Freedom Machine

Last night, over dinner, the subject of bicycles came up. Who invented them? “It was the Dutch, certainly” asserted the Dutch woman. “No, I think it was the British” said the Brit. Nicole thought it was Americans. I thought it might be the French, given the large section on bicycles in the Musée d’Arts et Metiers.

After reading the wikipedia article, well, it’s not so straightforward, but it seems like Nicole and I were both right. I remembered this morning that there’s a plaque in New Haven, Connecticut which says the bike was invented there. What’s more interesting though, is the bike’s feminist import.
The big wheel bicycles were considered inappropriate for women (and were also very dangerous), but in the 1880’s, an English inventor came up with a “safety bicycle” which had pedals, a chain, small tires: the modern bike. “It was the first bicycle that was suitable for women, and as such the ‘freedom machine’ (as American feminist Susan B. Anthony called it) was taken up by women in large numbers.” The wikipedia article goes on to state,

The impact of the bicycle on female emancipation should not be underestimated. The diamond-frame safety bicycle gave women unprecedented mobility, contributing to their larger participation in the lives of Western nations. As bicycles became safer and cheaper, more women had access to the personal freedom they embodied, and so the bicycle came to symbolise the New Woman of the late nineteenth century, especially in Britain and the United States. Feminists and suffragists recognised its transformative power. Susan B. Anthony said: “Let me tell you what I think of bicycling. I think it has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world. It gives women a feeling of freedom and self-reliance. I stand and rejoice every time I see a woman ride by on a wheel…the picture of free, untrammeled womanhood.” In 1895 Frances Willard, the tightly-laced president of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, wrote a book called How I Learned to Ride the Bicycle, in which she praised the bicycle she learned to ride late in life, and which she named “Gladys”, for its “gladdening effect” on her health and political optimism. Willard used a cycling metaphor to urge other suffragists to action, proclaiming, “I would not waste my life in friction when it could be turned into momentum.”

And then, alas, bikes fell out of favor in the US, replaced by cars, and the status of women dropped. But then, “In the late 1960s . . . bicycling enjoyed another boom. Sales doubled between 1960 and 1970, and doubled again between 1970 and 1972.” And continued to grow while the second wave of feminism was also getting going. Coincidence? A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. Take that bike away from the fish and give it to the woman, it’s her freedom machine.
Um, seriously, biking has a number of leftist benefits, but perhaps among them is some sort of inherently democratic, egalitarian nature. Bikes to do not seek to dominate and control in the manner of cars. They are self-propelled and thus reliant only on the rider for power, but at the same time, close to the terrain. Power without dominance. Maybe bikes are inherently feminist.

Repeating Playlists

I live over a record shop. I’m lucky to have the apartment. A vocalist had first dibs, but she decided the record shop’s music would drive her nuts. I had no such qualms. They stock music I like. I don’t mind overhearing music. It’s kind of nice, actually. There’s always some background tones.

Over Christmas they started repeating the same play list over and over and it included Christmas songs and was driving me insane. I came back from break and there was something new on. Huzzah! But it’s still on. The same CD. On repeat. Every day. For five hours a day. Coming through my floor. The same seven songs. Loudly. Over and over. Every day.
So I was coming into my apartment and heard the same CD again, so I went into the shop. The shop owner was arguing with a customer over something involving receipts. She asked me what I wanted. I said, “I’m your upstairs neighbor. I don’t mind that I can hear your music through my floor. It’s kind of nice, actually. But you’ve been playing this same CD over and over again and it’s starting to drive me nuts.”
I’m happy to report that the shop owner was a total asshole. “This is what I like” she said. “In a few months, I’m gone from here. There’s absolutely nothing else I can play. All the new stuff coming in is shit.” I’m looking surprised and looking over her shoulder at the Nirvana box set, at Kraftwerk, at Ladytron, and Peaches and shelves and shelves of CDs.
“There’s nothing else?” My eyes were on the shelves and shelves of CDs. “Do you want to borrow my ipod?”
“No, there is nothing else but soon I am gone. I’m with a customer.” she gestured at the man with the receipts and her angry eyes dismissed me.
Well, in a few months I’m gone too. She acted like I was being totally unreasonable. She’s been listening to the same CD for over a week. I’ve been listening to her same CD for a week. I could try to drown her out, but I know from experience she would just turn up louder. (I asked her once if my music was bleeding through and bothering her. She said it was not. (This was not snarky on my part, sound design is very important for a record store.))
In other news about me going crazy, I have an appointment with a shrink scheduled. Yay me. All the shrinks in the Netherlands that deal with gender issues are at a university hospital in Amsterdam. I do not have an appointment with such a shrink.
Finally, while I tag my old posts, some RSS readers like bloglines and livejournal are publishing old posts as if they are new. This is a bug, because they are ignoring the post date in the feed. (Safari does not have this bug.) Those of you being annoyed by this should consider filing bug reports.

