Wow her Esquire 'acceptance' speech is actually pretty kick ass--maybe deserves a Broadsheet post all its own. A snippet of Barry-esque wisdom:

"Ah, yes: the big O. You know that stuff they say about a woman being responsible for her own orgasms? That's all true. And in my case, that makes me responsible for pretty damned good orgasms these days. Much better orgasms than when I was twenty-two. And I wouldn't let a man control that. Not anymore. Now I'd invite him to participate. I'll tell you this: I've learned my tricks. I know what I like. I do not wait around. I initiate. And I'm not all about frequency. I favor intensity.

There have been some men in my life who have been wickedly sexy and have taught me much about sexual pleasure. There are a few men I should thank, and others I need to forget. But I don't regret. To hell with regret. I like what I am now. I like being a mother. I like my body better since I became a mother. I feel sexier as a result of becoming a mother."

. . .is all I can say.

So I guess we can expect a piece on the inspiring magnificence of Obama's emblematic black man's package next week? No? But wait a minute, why would you devote an entire story to a secondary sexual characteristic of the first la--

Right. Got it.

For years and years and years I shaved my bikini and upper thighs, only submitting to the waxer at the beginning of bathing suit season. Then, I divorced, moved cities, got a new boyfriend, and headed to a new waxer in preparation for our first overnight date. The new gal was a native Brazilian, and ready to rip every last follicle. When I told her a full Brazilian was out of the question, she said OK, but she wanted to do 'a very clean line'. Have at it, I said. She gave me as much of a Brazilian as she could get away with, and I left the salon feeling like I'd suffered a minor sexual assault.

But I was "clean", damnit, front to back. And my new look seemed in keeping with my sexual renaissance. So for about a year, I kept going back. And I'll tell you something. I'm not a rich woman. I believe in spending money for good haircuts and good bras but at the end of the day the amounts of cash I had to lay out for an area that only one other person, save the ladies at my gym, gets to gawk at is absurd. It's one step too high on the feminine maintenance ladder if you ask me--just another example of the beauty industry pathologizing healthy female bodies to keep us insecure and paying through the nose. I remember how the Brazilian waxer used to smirk and make 'good natured' jokes about my natural hairiness, until eventually I realized she was making me feel ugly and bad about myself--and I was paying her to do it.

Still can't quite believe I spent over a year flushing my hard-earned money down the toilet--you'd think I'd've learned my lesson from Naomi Wolfe circa early '90s. In short, I'm back to the shaving. If and when I feel like it.

What you're saying is kinda the point of the article isn't it? There was this trend, this trend was kind of dumb, lots of people participated in it, but now it's waning. No one's accusing anyone else of putting a gun to anyone's head. But surely you understand something as basic as cultural pressure? Say you come of age in the 70s. Sideburns are popular on men. Awesome. You love sideburns. Sideburns are totally you. Yours are full and lustrous. You are admired by men, desired by women. Then it's the 80s. Hairstyles remain ridiculous, but sideburns are no longer de rigeur. Still, it's your look and you'll be damned if you're giving up on them. A couple of guys at the office crack wise at your expense. You learn that a few people refer to you as "sideburn guy". Whatever. You're happy with who you are.

It's the 90s. Every single person in the office now refers to you as 'sideburn guy'. Anonymous caricatures of you are occasionally circulated. You're still a healthy, fit and virile man, yet somehow the women don't seem as entranced as they once were. Occasionally your friends and family will remark on your sideburns with a distinct air of impatience. At last your best friend, over drinks, interrupts your complaint about your lacklustre love life with the edict: Dude, lose the sideburns.

What do you do? Maybe you keep your sideburns. But not everyone is blessed with your confidence and unshakable sense of self, you know?

Awright. I'll take the bait.

The Broadsheet WTF had to do with why Rhianna's anger problems should be mentioned at all in a story about the woman in question getting the living shit beaten out of her. Who gives a shit if she has anger issues? Who gives a shit if she has a heroin addiction? Who gives a shit if she's an international superspy/assassin? That's not the story. The story is she had the shit beaten out of her and filed charges against her lover for doing the beating. Maybe she does have anger issues. Maybe she did hit him first. Hell, maybe she should even be charged for it. But the fact remains: Rhianna had the living shit beaten out of her, and she says her boyfriend did that in a separate suit. The story Broadsheet was addressing was the whacked out media spin in some instances--the immediate "What did she do to deserve it?" There may be two sides to every story but there's only one party in this story who ended up with her face rearranged. What we're concerned with here is a little thing called blaming the victim. Thanks for providing yet another fine example.