Posts tagged katie roiphe
Posts tagged katie roiphe
Oh God, I literally gasped with JOY when I saw this. I might print it out and spoon with it later tonight.
And, in fact, the majority of women in the workplace are not tender creatures and are largely adept at dealing with all varieties of uncomfortable or hostile situations. Show me a smart, competent young professional woman who is utterly derailed by a verbal unwanted sexual advance or an inappropriate comment about her appearance, and I will show you a rare spotted owl.
I LOVE THIS INSANE WOMAN. I love the concept that women should just take unwanted sexual comments because they are strong enough, and not that dudes should not make unwanted sexual comments. I love her concept of feminism, which boils down to the fact that she thinks women are all stupid idiot bitches (except for her).
I made you a Katie Roiphe mask for Halloween! Go forth and slut-shame!
If you were to tell me, “Tyler, you might have only gotten three hours of sleep last night and then fell down in the G train station, but today is going to be OK,” I would reply, “Yeah, sure, and I bet there’ll be a new Beyoncé video and also Katie Roiphe will write something so ridiculously inane that I will cry with laughter.”
One bright day a book came across my desk with a letter from its editor saying that the writer was a “big fan” of my work and would like a blurb. As the writer was from Gawker it seemed a tiny bit surprising that she would be “a big fan” of my work as Gawker itself is not a big fan of my work, and in fact a quick search turned up an item by this writer called “Katie Roiphe Is Big Immature Baby.”
Oh. My. GOD.
If you are pumping out autopilot schadenfreude all day long, maybe there is nothing personal in it. The rage, the dissociated nastiness, floats through the ether and attaches itself fleetingly to a subject, but really, taking it personally is like being annoyed at the wind for messing up your hair. The attack is so generalized, so mindless, so contentless, why would the writer think I would attach any specific animus to it, or that it was in any specific way intended for or directed at me?
Gawker takes the explicit stance of the outsider, specifically the fashionably slothful outsider. They once wrote about one of my essays: “I think she wrote the piece because she liked the idea of having a big, long, ‘provocative’ think piece in the NYTBR, one lots of people would argue about. I don’t blame her for that. If I had my shit more together, I’d probably aim for the same brass ring of neediness.” In other words, they murmur to their reader: I am brilliant and talented, but too cool or sublimely untainted by anything as sordid and uninteresting as the ambition to try to do anything.
AND AND AND:
In the end, a computer program could produce Gawker, which is why it doesn’t matter which of their writers pens an item, or if an old one leaves or a new one comes, or if one of them would like to disassociate herself because she would like a blurb for a book.
I suppose what is disheartening or surprising is not that the city’s disappointed artists or thwarted hopeful or anxious young love Gawker, but that there isn’t a better Gawker for them to love.
First of all, God bless that crazy cunt. I want her around always to write things she doesn’t quite understand. Cool move, Katie, for linking to an article from 2007 and then saying, “Bitch, please, like I care if Gawker throws shade?” AND THEN SHE THROW SHADE RIGHT BACK AT THE AUTHOR BY MENTIONING HER BOOK THAT CAME OUT LAST YEAR. Oh my God, Katie Roiphe is like the queen bee and Slate is her fucking burn book. But, like, the queen bee of special ed, because she’s KINDA SLOW to call out some bitches for things they said years ago AS IF IT EVEN FUCKING MATTERS TO HER, BECAUSE SHE IS KATIE ROIPHE AND NOTHING WILL BRING HER DOWN. Hooooooly shit. I think I may have found my creative calling: a one-man show in which I play Katie Roiphe. I am gonna work on my scowl for the rest of the day. Never forget:
First of all, God bless that crazy cunt. I want her around always to write things she doesn’t quite understand. Cool move, Katie, for linking to an article from 2007 and then saying, “Bitch, please, like I care if Gawker throws shade?” AND THEN SHE THROW SHADE RIGHT BACK AT THE AUTHOR BY MENTIONING HER BOOK THAT CAME OUT LAST YEAR. Oh my God, Katie Roiphe is like the queen bee and Slate is her fucking burn book. But, like, the queen bee of special ed, because she’s KINDA SLOW to call out some bitches for things they said years ago AS IF IT EVEN FUCKING MATTERS TO HER, BECAUSE SHE IS KATIE ROIPHE AND NOTHING WILL BRING HER DOWN. Hooooooly shit.
I think I may have found my creative calling: a one-man show in which I play Katie Roiphe. I am gonna work on my scowl for the rest of the day. Never forget:
The book, in all its cleverness and artfulness and ingenuity, raises certain other questions: Are they having sex, these slouchy rageful parents? Not enough, perhaps. When the father turns back to the waking child’s bedroom, we look out at the comfy, sexless, vaguely depressive scene of his wife sprawled asleep on the couch under an ugly old blanket. No wonder the slouchy dad is full of rage. No wonder all those slouchy dads and moms who just want to watch a movie and eat some microwave popcorn find this book so funny, so transporting; no wonder it makes them feel, as the publicity materials suggest, “less alone.” But if those sweet-faced children, so gorgeously drawn by Ricardo Cortés, could talk back would they say: “Put on a fucking dress. Have a fucking drink. Stop hovering over us. Live your own goddamned life.”
