “crime” of being a woman. Not to mention being a beautiful woman who did drugs, slept around, and sang about wolves and shit. It could not have been easy, and it still isn’t, and if you ever see her solo she talks a lot of shit and so what, she totally should. It's true, Stevie Nicks and I don’t have very much in common on the average day. She’s a flowy-skirt moon goddess and I’m a jeans/blouse/clogs kind of girl. She’s an international sensation with a career spanning decades and I sit at a desk. We both have blonde hair and an affection (me: currently, her: previously) for klonopin and that’s where the similarities end.  But despite this, I feel that you should know that Stevie Nicks is my spirit animal. Inside of me every day there’s a woman holding a lace covered tambourine, stamping her granny boots on the ground in time to the beat, and hoping she doesn’t trip over her flowing skirt. There's a woman who knows really sincerely that she's just as good as everyone else. A fearless woman, working her look, the look she chose, the look that's evolving with her. That Stevie, that timeless Stevie, is my inspiration every day. When I walk around my neighborhood and I see girls rocking top hats and fringed blouses, when I see girls in belled sleeves and long skirts and platforms, when I encounter this exciting “pastel goth” thing that’s happening right now, I think of Stevie. I think of her incredible commitment to “her thing,” (or as she calls it, her uniform), which is kind of a California girl meets Victorian orphan meets witch meets John William Waterhouse painting combo. I see traces of Stevie all over the place. Do I wish that my personal wardrobe had more Stevie? Sure. Do I get my hair done every 4 months or so and say, “we’re going for Stevie Nicks-ish thing?” Yes. Do I want to show you pictures of Stevie now and talk about her some more? Yes.

This is what I'm talking about. The hair, even the permed bangs, everything about this. The simple gold jewelry and that purple pattern blouse? Gah. And my attempt, because I think you can really see what I'm trying to get my hairstylist to figure out over here.

Ok, enough of me. Can you even handle this? Is that a parrot? What's going on here? I think she has crystals woven into her hair. She's basically the love-child of this:

You know I'm right. Seriously:

It's not a minor obsession. It's a major obsession. And I can seriously relate to all of her weird interpersonal stuff. A very young Stevie with Lindsey Buckingham. She hates this photograph. After it was taken she decided on being "very sexy under 18 pounds of lace and chiffon." It worked for her, clearly.

An adorable top-hatted Stevie with a very tall, also hatted Mick Fleetwood. I like to think about Mick Fleetwood meeting Lindsey and Stevie, and having this very real "I knew they were trouble when they walked in" kind of moment but being super taken with them despite this because they were beautiful and 10 years his junior and so talented.

Stevie with Lindsey really WEARING his hair. His velvet blazer is worth noting. Her bangs look wonderful.

Finally, Stevie in a beautiful silk nightgown, posing for a photo shoot with Mick Fleetwood -- I think it's pretty obvious that her sex life was complicated.

  The evolution of her look is outstanding.  

Long nails, lots of rings, layered necklaces, aviators, sick bangs, a shawl and a fuck-you expression: perfection. 

Simultaneously angelic and bad-ass. Again, layered necklaces, rings, a scarf.

Pink, lace, silk, chiffon, so much hair. Yes. Yes forever. 

Stevie lives. Long live Stevie. 

Happy Birthday.

[femmepiricalevidence-blog]

Femmespiration Friday: Ursula the Sea Witch

I'm baaaaaack! And this time, I'm not talking about Meg's clothes: I'm talking about me, my style, and my femmespiration. 

You may, justly, be wondering... "why?" What, after all, does a hater like me have to contribute to Femmespiration Friday? Am I even femme enough -- or inspired enough -- to have a femmespiration? 

While it is true that I generally walk through the valley of the shadow of femme in sensible shoes looking slightly uncomfortable, I believe in the fluidity of gender performance/in doing whatever the fuck I want. In fact, I have a long, fraught history with the word "femme," but it's mostly a feelings-y snoozefest, so I'll save the comitragic epic of my life with a billion feet of glorious flowing renaissance locks for never. 

Anyway, it may not surprise you to learn that my ultimate femmespiration is Ursula, the fat, sadistic sea witch from Disney's feminist nightmare The Little Mermaid.  That movie gets a lot of flack for its weak-willed, dick-chasing female protagonist, but deserves some points for nuance: Ursula is not only the baddest bitch under the sea, but also a body-positive, entrepreneurial genius. I've organized my feelings about Ursula into the following bullet points, designed to convince you, dear reader, to honor her as a high holy figure in the canon of femme.

She has one outfit, and it's black. You may know by now that I'm not a huge fan of "things," so I respect that Ursula keeps it simple and elegant by only wearing one black outfit that may or may not be a part of her person. It's form-fitting, unapologetically showing off her voluptuous curves, and it appears to move with her every action, suggesting that it's very soft and comfortable (two of my favorite qualifications for clothing). She offsets this black, sleeve-like situation with heavy makeup, for which I have an admitted soft spot. While I have become more of a makeup minimalist in my old age, I will never forget the transformation that took place when my cousin Nina descended from on high (aka moved from Italy to the US for college), ripped the black eyeliner from my angsty 14-year-old fist and taught me how to apply makeup properly -- essentially, with a garden trowel. Every basic bitch should know how to do a decent drag eye, and the sea witch is second only to the crown jewel of Vicenza (hi Nina) in her immaculate application of night makeup. 

She believes in functional accessories. As I mentioned in my last post, I endorse belts largely because they can be used as tourniquets in an emergency situation. With this spirit in mind, I appreciate Ursula's skirt tentacles -- both a flowing, beautiful culmination of her bodysuit and fully functional body parts. They look great, plus they can grab things, harm others, and propel Ursula through the water.

She has a bitchin' haircut. It's short, it's edgy, it's a weird purple-white color... Need we speculate further as to which team Ursula is playing for, here? I think not. 

She's fat femme royalty. When Ursula is introduced to us, she almost immediately starts to reminisce about the feasts she once had when she lived in the palace (clearly a happier time for the undersea community) and laments having withered "almost to nothing." She has no hangups when it comes to talking about food: Bitch is hungry, and she wants you to know it. Furthermore, she's not ashamed of her full figure -- in fact, she WANTS IT to be fuller, as it apparently was in the golden era of her reign. At some point, she even reveals how she helped a fat mermaid get slim to attract a lover... and then STOLE HER SOUL. She's not fucking around with diets, and knows that those who go to great lengths to alter their bodies according to bullshit standards of beauty are courting a lifetime of unhappiness. She transforms into a slimmer person ("Vanessa") only begrudgingly and temporarily, and not out of a desire to be prettier; she is only motivated by a desire to overthrow the undersea patriarch, King Triton, by seriously fucking with his daughter. 

She lives in a vagina. If the haircut wasn't enough, just look at her cave. She actually lives in a fucking vagina.

She's Divine. Literally, the character was modeled after Divine, who as we all know reigns over femme queendom from a glittery throne in heaven. Her femme greatness isn't just any femme greatness, it's drag greatness inspired by the very best in the business. It can't get any more compelling, guys. She's a deep-sea Divine. Game over: Ursula takes all.