6.28.2004

I saw White Chicks this weekend with my friend Nathalie from high school and it is my official pick for Cupcake Movie of the Summer. Someone who saw Fahrenheit 9/11 this weekend told me I was "courageous for admitting" I saw White Chicks and I thought that was so snobby.

Honestly it is kind of shocking to me that everyone doesn't adore this movie as much as I did. But Nathalie and I felt sort of like Wayans brothers in drag when we went to our snooty Connecticut high school, which I still believe may really be the world capital of eating disorders. The very white version of femininity that was so revered there was completely alien to us. Everyone was always trying to get you to starve yourself, act like an ice-cold trust-fund deadhead (which, in the 80s at least, was the upper-echelon of heiress behavior, forget this Hilton sister crap), and play field hockey. Perhaps revealing the lack of blue blood in my veins, and my low level of ambition to fake it, all I wanted to do was listen to De La Soul and smoke cigarettes. Anyway--White Chicks cracked us up on Friday.

I'll write a proper essay for you someday on why I love White Chicks. I remember bell hooks's essay on why she loved The Bodyguard (basically: because Hollywood one, valued the life of a black woman for once and two, valued an interracial romance) and winced at The Crying Game. My essay will rock that hard if not harder, folks.

But for now, in short, let me tell you that White Chicks deliriously and geniusly thrashes all the stupid shit that passes for sexy femininity these days. Like: you should always look like a stylist dressed you. Like: we should all aspire to own $500 shoes. Also, White Chicks points out that it is v. unsexy and is in fact totally screeching-Prozac-deprived-white-girl-in-dressing-room-level absurd the degree to which we are still (see: The Swan) increasing our collective obsession with having a tv-ready, plasticized body.

xo
--Elizabeth
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