In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I present you with video proof that there are people out there even more peculiar than your own kooky relatives. I for one am thankful that there won't be a place setting for a video game character at my family feast.

However tongue-in-cheek my theory is, it came out of my genuine surprise upon hearing "Let's Hear It for the Boy" as a grown-up. For the first time, it hit me that the song is not necessarily a sweet paean to a lovable doof; it could as easily be read as the story of a woman with no self-esteem who will rationalize any crap behavior from her boyfriend with "But he loves me!" -- despite the almost total lack of evidence to support that conclusion. When I was 9, I wasn't aware of any women who did that, but by my early twenties, I knew enough of them that Williams pleading "You gotta understaaaaand" took on a whole new meaning. What I didn't know was how long and rich the history of women singing pop songs in defense of not just lousy, but downright abusive, partners is.

Deborah Finding, a scholar at the London School of Economics, has written a dissertation called "Give Me Myself Again -- Sexual Violence Narratives in Popular Music." The title comes from a song by feminist favorite Tori Amos, but Finding's work also includes charming little ditties like The Crystals' 1962 "He Hit Me (And it Felt like a Kiss)." Chris Arnot at The Guardian describes the lyrics: "'If he didn't care for me,' warbled one of the most popular American 'girl groups' of the day, 'I could have never made him mad. But he hit me and I was glad.'" Oof. (That one was produced by Phil Spector, no less.)

"I knew that I wanted to do a PhD that would contribute something to the overall understanding of the way sexual and domestic violence was represented in our wider culture and how that influenced the way people think about the issues personally and politically," Finding told The Guardian. And although the 1980s and early '90s saw a lot of pop songs that raised awareness about domestic and sexual violence -- in addition to Amos' work, she mentions contributions by Tracy Chapman, Suzanne Vega, Alanis Morissette and Sheryl Crowe -- "We've gone full circle in the post-feminist era." Finding points to Florence and the Machines' 2008 single "Kiss with a Fist" -- the lyrics of which inform us that such a kiss is "better than none" -- a catchy, bouncy song that presents mutual violence as no big thing ("You hit me once/I hit you back/You gave a kick/I gave a slap"). Is this what female "empowerment" looks like in the twenty-first century? Being abusive right back to an abuser?

And then, of course, there are the songs by men. Arnot asks Finding about "'gangsta' rap and hip-hop, and their alleged encouragement of aggressively misogynistic attitudes," but she notes that that's hardly the beginning and the end of popular music that demeans women -- and the reasons why it's often the first genre to leap to mind deserve closer examination. "It worries me that there's usually a racist element to these discussions," she says. "Black artists are condemned, while white bands like the Rolling Stones and the Stranglers get away with deeply unpleasant lyrics." In any case, Finding "was more interested in analysing the way that women were narrating their own experience of sexual violence or how they imagined other women's experience."

Reclaiming the worst narratives from men doesn't hurt, either. Over at Jezebel, Latoya Peterson points out that Amos subverted the breathtaking misogyny of Eminem's "'97 Bonnie and Clyde" -- in which a man takes his daughter on the road after murdering her mother -- by covering it in her ethereal, distinctly feminine voice. It's not for nothing that Finding calls Amos "the patron saint of sexual violence."

Finding has spent a lot of time travelling to gigs in the US and the UK with Amos's fans and carrying out online surveys into how they respond to her music. "I expected 50 or so responses to my questions," she says, "but received over 2,000. Some 98% of the respondents said that they used her music as a means of emotional support."

Songs like Amos' "Me and a Gun," in which she candidly recounts her own rape, can help survivors feel less alone and more comfortable opening up about their experiences. Writes Peterson, "Finding's work is amazing because it illuminates the role of narrative in healing from assault or abuse by speaking these stories into existence." But popular narratives can also serve to normalize and/or trivialize abuse. According to Wikipedia, Florence of Florence and the Machine has explained on her Myspace page that "'Kiss with a Fist' is NOT a song about domestic violence. It is about two people pushing each other to psychological extremes because they love each other." All that hitting/slapping/plate-breaking stuff is just metaphorical, apparently. Except, the song is based on a couple she knew "who were so cool, but so visceral and so intense. The guy never hit the girl, but I saw her lamp him a couple of times, and she'd always give as good as she got. But it wasn't really physical violence, it was more about the fact that their animal passion for each other was the thing that was attractive for them. It was how joyful destruction can be, and how alluring it is to be in a relationship so fiery."

Uh, since when does "lamp" as a verb mean something other than physical violence? Does it just not count when a woman does it to a man? And has it occurred to Florence -- or the band's fans, reading that explanation -- that domestic violence often goes unseen by people close to the victims? Or that emotional abuse often leads to physical abuse? Or that there's a big difference between a pleasantly spicy relationship and "pushing each other to psychological extremes"? Despite the singer's disclaimer, Finding says rightly that the song equates "violence with passion in a way that sounds depressingly familiar." It sounds a lot like it did in 1962, in fact. I'm not saying women need to hold out for unrealistic heroes, but it would be nice if we'd come a little farther than that by now.

This was all part of a lead-in to the "The Early Show's" interview with Lambert, in which anchor Maggie Rodriguez implored him to think about "the children" and desperately tried to get him to apologize to his "child fans." Thankfully, Lambert got a chance to talk about the double-standard behind the uproar: "If it had been a female pop performer, I don't think there nearly would have been as much of an outrage." When Rodriguez asked whether it was an issue of being male or being gay, he replied: "Both. I think it's a double-whammy." Then she came back with: "But, but, I don't think people have said specifically that they were upset about the fact that you're gay or that you're kissing a guy." Right, people have generally been savvier with their prejudice -- unlike CBS.

You know what? My sensibilities have been deeply offended by this "Early Show" segment -- when do I get my apology from Rodriguez and and CBS?

But now, it gets even better. Keen-eyed fashionistas have noted the remarkable, some might say unfuckingcanny, resemblance between the cover image of the 47-year-old Ms. Moore and 26-year-old Anja Rubik's recent spin on the runway in the same Balmain swimsuit and wrap. The body, the pose, the position of the arms – they're all oddly similar.

Maybe it's just what they call in publishing a "coinkydink." In the story that coincides with the cover image, Kevin West says that, "One might say she looks her age, although hers is an undeniably striking version of middle age." "Striking," in this case, is apparently code for "exactly like a model 21 years her junior."

The sad part, aside from the apparent lame-ass whopper of the whole thing, is that Moore, a stunning, talented actress and producer in her own right, claims in the story that she likes that people are "getting to see who I am." We're seeing somebody all right. But we're not convinced that someone is Moore. 

That's the message one Michigan guy took from it, anyway. At a Friday showing of "New Moon," he sat directly in front of Erin Westrate and her friends, and throughout the film, she says, he would occasionally "lean back and make a sexual comment that was very unnecessary and not needed." (Point of clarification: There is no such thing as a necessary sexual comment between a grown man and teenage girls.) On the way out of the movie, "he grabbed [Westrate] by the back of the hair and pulled her down and bit her on the neck." Whether you're a high school student or a professional writer, I'm pretty sure the only appropriate response to that is, OMGWTF? 

The bite didn't break Westrate's skin, but not surprisingly, the dude freaked her right out -- and that wasn't even the end of it. The man also followed her to the parking lot and watched her get in her car to drive away. In an interview with her local ABC affiliate (video below), Westrate said, "He was just, like, smiling at me -- it was so creepy, it wasn't even funny. That's not right. I know that's not right." 

Police are now looking for the creep, who faces assault charges.