Safe & Sound (The Hunger Games Soundtrack)- Taylor Swift featuring The Civil Wars
Listen, I’m not a huge Taylor Swift fan. (Except that time we took our eldest daughter to see George Strait & Ronnie Milsap in concert—and Taylor was the opening act. This was five years ago, long before she was OMG, TAYLOR SWIFT. She was so young, so tiny, so unassuming, and yes, she wore a sundress with boots. In January. Precious. And she wanted us to think of her when we heard Tim McGraw.)
The Civil Wars. Y’all know how I feel about some John Paul White and Joy Williams, and they’re the best part of this song. They could sing the phone book and I’d be swaying and holding a zippo above my head.
“As I mentioned in an early post, the main problem with Twilight isn’t its sparkly vampires who lack all traditional weaknesses or its anti-feminist sensibility. When you get right down to it, the trouble is that the writing is terrible, filled with cliche phrases (“smoldering eyes”), repeated words (294 “eyes” in 498 pages) and the reductive characterization of its main characters (Bella is clumsy, and I guess she likes books. Or something).
On a recent car-trip with my husband and the writer Chip Cheek, we mulled over the question: What if great literary writers of the last 200 years had penned Twilight?
“Call me Bella.” A tome about the length of the original series investigates Bella’s monomanical search for the vampire who stole her virginity. There’s an entire chapter devoted to describing the devastating whiteness of Edward’s skin, and several on the physiognomy of vampires, starting with their skeletal structure outward.
The novel takes place over the course of twenty four hours, during which Bella is painting a portrait of Edward and reflecting on how her role within 21st century society is circumscribed by her femininity.
In the opening scene, Edward dashes Bella’s head against a rock and rapes her corpse. Then he and Jacob take off on an unexplained rampage through the West.
Basically the same as the original, except that Bella is socially apt and incredibly witty. Her distrust of Edward is initially bourne out of a tragic misunderstanding of his character, but after a fling with Jacob during which he sexually assaults her (amusing to no one in this version) she and Edward live happily ever after.
Same as the original, but set in a theme park. Somehow involves gangs of robots, which distract the reader from the essential sappiness of Edward and Bella’s story.
Bella stars as the alcoholic barmaid with daddy issues that Edward, a classic abuser, exploits. When Bella’s old friend Jacob comes to visit and is shocked by her bruises, she thinks about leaving him, but instead hits the gin bottle. Hard.
Edward and Jacob defy society’s expectations up in the mountains.
Bella takes acid.
Edward’s rapacious love for Bella reflects the way globalism has pillaged Ireland. It’s entirely written in Esperanto, with sections in untranslated Greek, except for Chapter 40, which is inexplicably rendered as a script page from the musical The Book of Mormon.
Bella writes a brilliant takedown of the latest school play, dates a string of men, and repeatedly attempts suicide.
Stifled by her marriage to Edward, Bella has an affair with Jacob and then drowns herself.
Edward and Bella exchange terse dialogue alluding to Edward’s anatomical problem. Eventually, Bella leaves him for Jacob, a local bullfighter with a giant…sense of entitlement.
When Native American werewolf Jacob threatens her with death, prissypants Bella reconsiders her hardcore racism, and just for one milisecond, the audience finds her sympathetic.
Edward tells Bella that he intends to stop saving her life, unless she starts paying him in gold bullion. Hatefucking ensues, then Jacob talks about objectivism for the next 100 pages.”
Jack 1. Gather ingredients 2. Point gun at ingredients and shout “HOW DO I MAKE A SANDWICH OUT OF YOU?!?!?” 3. Breathe heavily through your nose as though you were about to hit ingredients 4. Give up and make the sandwich yourself, and eat it bitterly
Raised in Georgia by Mississippi-born & bred parents, I was brought up from the earliest moment of my understanding that there are words we never utter—for any reason. Among these words include “fag,” “queer,” “retard,” and racial slurs such as the “n” word, “Spic,” and “Wetback,” to name a few. Yes, I am a white southerner. Yes, I have many family members who regularly used these terms in everyday conversation. But thank God my parents taught me (and my brother) that this language is unacceptable.
I’ve seen retarded spelled “ruh-tarded,” as if that lessens the blow of the insult that’s being flung. NO.
I’ve heard “queer” being used by a straight person describing the embarrassing behavior of another straight person. NO.
I’ve had white friends ask, “Well, since black people use the ‘N’ word, why can’t we?” NO. And for the record, if you’re asking if something’s racist or incendiary, IT IS.
I’m not perfect, nor am I the word police. In the past I’ve used “gay,” as in, “Oh my stars, that sweater is so gay!” This is when I’m thankful for my late friend, Cory, who once asked, “What about that sweater is ‘gay?’ Do you realize you’re mocking my sexuality? What if I described that squashed spider outside your door as ‘ewwww, so straight?’ It’d be offensive, right? Not to mention ridiculous!”
Cory taught me a lesson I’ve never forgotten. Just because I have the freedom of speech doesn’t mean I get to be an asshole about it. Or, as The Book Lantern more eloquently put it, having free speech doesn’t give you the right to be a monumental jerk. (My paraphrase.)
Finally, I stand with Ceilidh, author of this post, when she states, “I’m anti-censorship but I also firmly believe in the responsibility of free speech and the power of words.”