Edit

She’s been playing this same CD from before. This is the one that was driving me crazy before Christmas. It’s been a month. jldgsfljgsdfgSLJDF

Edit 2

The record shop owner just knocked on my door and explained that she was pissed off at the customer, not me and that she has a cold and can’t hear and she switched the CD and turned it down and explained their marketting policy about their playlists. So it’s all ok now.

A Short Conversation I Had in Berkeley

The scene: New Year’s Day, waiting with a group of 4 mills students and alums for a seat for brunch at La Note

Strange Man: (awkwardly) What’s a group of good looking girls doing here without any men?
Me: Getting ready to kick your ass if you don’t bug off.
Strange Man: (still awkward) What? I’m a nice guy.
Me: clearly.
And then he uncertainly walked off, much to my disappointment. The wait was long and my blood sugar was low and I was really hoping to do some ass kicking. Afterwards, I felt it was good not to have brawled, because he clearly had some sort of disability or problem. Hopefully, at least he got a message that his approach is not going to work for him. I doubt it, though. I bet he went home and pondered how being a nice guy clearly wasn’t working for him and thus resolved to be less nice: ie more aggressive, more mean. It might have been better to explain to him exactly why his line wasn’t working out for him. (“Don’t approach strangers in public. Try bars or singles events instead. Don’t act as if women feel lonely having brunch without men around. Also, hello, don’t we look a little queer to you?”)
Of course, what sparked off my brawl-seeking rage was that he put me in a box marked “girl.” What?!!? Man-seeking feminine being?!? I must destroy you now!!
And then I read Fun Home by Allison Bechdel and I’m pondering gender on a more lesbian-identified perspective right now. I’d still want to fight that guy, though.

Twitching Dog

So it kind of alarms that Xena shakes and twitches while lying down. I went to look at a vet website (since my Oakland vet office is closed and it’s late at night here and doesn’t seem like an emergency). Apparently, some twitching can be cured with Serotonin Re-uptake Inhibitors.

Lovely. I’ve given my dog anxiety. Will I have to share my zoloft with her?
I went out for dinner and left her crated at home, but put on my ipod to keep her company. I chose a text sound playlist, so she would hear people speaking. She really did not want to go in her crate. When I came home,the ipod was making airplane sounds.
Good lord. If anybody has any dog-calming suggestions, I’m all ears.
In completely unrelated news, I spilled granola under my space bar.

Vocabulary Building Serial Novel

For previous chapters, look for the label GRE

Shelia and I got into JK’s dune buggy. “My henchmen found this in the middle of the desert.” JK said. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”
I tried to smile urbanely. “Darling, it’s unlike you to have an evening talking shop when it’s time for a cocktail.”
JK smiled a favonian smile. “You’re quite right.” she said as she piloted the dune buggy around the back of a high dune to an empty hinterland. The shadow of the sun made the valley dark. It was devoid of life, except for a shack. Not even tumbleweeds blew in the strong west wind that gusted around us. “You’ll have to excuse my error in punctiilio.” She halted the buggy in front of the shack. “Would you like to come in for a drink?”
“But of course.” I exited the buggy, hoping that a shared drink with a former lover (or so she thought) would lead to some sort of exegesis. “Do you have any Armagnac?”
“No, Jane Smith, I do not.” JK said, her revolver aimed directly at me.
My eyes widened, but I tried to maintain equanimity. “I was hoping to wassail our reunion.”
“You must think I’m an ignoramus. You think I wouldn’t recognize my own lover?” She waved her gun, gesturing that we should enter the shack. “And who goes to a shack and asks for Armagnac? You’re a fool, Jane Smith.”
The wind howled through gaps in shack’s walls. It was a hastily constructed bricolage of wood from broken shipping pallets and other scrap lumber. Some overturned buckets served as chairs. “Sit there.” JK commanded.
Shelia and I did as instructed.
“Jane Smith, either you think I have no acuity or you let Shelia do all the thinking for you. Given that she tried to signal you to shut up three times during our drive, I can only assume the latter.” JK reached into her purse and removed a brandy snifter and a very small bottle of Armagnac and poured herself a drink.
I knew you’d have that!” I exclaimed before thinking.
“But I never share.” She swirled the amber beverage in her glass. “Let’s say for a moment that my goal now is irenic.”
“Then why are you pointing a gun at us?” Shelia asked.
JK shrugged. “I could efface you from earth right now with a flick of my index finger. You’ll just have to take my word for this.” JK sipped at her Armagnac. “It’s not you that I’m after. I want Dr. Cool.”
“Then why are you holding us here?” I demanded.
“Bait.” JK said, standing up.
“What’s all this about?” Shelia asked.
JK sighed. “An interregnum. We have a power vacuum and like dust mites, you two have been sucked into it. No fault of your own, of course. In a certain sense, though, absolutely everyone is a victim of circumstance. You, me, Dr. Cool, Milligan Peg . . ..”
“Milligan Peg is dead.” I said.
“Yes I know.” JK laughed to herself. “I pulled the trigger.” Her blood red lips formed a semblance of a smile. “I’ll have to leave you two here now. No running off.” She walked through the door, shutting it behind her. I started to go after her, but Shelia stopped me. The buggy started up outside and roared away.
“It’s best if we wait for Dr. Cool.” Shelia explained.
The cold wind blew harder through the shack as the sun went down.
A nascent understanding formed in my mind.

