Last week, the controversial professor, feminist blogger and personal essayist Hugo Schwyzer announced on his blog, in an interview with NYmag.com and again in LA Weekly that he was retiring his notorious public persona and quitting the internet for good (or— for the time being, he corrected himself some days later in yet another goodbye). Maybe you don’t know or care who this person is and that is just as well. He is a semi-big deal in the feminist blogosphere in the way that Serge Haroche is probably (hopefully) an even bigger deal among mathy-type people (he won the Noble Prize in Physics in 2012, according to this random website I found when I Googled “Nobel Prize winners”). And maybe we should all know more about Serge Haroche. But here we are talking about Hugo. (For a complete list of criticisms of Hugo’s work, you can go here. Or here. Yes, there are entire websites created for the sole purpose of criticizing this man and his work.) [Note: A few of Schwyzer's pieces on The Good Men Project were crossposted on The Frisky a few years ago.]
I can’t help it. Honestly, I’m kind of obsessed with him. As a freelance writer as well as a writing instructor — I teach courses in memoir, personal essay and opinion writing, the genres that both Hugo and I write — this whole brouhaha is pushing all my buttons. Some people are taking a certain joy in this character’s downfall — which I feel is mean but, yes, a little tempting. Like many, for me, the redemptive narrative of Hugo Schwyzer always rang less than true. Keep reading »
Not that we blame them. “Breaking Bad” has totally transformed Albuquerque from that random city that’s spelled weird to the meth capital of the world. What else were the great capitalists of New Mexico supposed to do besides squeeze every last penny from their infamous, regionalized crystal? In honor of Walter White and Jesse Pinkman’s “Blue Sky” meth (99.1 percent pure, thankyouverymuch), the good businessmen of the Southwestern city have been selling donuts, bath salts, and candy all in the name of the fictional, highly addictive, and massively illegal drug.
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I was in bed, half-awake, on Sunday morning when I found out that Cory Monteith, one of the lead actors on “Glee,” had died suddenly of an apparent drug overdose the day before. Monteith was never a celebrity that I would have expected to die at 31. Even though I knew he had struggled with drug addiction and done several stints in rehab, he didn’t have that reputation for reckless living like Lindsay Lohan or Justin Bieber do.
Julie had the presence of mind to throw up a quick post on The Frisky. But my thoughts were firmly fixated on the actor’s family and friends and his girlfriend, “Glee” co-star Lea Michele. I kept thinking about Michele, who was apparently vacationing in Mexico when her boyfriend died in a hotel room in Vancouver, getting that phone call telling her Monteith had died.
I forgot about how I personally find Lea Michele really annoying and have never, ever wanted to see a movie she is in or read a magazine interview with her. But in that moment, I felt for her. I really felt for her. Because I have been waiting for that same phone call my entire life. Keep reading »