Power Is the Ultimate Aphrodisiac

[mallorys_camera]

Of course, the Last Honest Cobbler in Dutchess County did not have my boot ready for pickup even though when I went in for pick up the day before—a full five days after the date he’d scribbled on my receipt—he’d absolutely assured me the boot would be ready at 2:30 pm yesterday.

But what are you gonna do?

Not only is he the Last Honest Cobbler in Dutchess County, he is the Only Cobbler in Dutchess County.

“If you wait half an hour, I finish,” he told me.

“Can I watch while you work on it?” I asked.

Hey! Watching someone work is better than a YouTube video, right? I could probably figure out how to repair shoes on my own if I watched him, and then I would have a useful skill to pander after the coming bioweapon attack wipes out 99% of the world’s population and civilization collapses.

###

Preparing for contingencies has always been a hobby of mine.

When I was 10 years old (for example), I taught myself to write with my feet in case my hands ever got amputated.

But I can’t do that one anymore.

###

“No, no, no,” said the Last Honest Cobbler. He was appalled by my suggestion. “You wait in Dunkin Doughnuts."

Dunkin Doughnuts on Main Street in Poughkeepsie is where the local junkies like to go to nod out whenever they’re lucky enough to score.

There is no way I was gonna hang out in Dunkin Doughnuts.

“I will come back tomorrow,” I told him.

He made apologetic noises.

“No, no, no,” I said. “Listen! I want to support you!”

And this was true, even though I couldn’t figure out why.

###

Anyway, yesterday was quite busy with myriad errands and strange little adventures.

In the evening, I went to the movies and out to dinner with Loraine whom I’ve been trying to cultivate because I have a real dearth of female pals here in the quaint and scenic Hudson Valley.

I have guy pals!

But no girl pals.

And I miss girl pals.

Loraine is a very no-bullshit Philadelphia girl who was brought up by her tough Italian grandmother after her mother committed suicide when she was nine.

I enjoy her company.

I can’t say we have a tremendous amount in common since I am probably what her tough Italian Grandma would have called “artsy,” and Loraine was brought up to suppress her inner artsy, that being the trait that in Grandma’s eyes put the Seconal bottle into Loraine’s dead Mama’s hands.

We saw She Said and then went out to the Most Fabulous Indian Restaurant in the World, which happens to be in Rhinebeck.



I had complicated reasons for wanting to see She Said.

Basically, I wanted to see if it could convince me that the #MeToo movement was as big a deal as it seems to be to every other woman in the U.S.

Because to me, #MeToo is not a big deal.

All it seems to have done is penalize workplace relationships—and the workplace is practically the only place where unattached adult women get to mingle casually with unattached adult men now that no one gives dinner parties anymore.

This means that the only consensually sanctified way to meet unattached adult men is through dating apps.

And, omyGAWD.

Dating apps suck.

###

Having been a model in my tender years, I naturally have my own share of casting couch stories.

I always figured casual sex was the vig you had to pay if you wanted to play the game.

I never felt particularly demeaned by it.

Why would I?

Of course, Harvey Weinstein was an absolute monster since apparently he got off on brutalizing women, forcing them in ways that are absolutely reprehensible and unacceptable—and quite weird if you think about it since physically and psychologically as repulsive as he was, there were any number of women who would have been absolutely delighted to have sex with Harvey Weinstein of their own free will.

After all, like Henry Kissinger once said (a remark that will live on long after his Metternich-ean pronouncements on foreign policy have been forgotten): Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

But most of the stuff I saw back in the day didn’t rise to the level of Weinsteinian bullying or brutalizing.

It was strictly transactional: I’ll give you a blowjob, and you’ll choose me for a catalog shoot.

Sure. Unequal distribution of power.

But I don’t particularly see that that unequal distribution has been righted by the #MeToo fallout.

All I see as the consequence of #MeToo is that you can no longer make jokes to lighten a tense atmosphere and that men in positions of power refuse to be alone with women. (We laughed when Mike Pence was the one doing it, remember?)

And in show biz and related industries?

Since you can no longer fuck your way to the top, now you have to be related to someone to score a gig.

Talent was never gonna be a currency in that particular economy.

Talent was wampum—a useless specie designed for defrauding the guileless and innocent.

###

Anyway, when I finally get hauled off to that Reeducation Camp, they should definitely not stream She Said on the walls six hours a day.

It is a very boring movie.

Choppily directed, with scenes appearing out of nowhere that are supposed to connect to scenes that pop up an hour later.

And Zoe Kazan—see mini-nepotism rant above—is probably the most boring actor on the planet.

Dinner was great, though.

Loraine talked a bit about her 23-year-long marriage.

“He got depressed, you know?” she told me. “Deeper and deeper depressed. And I tried everything—got him to go on antidepressants, dragged him to therapy. And he didn’t stop being depressed. And finally I thought, I do not want to be living my life this way! So. I left.”

She smiled and shrugged.

I was filled with deepest admiration for Loraine!

Although, of course, she didn’t have children.

Children make leaving exponentially more difficult.

These days, Loraine is consort to Buff Ken—who, I swear to God, looks like he’s 35 from the neck down even though he’s over 70.

“Ever think about marrying Ken?” I asked.

“God, no!” Loraine said. “Marriage is a trap.”