He drugged and raped a thirteen-year-old girl, pleaded guilty, and then fled the country for thirty years. I like and admire his work, but I think anyone who rapes anyone, let alone a thirteen-year-old girl, should go to prison, and I don’t care if that person directed Chinatown or makes a living picking cigarette butts off the street. I harbor no particular animosity toward Polanski, so I don’t consider my opinion on this matter calling for his blood. That said, I did harbor a great deal of animosity toward Elia Kazan for the admittedly lesser crime of becoming a “friendly witness” during the McCarthy era because he wanted to work, and I was not pleased when he won a Lifetime Achievement Oscar, and it disturbs me that I should be so outraged at Kazan and not Polanski, who committed a crime I frequently think is worse than murder. The people in the Hollywood film community who are using Polanski’s artistry as a defense for his crime are being idiotic, although I don’t know how I would react if a close friend of mine were in the same situation, and maybe I would use a similar defense. Having the Manson family kill and gut your pregnant wife is a horrific event that will fuck you up for the rest of your life, and while I do think its effect on Polanski’s mental state at the time of the rape should be taken into consideration, I don’t think it should let him off the hook. And finally, the victim has long since forgiven him, and considers the media’s badgering more traumatic than the crime itself. Having undergone therapy that ended up being more destructive than the trauma that precipitated it, I tend to believe her. The victim would like to see the case closed. Perhaps we should heed her wishes. Perhaps we should make the victim’s wishes a vital part in deciding all cases, not just death penalty cases, and for all people, including those who make their living cleaning up cigarette butts. And for good measure, we might also want to rethink the tactical strategy of sentencing a person to forty-two days in jail, deciding on a plea agreement, and reneging on it. Of course a person is going to run. Then again, I’m not sure I would, and I don’t think that’s as much about a sense of honor as it is about being terrified I’d get caught.
Archive for September, 2009|Monthly archive page
Well, perhaps that’s just my interpretation of it, and what do I know? I’m a stupid uptight drunk slut!
Seriously, what is the purpose of these studies about women and sexuality? It’s hardly news that some women (and, omigod, some MEN, even!) like to hit the sauce before hitting the sheets. And it’s always presented in this way that implies women are “bad” for needing to get a little lit before fucking, and it’s “all our fault” for not being able to relax on our own. It’s never because the guy is a crappy lay; it’s never because we’re toting around some pretty damn crushing emotional baggage about sex – emotional baggage that other people thrust upon us, mind you, but it’s all our fault for carrying it around in the first place – and it’s certainly not because guys play on our insecurities about not being thin enough or pretty enough or whatfuckingever enough. Nope, we’re just stupid uptight sluts who fuck too much and are frigid bitches because we need booze or pot to enjoy sex and we need to lower our standards yammer yammer yammer.
I don’t want to fall into the trap of blaming all men for this crap, because I do happen to know some decent fellows who, for the most part, don’t buy into it, and when they do, are pretty good at giving themselves a slap upside the head and realizing they’re being kind of piggish. And I do think women, myself included, have become very, very good at playing the male chauvinist game, and we need to stop being complicit in destroying ourselves to keep it going. So, yeah, it takes two to tango and other related truisms, but goddammit, it’s becoming more and more impossible for me to remain calm and logical in the face of the increasingly Sisyphean task of bearing the responsibility for all things dull and ugly while taking none of the credit for their opposite.
So I will end this post, calmly, with the following: If booze helps you enjoy The Sex, aces. Use it judiciously. If it doesn’t, then don’t. And gentlemen, “Let’s have sex” does not constitute foreplay. If you continue to insist that it does, then you have no right to get angry when we consume an entire gallon of vodka in order to endure your “lovemaking” or, gods forbid, refuse to fuck you in the first place. You’re welcome.
Oh, yes, and please don’t tell me to lower my standards. If I hear that phrase one more time, I will be forced to blow my brains out with a nine-millimeter. I say this calmly and logically.
A Bank of America branch in Tampa refused to cash a man’s check, even though he provided two forms of ID, because he couldn’t provide a thumbprint. You know, seeing as he was born without arms. Shoving aside the picayunish matter of the Americans With Disabilities act, did it ever occur to these bank employees to get, like, a toe print or something, if they’re so hell-bent on preventing customers from cashing checks made out to their spouses?
I hate it when I’m bitching about something relatively trivial (or not, as the case may be) and some do-gooder chimes in with “You should be grateful to have arms and legs!” So, unfortunately, it’s rare that I’ve considered myself lucky in limbic regard. This is one of those rare times. That, and I don’t have an account at Bank of America.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.