High Life

Annoyed? #MeToo

February 10, 2018

Multiple Pages
Annoyed? #MeToo

Gstaad—For some strange reason there have been no #MeToo complaints around these parts. Some locals have grumbled about yours truly, and an interview I gave about this village to a Swiss daily, but even though Harvey used to hang out around here during Christmases past, no one’s come forward to claim rape. Is there something wrong with our womenfolk? No, most of them are semi-ladies who have made it big and landed some pretty big fish, so no use in crying wolf—sorry—rape. I see my old friend (we met only once) Uma Thurman has joined the chorus, but what the heck, she’s 47, Arki Busson has fled, and the career is going so-so, so why not claim victimhood?

Even the mother of my children has expressed surprise. “I was pretty once, and men liked me, yet no one has ever jumped on me, except some silly Englishman with terrible breath who tried to kiss me while you were out on the dance floor.” Well, all I can say is when in trouble, look for the money. In America as well as in Britain, it’s business as usual. Settlement-advance businesses usually target personal injury and medical malpractice. Lawyers now are lowering the boom on men who women claim sexually harassed them. Always look for the money, especially in the two countries mentioned above. Where there are shyster lawyers there will be lawsuits, or my name is not Taki. There is even an advertisement that reads: “If you or someone you know has a sexual harassment claim and is in need of financial help…”

“Where there are shyster lawyers there will be lawsuits, or my name is not Taki.”

And it gets better: The sharks lending the moola can charge up to 100 percent interest because the money is considered an advance, not a loan, and therefore is not subject to usury laws. It seems there are scores of firms doing this dirty business, and more than 40 million big ones have been advanced. No wonder everyone’s been raped. Personally I don’t believe one hundredth of the bullshit. But I’ll tell you what I do believe: what Mary Wakefield wrote in The Spectator two weeks ago about rapes in Africa by U.N. troops . And yes, I read the response last week by the Under-Secretary-General from New York, and I consider it total bullshit. I hope you’re enjoying your free New York flat, Mr. Under-Secretary, but the U.N. troops have for a very long time raped women and children on our dime, so you can write letters to your heart’s content. Bravo, Mary—whom I’m suing for sexual harassment, incidentally, and Lara also—for exposing the hypocrisy and outright lies told by the U.N. where rape by their African peacekeepers is concerned.

This makes a mockery of sorts where #MeToo is concerned, n’est-ce pas, mes chers amis? (I write in Frog so the U.N.’s mostly Congolese troops can read it.) The Hollywood assault survivors, needless to say, are not going to go away quietly or empty-handed. The loudest hissy fit ever is not about to go the way of The Weinstein Company. There’s fear and loathing out there and a whole new moral climate with new rules, rules that say one’s guilty of all charges as long as a woman says so. Imagine what these women would have done to Harpo Marx, who used to leer at women’s bosoms and roll his eyes. Shock horror, what!

Which brings me to Woody Allen. He beat the charges once, but they’ve come up again. The court of public opinion, scared shitless by the Farrow gang, is saying he should never work again. That fool Colin Firth says so too. So let’s not ever read William Burroughs again, never look at a Caravaggio again, and certainly no Picassos anymore. What about Byron’s incestuous behavior, or Flaubert’s pedophilia, or Jean Genet’s thievery? Woody Allen’s Radio Days, Manhattan, and Annie Hall are great films that none of his accusers could begin to approach in wit and in capturing a special youthful memory, so they can scream all they want, they are simply furious at being dumped for someone younger. Woody should now write amusing books and tell the women accusers to go reproduce themselves.

Finally, in a book review about dildos in the N.Y Times—it’s a perfect subject for a shamelessly partisan paper—one Peggy Orenstein takes off on my friend Norman Mailer, now long dead and easy to attack. While praising dildos and other machines, Orenstein claims that Mailer, “quaking in his boots,” wrote about the emasculating “plenitude of orgasms” created by the laboratory dildo. Orenstein knows less about Mailer than I know about having a period. Mailer never quaked in front of anyone, although Orenstein sounds pretty horrible—even a brave man might get scared. Here’s the quaking man writing to Ernest Hemingway, a man he’d never met: “To Ernest Hemingway, I am deeply curious to know what you think of this [it’s a manuscript of The Deer Park, Mailer’s second novel], but if you do not answer, or if you answer with the kind of crap you use to answer unprofessional writers, sycophants, brownnoses, etc., then fuck you, and I will never attempt to communicate with you again.” Papa never answered, yet Mailer came to his defense after the fall. I’d hate to think what he’d do with Orenstein. She’d need more than a dildo for a while. Norman, where are you now that emasculated men really need you?

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