Lately I’ve been on a kick of reading non-fiction by female authors. I share this unextraordinary observation because for most of my life I’ve been a lousy lady supporter. I grew up idolizing male rock stars (I mean, who doesn’t want to be David Bowie?), I had more interest in male-driven cinema (like I had a lot of choice) and I romanticized being a Kerouac or Hemingway, drunk and bitter.
(Let it be said that I’ve been madly in love Stevie Nicks since I was 15 years old.)
I don’t know where my bro allegiance stemmed from, though I have theories that I was an old Jewish man in a former life. I guess I just couldn’t relate to a lot of famous ladies. The Madonnas and the Beyonces and the Gwen Stefanis and the Jennifer Anistons have been stripped of their womanhood; they’re now cartoon versions of themselves. They drip thousands of dollars worth of jewels and designer wear, detest being photographed in an imperfect state and they live a life that is totally unrecognizable to other human (more…)