Oh, Katie, you glorious idiot asshole. Don’t change!!!!!
(h/t The Awl)
I love Katie Roiphe the way I love Ann Coulter, because she is essentially the Ann Coulter of cultural criticism. I don’t think she’s even entirely convinced that what she ever says or writes has any merit, but goddamn if she doesn’t spout out her crazy with conviction, which is why I love her so.
You can imagine my glee this morning when I read this piece about her TWITTER FIGHT with Ayelet Waldman (by way of Max Read) the wife of Michael Chabon. You may remember that Chabon was one of the targets in Roiphe’s essay, “I’d Rather Get Donkey-Punched by Norman Mailer Than Be Eaten-Out by Dave Eggers,” and that it took over a year for Ayelet to decide she was ready to call Roiphe a bitch on Twitter.
Let me highlight my favorite parts of Roiphe’s response (which is almost all of it).
The other morning I woke up to several emails saying “Sorry about Mrs. C.” or “Don’t worry about Mrs. C.” I was not worried about Mrs. C, since I had no idea what they were talking about. I did know that Mrs. C was the wife of a famous novelist.
Not only does Katie Roiphe have friends (doubtful!), but they also all refer to Ayelet Waldman as Mrs. C, even though her name is actually more like Ms. W, and in no way is this paragraph some sort of obviously sly take-down of a woman who is also a novelist who does not publish her books under her married name. Surely Katie is putting this here to say, “Isn’t it funny that all of my friends refer to her as Mrs. C?! I had no idea who that was! If only they had emailed, ‘Ayelet Waldman thinks you’re a giant C!’ I might have figured it out sooner and would have saved you from reading this paragraph. Alas, my friends are jerks! Are you surprised that I, Katie Roiphe, have friends who are assholes?”
Indeed, it’s beginning to seem like everyone I have ever stood next to in an elevator suddenly harbours a great desire to talk to me about Mrs. C. They want to hear what I have to say about Mrs. C. How do I feel about Mrs. C? The only thing I know for sure, by this point, is that half of New York City is very closely following the twittered moods of Mrs. C.
Note: Katie Roiphe lives in a fantasy land where not only everyone is aware of Ayelet Waldman but they also all read her Twitter and refer to her as Mrs. C. Oh, and all of these people consider Katie Roiphe to be approachable. (Scroll back up and look at her face.) I want to go to this world! Apparently roughly 4,600 people live there.
(I do technically have a Twitter account that I have never once used. That Twitter account was set up by my 7-year-old, who set up her own account, @icoolirock, and then set up mine so that she could have a follower, since I don’t let her have strangers following her, meaning, basically, that her love for certain floppy-haired boy singers will have to remain, for now, a secret from the world.)
#FF: @icoolirock! Katie’s approach to parenting makes sense; if you let strangers follow you on Twitter, you will get date-raped, even though date-rape doesn’t actually exist because girls should know better than to get drunk and let guys fuck them if they didn’t actually want it, those stupid whores. Alas, we cannot read Violet Chernoff’s tweets, but if you’re looking for something fun to pass the time, Twitter suggests that @monkeybutt80 is quite similar.
What I found most intriguing is the question of why remote acquaintances would be interested in calling Mrs. C. to my attention. Many things may have happened in the intervening decade since I had spoken to them, but none had awakened in them the sudden desire to talk to me the way Mrs. C.’s vicious tweeting did. I’ve noticed the same phenomenon with a scathing review: People who are not my friends suddenly emerging to sympathize, to hear what I think or how I feel about my scathing review. Here, of course, is schadenfreude at work.
Katie Roiphe is so popular, etc. And “Mrs. C’s Vicious Tweeting” is the title of my next play.
But clearly the “bottomless, eerie, aimless hostility” he is talking about is not only floating around bars and parties these days, but on the Internet. The nasty rumors, the lies, the blatant attacks, the vengeance circulating, the trivial and contentless nastiness breeding more, the jealousy, vanity, thwartedness finding expression. Would Mrs. C., if she ran into me at a bar, confront me, or maybe throw a drink at me?
KATIE ROIPHE ADDRESSES THE HATERS.
And finally, this is my favorite part, which is taken out of order but is the best:
Someone somewhere across the world is fomenting a revolution against a repressive regime on Twitter, but Mrs. C. is a little cranky about her Sunday paper.
Ugh, that Mrs. C! Always getting mad about trivial things like book criticism. I guess everyone who has an opinion about books should just go kill themselves (or at least stop writing pointless drivel on Slate).
<3 this betch