remember that Joan

Michael Schulman remembers Joan Rivers:

“Everyone who called her the Queen of Mean was missing the point: life is what’s mean, and she was here to let us know how funny that is.”

Credit Photograph Ruth Fremson / The New York Times / Redux

It’s the first AP Music Awards!
Join us Monday, July 21 at the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame and Museum at North Coast Harbor in Cleveland for a special night honoring the best musicians in AP’s universe, hosted by Mark Hoppus. CM Punk & Juliet Simms (Automatic Loveletter and The Voice) will co-host the red carpet pre-show event alongside a very special surprise guest to be announced soon. Watch it all happen live on AXS TV!

Live performances from:
Fall Out Boy Joan Jett & The BlackheartsThe Misfits • Brendon Urie of Panic! At The DiscoA Day To RememberAll Time LowAsking Alexandriatwenty one pilotsSleeping With SirensFalling In Reverse • Machine Gun Kelly Special collaborations to be announced soon!

Proud to announce the first ever AP Music Awards! #apmas
July 21, 2014 at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum – Cleveland, OH


Joan Blondell singing “Remember My Forgotten Man” at the finale of Gold Diggers of 1933  (Mervyn LeRoy, 1933), one of the greatest songs to come out of the Depression

Remember my forgotten man
You put a rifle in his hand
You sent him far away
You shouted: “Hip-hooray!”
But look at him today

Hahaha remember when Robin Williams made lots of jokes about rape and incest and pedophilia and making fun of Muslim women but when he died it was all OH MY GOD I LOVED ALADDIN, MY CHILDHOOD, RIGHT IN THE CHILDHOOD, TRULY A SAINT FOREVER

Hahaha remember when Joan Rivers died and every two-bit SJW decided that now was the time when the sisterhood of women was fully irrelevant and that she was a cunt witch bitch fucking hag skank of death who deserved to rot in hell forever

Why do we forgive in death male celebrities when we do not do the same for female celebrities? Why did people pop bottles of champagne in the streets and sing “ding-dong the witch is dead” for the death of Margaret Thatcher… But left the death day of her BFF Ronald fucking Reagan bone-dry and champagne free? 

Oh, I see.

By all means, celebrate the deaths of anyone if you’re so inclined. They’re not around to see it anyway. But if you only celebrate when controversial women die (and you rush to spit your venom, call them bitches, cunts, witches, whores, evil monsters, devil women, demon women) then double fucking newsflash, sunshine: you’re probably a misogynist. 

And you know what’s worse? No woman is exempt. People will dance on the grave of Temple Grandin for supporting industrial meat production, despite her being one of the most accomplished agriculturalists and autistic people of the 21st century. People will dance on the grave of Nicki Minaj because they will allege that her sexuality ruined America’s youth. People will dance on the grave of Dilma Roussef, the first female president of Brazil, because they don’t agree with her stance on abortion. And if you’re a successful woman who speaks her mind and holds strong views, they’ll dance on your grave too.

If you only support successful women when they’re dancing to your tune– telling your jokes, preaching your politics, singing your songs, supporting your causes– then you’re not a supporter of women, you’re a supporter of yourself. We do not need to agree with all of the controversial (and sometimes racist, homophobic, transphobic, and otherwise wretched) things that people say to agree that they should rest peacefully. Which is all to say: all of your “SISTERHOOD FOR ALL” buttons, all your rallies, all your Facebook statuses and fliers about feminism, all your “activism”… It’s all wholly and completely irrelevant if you actively curse the souls of dead women who said shit you don’t like.

In conclusion: rest in peace Joan Rivers. You were a semi-frequent cunt, but aren’t we all?

To the Christian Woman

The first thing you learn as a Christian woman
is that your body belongs to God.
From consecrated picket lines outside of clinics strumming
“What if Jesus had been aborted?” on Evangelic guitars
to the ten year girls in purity ball dresses that make them look like tiny ghosts,
pledging their virginity to fathers looming over them in
judgment day suits
you might think being a Christian woman means choosing between having “virginity” or
“future home of good Christian babies” tattooed across your uterus
like baptism was a trip to the gynecologist.

The first thing you learn as a Christian woman
is that your body is a temple.
That it exists only to be cleaned, that nothing makes a girl look pretty
like purity rings and confirmations.
Christian women have never called themselves pretty.
They call themselves “devoted” “faithful”
“mother” “martyr” “mystic”
because why just be pretty when there are so many ways
to make your body sacred?

The first thing you learn as a Christian woman
is that you have a lot to live up to.
From the day you set foot in a church you will be compared to women
who died
rather than disobey God.
So when they clamor for your obedience call yourself Perpetua
staring down the Romans covered in the blood of every man who
tries to deny you your faith. Call yourself Joan, your body
igniting in flames, one last reminder that a woman
stood at the head of God’s armies. Call yourself Julian,
say “I will be a living proof of God’s love.” Call yourself every woman of faith
who, when their fathers and brothers and husbands demanded the tithe of their bodies
screamed back “NO!” with voices that rattled the heavens.
Remind them the moment you were saved was not when Jesus died on the cross
but the moment a poor, unmarried, Middle Eastern Jewish teenager
with fear and joy writing shaky psalms across her heart
said “Yes I will bear salvation
into the broken body of this world.” Because even God had to ask consent
before He touched a women’s body
so why the fuck can’t they?

The first thing you learn as a Christian woman is that when you give your body
whether to prayer, to your lover, to your children
you are still pledging it to God
because it is not His to take,
it is yours to give.
When they tell you otherwise
grab the pulpit, the altar, the nails
holding the pews to the floor, grab onto everything your hands can hold and don’t
Make your body stained glass so when they look at you
they will see the history of their faith
illuminated in the body of a woman
and call it truth.
Let them know this is your home
and they cannot decide how you will exist in it.

Remind them your body
is a burning oven in a house on fire,
that it is the exploding center of your belief.

Burn brightly enough that they cannot look away.