"When I was young there were beatniks. Hippies. Punks. Gangsters. Now you’re a hacktivist. Which I would probably be if I was 20. Shuttin’ down MasterCard. But there’s no look to that lifestyle! Besides just wearing a bad outfit with bad posture. Has WikiLeaks caused a look? No! I’m mad about that. If your kid comes out of the bedroom and says he just shut down the government, it seems to me he should at least have an outfit for that."
- John Waters on the sorry style of today’s rebels (emphasis mine)
It is not against the law to secretly take photographs up a woman’s skirt in Massachusetts, the state’s Supreme Judicial Court ruled Wednesday. The court dismissed charges against Michael Robertson, who was arrested by Boston transit police for taking photos and videos up multiple women’s skirts or dresses on the subway.
The judges sympathized with the notion that a woman should be able to have a reasonable expectation not to have secret photos taken up her skirt when she goes out in public, but ruled that current state law does not address that. Massachusetts’ “Peeping Tom” laws, as written, only protect women from being photographed in dressing rooms or bathrooms when they are undressed. Since upskirt photos are taken of fully clothed women in public, they don’t count, according to the court.
“A female passenger on a MBTA trolley who is wearing a skirt, dress, or the like covering these parts of her body is not a person who is `partially nude,’ no matter what is or is not underneath the skirt by way of underwear or other clothing,” the court wrote.
Robertson’s lawyers defended his actions by arguing the photos were a matter of free speech."
1) Hey, judges. How are you? I know y’all have to “interpret the law” and shit like that, but can you for a moment gets your heads out from under your robes and get some fucking common sense and decency into them? 2) Are any of y’all named “Jesus H. Christ”? 3) You’ve just turned Massachusetts into Florida.(via inothernews)
Friends, let me tell you about Rebecca Gomperts.
Rebecca Gomperts is a sea captain, a certified physician, and the founder of Women on Waves, a Dutch pro-choice non-profit organization that brings reproductive health services to women in countries with restrictive abortion laws.
This is how it works:
- Rebecca Gomperts and her team installed a specially constructed mobile clinic aboard a commissioned ship.
- They sail to countries with restrictive abortion laws, answering phone calls and e-mails from women who need another way out.
- Upon landing, they take the women who come to them aboard the ship, and then they take the ship out into international waters.
- There the laws of the flag ship are in effect.
- They then perform non-surgical medical abortions, while walking the women through the process.
- They sail back to shore, and once they depart, they continue to follow up with their patients to ensure they remain healthy and safe.
In response, Rebecca Gomperts and her team have been:
- hit by eggs thrown by physically violent pro-life activists
- met with resistance by government officials of the countries they visit
- been forced to disguise themselves and their patients to save the women who come to them any public shaming (which the media helps to perpetuate)
- and once, harassed by two war ships sent out by the Portuguese military
And yet they continue to answer the calls and e-mails of women who want their help, providing reproductive counseling and teaching them how to circumvent the dangerous laws of their country when necessary.
Director Diana Whitten is telling their story in her documentary, VESSEL. It’s a beautiful doc, a necessary doc, and the film is premiering this week at SXSW. Please show your support for these women on social media. It’s so incredibly important.
If you’re in need of reproductive counseling or an abortion service, you can find Women on Wave’s international support and informational collective on Women on Web.
These people are heroes. Rebecca Gomperts is a hero. What they do has and will save countless lives. It’s so incredibly important that their story is told and the struggles of women living in countries governed by restrictive abortion laws (including the United States) are brought to light.
The Armory Show wasn’t the only big event in 1913 - it was also the year that suffragists marched on Washington to demand women’s right to vote. In light of that centennial anniversary, which is being celebrated this weekend, and the kickoff of Women’s History Month, it seemed like a good time to present you with this declaration from Nancy Spero.
Whenever someone offers me a delicious clementine, which, honestly, happens all of the goddamn time, I keep it on my desk instead of eating it. It becomes a version of a stress ball. Something comforting to hold in my palm. I toss it from hand to hand when thinking. I roll it around in front of me. First, it is supple but firm with a pleasantly cool and rubbery skin. Over the week it hardens. The skin tightens around itself, making the wedges beneath bulge like toned muscles. Now it is a hard clementine. As hard as some rocks. When I roll it around in front of me now it makes a thick sound. It smacks a pleasant smack when it lands in my palm. Months later, it hardens even more, shrinks even more, and turns bruise colored then brown then black. It’s like a large, round peach pit. At this point, I swallow it whole. Then I repeat the process. Right on cue, here comes Tabitha, doling out clementines across the office like a citrus goddess. I nod at her, she recognizes me, reaches in to the box resting between her forearm and hip, and tosses me a fresh clem’ like a stadium vendor. The same steps occur. I hold it, soft. I roll it, smooth. I toss it, lightly. Days, weeks, months, then finally, a brick-hard, gnarled puck of a clementine. I swallow this one, too! And again, and again, and again, until my stomach is full of them, like a tender purse of deformed, chipped golf balls. Like a burlap sack filled with volcanic rock. A three-quarters-full bag of Kingsford brand charcoal briquettes, my stomach. Finally, I am ready. I walk right over to the south end of the office, my gut growling beneath my sweater like fondled marbles in a Crown Royal pouch, and march into Corbin’s ugly, wide office. He looks up at me, surrounded by his paintings of various cartouches, his little scarab figurines, and utters something like, “I’m really swamped right now, what’s up?”
"Hey Corbin. You wanna punch me in the solar plexus, you fucking eel?"
That’s what I say.
It’s Ralph Tho.