In which I blather about my dog

Xena was acting very strangely and alarming me this morning, but after her walk, she seems fine. She was twitching with every breath and not getting up for her spot on the carpet. ack. but I took her for a walk down to the statue of the kid with the mushrooms and she perked right back up and came in and had food and water. She is funny in the morning, because she knows she has to wait for me to do my routine before she gets walked, so she doesn’t want to rouse herself too much, lest she awaken her bladder. I had forgotten though and thought something was terribly wrong, but I went through my routine anyway. heh. The dog is smarter than me.

She seems kind of sad. I am going to see if she’s allowed in the café from which I buy espresso. There is no food in the house and it’s filthy. I’m guessing that she’s not allowed in the store. I will do much cleaning before Cola returns.

And . . . she is indeed allowed in the café. Also, Dutch for “Sit!” is “Zit!” which caused the café guy to ask if she was a Dutch dog. I wish they all could be California dogs. She’s fine after a walk, but the longer she sits indoors, the more twitchy she gets. I thought she was having nightmares yesterday, but she was awake. Yikes. I guess we go for a walk whenever she starts to twitch and shake. Poor dog. She went more than 12 hours without getting to pee and she didn’t drink any of her water in the crate, she just let it drip on her, so it was like 12 hours of thirst and water torture. I hope she is ok. I haven’t tried leaving her alone yet, but I must go buy food.

In the lowlands

Xena and I have arrived. After spending several hours in a little crate, Xena was very happy to get a walk. As far as I can tell, she drank no water while in transport. When she got back to my place, she drank a few litres and then fell asleep.

Carrying a big heavy suitcase, a dog and a dog crate on the train is a bit of a chore. When I got to the station in Den Haag, none of the taxis wanted to take me because of Xena. Finally one agreed, as long as certain conditions were met, including the dog staying off the seats. It’s hard to explain to a freaked out dog that the normal rules of car travel don’t apply.
My street is a pedestrian street, so after the cab dropped me off, I still had to walk with crazy dog and stuff. It was ok though. We went for a walk and Xena already recognizes the apartment. She’s smart.
Nicole cried at the airport when Xena was carted away in a cage to go into the baggage hold. It’s weird, but it makes me feel better when Cola cries. For two reasons. One is that if I’m stressed about something and she cries about it, then I feel validated. Yes, checking a dog into cargo is alarming. The other is that when I reassure her, I say reassuring things and internalize them, thus reassuring myself. Also, it kinda makes me feel all butch and stuff.
Yay, I’m here. Oh my god, my head hurts. It’s 3:00 pm now. How much longer should I force myself to stay awake? I’d be jealous of the dog for being asleep, but she’s having nightmares.

Resolutions

Virtual Disco It’s that time again, where I make resolutions. Last year, my results were a mixed bag.

I did not develop any sort of calm, see any heads of St. John the Baptist, go to any Armagnac tasting or take any bike trips. I did, however, get much better at French, play a couple gigs in France, write a bit of music and get better about keeping track of dates.
In 2007, I will:

  • Accept myself
  • Get serenity
  • write more music
  • play more gigs
  • Bring the sexy back (see accompanying picture)
  • floss my teeth every day