It’s conceivable that some New York Times contributors have emerged from their Covid Haze (apt for an explosive take-off on Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze,” by an enterprising rock combo), the extravagant farce that was the Kamala-Tim Democratic ticket last November, and the pipedream that Trump can, and will, be impeached a third time. (Not possible: when a president hangs out on the White House roof—a future press conference there would be spectacular—that demonstrates a level of showmanship that Democrats can’t even imagine.)
There were two columns by females in the profitable daily last week that took a stab at relevance, not entirely successfully, but probably beneficial for the women’s “journey” to 2025, that shared some “shared experience.”
On August 2nd, Maureen Dowd, under the headline “Attention: Men: Books Are Sexy!”, became the 501st pundit to let readers know, according to “experts,” that men today don’t read much fiction. (How much they ever did, even in the now-exaggerated heyday of publishing, is questionable. More men watched Get Smart than read Norman Mailer.)
Dowd begins: “It was one of the most erotic things I’ve ever heard. A man I know said he was reading all the novels of Jane Austen in one summer. At first, I figured he was pretending to like things that women like to seem simpatico, a feminist hustle. But no, this guy really wanted to read “Northanger Abbey’.”
I’ve zero inclination to speculate upon Dowd’s conception of eros—she’s let it all hang out plenty since the early-1990s, with thinly-veiled accounts of movie-star fuck sessions (nasty, let’s go with romances)—mostly because It’s Her Thing, She Can Do What She Wants To Do, but even letting that particular arena cross my ear-to-era zone creeps me out. I’ll agree that in the 1970s, the “feminist hustle” was real, sometimes Alan Alda-like tender and understanding, but mostly a can of corn that often didn’t get a guy on the prowl much besides a disconnected Susan Sontag rap while listening to Tea for the Tillerman and Joan Baez warbling that Joe Hill wasn’t really dead.
This stands out: Dowd, in saying, “The fiction gap makes me sad. A man staring at a phone is not sexy,” doesn’t address the real problem (whether it’s a problem or not I’ll leave to the popular culture jury), which is that non-sexy men attached to their phones—“experts” and a new CNN poll say that women account for just five percent of cell sales—are almost all under 35. Dowd’s examples of the new “sexy man” are all roughly in her demographic: playwright Tom Stoppard (88), the late Mike Nichols, Richard Babcock (78) and 62-year-old actor Ralph Fiennes (“it turned out that he loves Shakespeare and reciting Beckett at 3 a.m. under the stars”). Dowd is 73.
Fiennes might’ve tried to goose Dowd with his paying no worship to the garish sun bit, but as an intelligent actor it would be surprising if he wasn’t conversant about Shakespeare. More: “Stoppard had a romantic-looking bookcase full of first editions of Jane Austen and Charles Dickens… it was ensorcelling.” Jane Austen is apparently “sexy” now (always left me cold, but I never grooved to Beckett at three a.m.), but Jesus, Tom Stoppard’s a fucking playwright; it’s impossible he wouldn’t have an impressive library.
If Dowd had bothered to travel outside her large circle of friends and queried, say, Timothee Chalamet or Austin Butler about their reading habits (awesomely prodigious, according to their publicists) her not-so-steamy thoughts on eros would’ve had more weight—and that’s not a body-shame!
Not to let Christine Emba slip my mind! The young, former Washington Post writer (2015-24) and Princeton University graduate takes to the Times to suggest (I’m encouraged there was no “whispers” qualifier) that smoking cigarettes is once again seen as “romantic” or “sexy.” I’ve always just enjoyed smoking and don’t give a shit what others think, but Emba has a point to prove. I don’t agree with her anecdotal nonsense, but applaud her success in wagging the column in front of a Times editor.
She doesn’t smoke, and gives the bulletin that tobacco is a health risk, but nonetheless is cheered by the “devil-may-care” attitude of those who light up. Emba: “’The party cig is so back,’ a Gen Z acquaintance told me, referring to the idea of stepping out from a function to huddle and chat, the possible flirtation inherent in bumming one off of someone else—a much more sensual experience than swiping on an app… [I]n our nihilistic times, haunted by fears of apocalypse—A.I., climate, institution, other—[smoking] is a celebration of being alive by way of chipping away at it, treating the body casually in service of a life fully enjoyed.”
The photo above was taken at a New York Press “Best of Manhattan” party at the Puck Building on Houston St. I can state unequivocally that the four revelers pictured were Jane Austen scholars “before it was cool.” It’s nearly impossible that Maureen Dowd was in attendance—she wasn’t invited and an unlikely crasher—which is an itsy-bitsy shame, since a column on the scene of over 900 people (between six and 11 p.m.) would’ve afforded her a “guilty pleasure” by infiltrating a foreign bubble.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Allen Ginsberg makes his final public appearance at the NYU Poetry Slam; online literary journal Jacket is founded; Peter Carry’s Jack Maggs, Caleb Carr’s The Angel of Darkness, Iris Chang’s The Rape of Nanking, Daniel Clowes’ Ghost World, and Connie Willis’ To Say Nothing of the Dog are published; Dario Fo wins Nobel for Literature; Liar Liar is released; Madonna begins recording Ray of Light; William Hurt stars in Lost in Space; Jackie Robinson’s #42 is retired across MLB; Detroit Red Wings win Stanley Cup; Mike Tyson has a peculiar appetizer at boxing match; Kyle Tucker is born and Curt Flood dies; Billy Crystal, Yankees fan, hosts the Oscars for the 41st time; James Brown receives a star at the Hollywood Walk of Fame; and Garth Brooks performs at a free Central Park Concert, drawing 800,000 people.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023