Ok, here’s a thing: A few years ago, maybe ’08, I was in London, gigging. Had the daytimes to kill, so went to the Tate Modern. There was a ‘special’ wing, devoted to ‘women in art’. I had a look. Not ONE picture. Just a room full of framed blocks of type. All by women stating, basically, the ratio of women vs men in art, how unhappy they all were with it, and how it’s unfair. Then statistics about women’s history in art, and how the art world has downtrodden them. But I couldn’t help think, ‘well…where is the art?’
Men DON’T detract women from the arts, be it comedy, art. writing, etc. The dangerous, wanna-have talents do it to themselves, and use their ‘place’ to gain a foothold.
I have lived with mostly female friends, they are scientists, musicians, broadcasters, and all manner of things, and as a group there’s never been a ‘but they’re a woman’ vibe from anyone. Maybe it’s just people wanting to place themselves in ‘failure boxes’ because, quite frankly, they AREN’T capable. Guess what. Some men ‘aren’t capable’ either. Nuthin’ to do with you, ‘luv’.
Feminists: Thinking ‘less female comedians on the line-up’ as some sort of injustice is erroneous. It’s like asking why aren’t there more female alcoholics, or homeless, or rapists. If somethings are more of a male disposition… then they are.
Thanks to all who read, but not to those who zoned out after I mentioned rapists.
3 this week… 🙂
Howdy McDoody. A couple of bits for you, this blog. I’m knuckling down getting some cartoon strips done which hopefully will be disseminated into the ethernet in coming months. In the meanwhilst, here’s a couple of recent podcasts I partook in.
The Comedy Cast had me in for a nice long chat about Irish comedy, and life in general.
Also, last week had me discuss the reality (or not) of Atlantis, with Those Conspiracy Guys.
AND here’s a bonus cartoon:
These are the two strips myself and Christian Talbot did for Edinburgh’s Fringepig magazine. Check out all our Comedians strips HERE.
He sat, hunched, on a stone bench on Dalry Road. His aged hand gripped the almost empty beer can, as he held it aloft, intently staring almost THROUGH it. I wondered what was going through his head. Not ‘Mmm. Fine vintage’. Probably more that it was now 11.30 at night, and he was making peace with the fact that this was his final drink of the day. But there was a deeper sadness to him. I think he was trying to justify a decision he’d made decades previously. Probably involving a choice, between a woman, and drink.
He had been maybe forty at the time. There had been SO many ups and downs with his ex. She loved him, but he didn’t feel deserved of her affections (because we’re born to self-hate). Many nights of drunken madness, but balanced with such tenderness, during the ‘relaxed’ times. It’s when women see the real ‘us’. But no matter the true love offered by anyone, it would NEVER fill the hole in the way the emotional anesthaesia of booze could. He COULD have spent his life sober, with her, but he always ‘knew’ it would end this way. He HAD to choose. Her or drink.
He chose drink.
In a dimly lit hallway, at a weird hour of the night, he said his goodbyes and left.
And now he had to spend the rest of his life justifying this decision to himself. He HAD to make drink feel worth it. ‘Til one lonely night he’s sitting on a stone bench in Edinburgh, 30 years older, staring at a near empty can, and thinking ‘You stupid bastard.’
I wrote a blog a while back, “All I Have To Do…” (just scroll down, I can’t be dealing with inserting links. It’s 5.30 in the morning as I write this) in which I discussed my fascination with dreams and their meaning, that they’re a good way of sorting out your worries and conscience while you sleep. In it I promised to mention another dream I had a while back that I still haven’t figured out. It was a particularly heavy one, emotionally, because of how real it felt.
Before I tell you the details, I should point out first that I have NO kids.
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