For those who were wondering, last weeks' Wank of the Week was just another victim of the election. Who could care about stupid free weeklies when the country was taking an exciting leap into the 19th century? But I'm better this week.

So, to make up for missing last week, this week I'm going to give out two (that's two!) wanks for the price of one. What? You think you can get that kind of kind deal at the Mitchell Brothers? I think not (not that I know of course, but I have heard stories). Besides, last week's Bay Guardian was nothing but a huge, heaping platter of Wankerness. In fact, I opened it up looking to see if I had missed anything and, upon seeing the words "spoken word," knew I had. The story about the spoken word artist was, as they say, "so best"- a frothy mixture of pretentious writing describing pretentious art. How so best is it? In just one sentence, there's gratuitous use of the words "patriarchy," "oppression," "militarism" and "imperialism." I'll leave out the bit about "commodification," however as it all starts becoming too much (you know, if you're going to throw down the words patriarchy and oppression, you mght as well go for broke and throw down a commodification just because). Anyways, in a description of some somewhat famous spoken word performer, we have this week's, er last week's, Wank of the Week:

THERE'S A SCENE in Aya de León's latest one-woman show, Aya de León Is Running for President, in which she becomes the Puerto Rican island of Vieques. "My name is Vieques," the poem begins (almost all of de León's scenes double as poems), as she – shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, arms wrapped tightly round her chest – plays Vieques as a sexually abused child, a "Puerto Rican girl [whose] stepfather is the United States," who enters her room every night "to do his business." As the piece progresses, de León's posture and tone shift, her spine straightening, voice steeling, until at scene's end, her Vieques categorically rejects U.S. occupation of her body, barring her doors and burning the "itchy, clingy dress" her stepfather has made her wear for so many years. "My name is Vieques," de León bellows, chin jutting skyward, "and I will be free."

It's an amazing moment, one in which de León collapses boundaries between women's bodies and the fate of nation-states, individual abuse and systemic oppression, stage monologue and protest speech, all the while linking patriarchy to militarism and empire building in a startlingly innovative fashion. By playing U.S. imperialism as a raging pervert who slinks away when his victim fights back, the 37-year-old, half-Puerto Rican, half-black, longtime East Bay resident exposes the powers that be for precisely what they are – fucked-up, fearful, and fallible – a much needed reminder in such stifling times.

Which brings us up to this week. I had actually thought I had nothing this time around, but thankfully, the lovely and talented SFist Rita, pointed me in the right direction. How could I miss a review of a play that's all about domestic violence? Just as the description of a spoken word performers monologue comparing rape to imperialism sounds like a great night out, I can't think of anything more fun and exciting to do than seeing a play about domestic violence. And to think I wasted my Monday night watching Ayanna go off on her teammates on the "RW/RR: Battle of the Sexes." I am so unenlightened. I mean, here's what I missed:

In an ingeniously orchestrated dance number, and one of the evening's most powerful segments, the ensemble gradually underscores the possessive pronoun in the old Temptations song "My Girl" while cracking open with a raging force the synonyms within the noun – "my girlfriend, my wife, my bitch, my boss, my job," etc. Here and elsewhere, A Fist of Roses gets at the nature of objectification, the turning of another human being into something owned, a thing to be moved around at will or to be kept still forever.