So It's Root, Root, Root For The Home Team

I'm only sorry it took me so long to think of this. Go Yankees!

The Other "C" Word

Continuing the theme of my last post: I want to say that I categorically hate the term "cougar" as applied to women over 35. For one thing, it implies that women interested in younger men must of necessity pursue them aggressively. I have not found that to be the case; in fact, the charmer 17 years my junior whose company I enjoyed for quite a while chased me. That was my biggest age gap in that direction, but come to think of it, the man 32 years my senior (the ">" record) who briefly swept me off my feet when I was 19 chased me too.

Not that I'm averse to being the chaser; I've done it many times, especially with crushes, though with mixed results. And I'm pleased that studies quoted by the Times Thursday show that more women are dating and marrying younger men - why should we limit ourselves? (My preferred range is 15 years older or younger - then you have at least some cultural references in common.)

But every time I see that "c" word, usually attached to an over-Botoxed blonde in leopard-print spandex and real estate, it conjures up a big, scary pussy. And that doesn't sound at all appealing. Or accurate.

(The Marvelettes and "Hunter Gets Captured By The Game," written by Smokey Robinson, behind footage from Blow-Up - which was based on a story by Julio Cortázar. As that noted wearer of leopard print Cindy Adams would say, who else would tell you these things?)

Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know

Scene: A packed, invitation-only hip-hop event in Manhattan, with many boldface names both on the stage and off it.

Dramatis personae:
An affable, inebriated twenty-something, surrounded by his posse
Me, wearing a sleeveless, curve-hugging stretch-wool Dolce & Gabbana dress, vintage Peter Fox suede heels and very red lipstick

He (slurring): Heeey, can I ask you something?

Me: Sure.

He: Well... I mean, you're older, right?

Me (raised eyebrows*): Uh, yeah.

He: Because you're really classy. And you were probably always classy. But I bet, when you were younger, you were dangerous.

Me (smiling): Oh, honey, I still am!

He (sheepishly): That's what I meant.

Exeunt omnes.


*note: no Botox = I still can

Fathers, Be Good To Your Daughters

I greatly admire Roman Polanski's films, but I had largely forgotten the details of the 1977 charges brought against him that caused him to flee the U.S. Now, just thinking about him is starting to nauseate me, for most of the same reasons that I shed no tears for Michael Jackson and can no longer listen to his music without revulsion.

I am no prude, nor would I have been nominated for sainthood as a teenager, and I'm not immune to the heady charms of being plied with champagne and photographed. But I keep putting myself in 13-year-old Samantha Gailey's shoes (I've been in ones like them, and they were Kork-Ease). She's older now than Polanski was when he took advantage of her naive ambitions, and I'm willing to bet that for the past three decades, she's remembered some moment from that "photo session for French Vogue" almost every day.

Meanwhile, Polanski now has a teenage daughter with ambitions of her own. I wonder if that's changed his perspective; what does he tell her about how to protect herself? And how can the man who directed this scene not understand or be remorseful for causing long-lasting harm to someone else's daughter?



(Polanski's character in Chinatown gave Nicholson's character that scar on his nose, by the way.)