Dear Barbara Broccoli,
There have been some disturbing talk going on around the internet. Specifically, people have been saying that it's time for a female James Bond. 'Its time to show men that women can do what they do!' I think is the rallying cry. Women are cool. Women can fight. Women can shoot. Women are Dr. Who. It's time James became Jane!
Look, I know we're all supposed to jump on this bandwagon and wear the pussy hats and hold the Feminist Banner high in honor of our (reportedly) oppressed foremothers, but I can't. I just can't. In the name of all the bad feminists out like me, I beg of you: please, please, please, don't take my fantasy away.
I know, I know. You're going to say I have the narrative wrong. 'It's a guy's fantasy, not a woman's,' you'll chide me. 'James Bond is for boys.'
'If that's so,' I'd reply, 'then why did you hire Daniel Craig and put him in a tux? Because guys are the ones fantasizing about that?'
James Bond isn't supposed to be politically correct. He isn't supposed to get with the times. He isn't a form of social commentary. He doesn't have a backstory (or a consistent one, anyway), he doesn't age (unless he's Roger Moore, but if you're Roger Moore, age doesn't matter), he doesn't slow down, and he doesn't get tired. He's a fantasy figure in a fantasy world. He is what a lot of guys would like to be, true: handsome, debonair, irresistible to women, and always ready with a gun, a smart remark, and a cool car.
He's a guy's fantasy, yes, I get that. But he's ours too.
You see, for most women, life is... well, kinda dull. We go to work. We buy groceries. We work out and pick up the kids. We pay bills and talk to friends and occasionally go out on the town. And while life is generally good, it's also mundane. Regular. Boring. And sometimes, we just want a hunk in a tux with a gun and an Aston Martin to swoop in and take us away on an adventure.
I know, I know. You're going to say something like, 'That's horribly backwards, Killarney. Women are strong and self-assured. They don't need a man to save them.'
Of course we don't. We are strong. We are smart. We can save the day and frequently do. But, frankly, it gets tiring. Sometimes it's nice to have someone else do it. Especially if that someone looks like Pierce Brosnan or has an accent like Sean Connery or smiles like Timothy Dalton or can beat the tar out of seven or eight bad guys with his bare hands like Daniel Craig...
Sorry, got distracted there for a minute. Where was I?
Oh, right, so the point is that, yes, women can save the day. And, yes, its cool to have action women in movies. Charlize Theron, Michelle Yeoh, Michelle Rodriguez, Zeo Saldana are all talented, fierce, fun women to watch. Rogue One was awesome. Atomic Blond looks like a blast. Wonder Woman was, in my opinion, the best superhero movie since the second Captain America movie. And lest you forget, these films built on others that came before it: A New Hope, Alien, and Silence of the Lambs all feature strong women who, in one way or another, save the day.
We can do it. I get it. But sometimes we women just want someone else to do the dirty work. And sometimes we want that person to be Roger Moore on a remote island, saving a girl (who is really a stand-in for us) from a man with a golden gun.
Is that really too much to ask?
On this day, in 1775, someone fired a shot on Lexington Green and a nation was born.
Up until this point, a long ten years legal battle over the representative status of a colony left a country divided by more than just an ocean. King George's decision to crack down hard on the city of Boston only made matters worse, but it was General Gage's orders to seize the supplies in Concord's armory that proved the touch point.
It can't be considered a glorious battle: the militia gathered on the green were likely as surprised as the British regulars when the gun went off. After 18 minutemen went down and the rest scattered, the British high-tailed it for Concord and the armory. To say that they were in for a long, exhausting day would be an understatement. Fury torched the countryside and locals drove them out of Concord and back to where they came. The retreat was long and fraught with danger for both sides: the colonists followed and harassed the British from the sidelines, while the regulars looted and torched the homes that they passed. By the time the British were safely bottled up in the city, the tide had turned and a bridge had been crossed: our Rubicon was a wooden bridge in Concord, MA.
On April 19th, 1775, everything changed. From the awkward, furious deeds of the morning would come legends. From this day, when vastly outnumbered ordinary men and boys took up their arms to protest tyranny, the course of the world and our place in it, changed.
July 4th may be the official birth date of the United States. But the first sign of new life in the womb was April 19th.
In an attempt to become Well Informed on the subject of the upcoming primary elections, I've decided to try something I've never personally attempted before: I'm going to read all of the books written by the presidential candidates. It's a daunting prospect (seriously - have you seen how long Hard Decisions is?), fraught with the perils of Oversimplification, Villification, Prevarication, Nationalism, and Cheesy Family Photos. But I've decided that, since I've decided not to run for the Oval Office myself this round (I'm pleased to announce that I am still too young for that post), I should at least take a small interest in those who will be running the country I live in.
And in the spirit of information sharing and entertaining content, I've decided to share this journey with you! Starting with Ted Cruz's book, A Time for Truth, (it's first because it was the only book my library had at the moment), I'm going to plow through as many of the candidates tomes and review them here so you don't have to! You're welcome, America.
Expect the first review, along with my findings, shortly. Please note that I am a layman, with no political experience, and producing these reviews only in the spirit of fun and laughs.
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