Somehow I got sucked down a Woody Allen rabbit hole today. I really wish that hadn’t happened, because it makes my brain spin like a Tilt-a-Whirl.
When I was a columnist, I sometimes got thoroughly sick of having to have an opinion about everything, and the Woody Allen situation today is one of those things that I’m simply refusing to engage with, like a late movie you’re just waiting to fall asleep in front of. No matter how many times I turn it over in my head, I come up with the same conclusions:
1) Someone is lying, and it is impossible to know who that is.
2) In our country, when we’re not sure about someone’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, we don’t convict.
3) Of all the children in the world who are abused every day, whatever did or didn’t happen to Dylan Farrow constitutes getting off easy, as these things go. (A friend of mine is a therapist; her small talk turns your hair white.)
4) Speaking truth is important. So is healing.
Someone brought up something the other day, in connection with a completely different matter: Why do we spend so much time looking at what doesn’t work, instead of what does? If the numbers of abused children are as high as we’re told, surely not every single one of them is so traumatized that the sight of their abuser makes them vomit. What works? Is it therapy, revenge, inner strength? Surely there’s something good to be plucked from this rancid shitshow other than I believe this one and that one is lying.
By the way, I always separate art from the artist. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be anything good to watch, listen to or experience. Artists are frequently shits. This is not a secret.
That said, here’s a fascinating XOJane roundup of all the well-known artists who have gone for young girls. It’s sort of sick, actually.
Bloggage? OK, sure. Of all the things I’ve read about Philip Seymour Hoffman since Sunday, this is the second-worst:
One continuing mystery of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s death is this: Why was he in such abject need of a shoddy, solitary and dangerous chemical high when he knew the pure joy that comes with just being with your kids?
And if you’re wondering what’s the worst, it’s this thing, by the same writer:
As a crime scene investigator emerged to fetch a brown paper evidence bag, photographers fired off their flashes as they had when taking shots of Hoffman at openings and awards ceremonies. The light glinted strobe-like off the brick façade and the air momentarily filled with the paparazzi sound of camera shutters.
OK, so. We got another six inches of snow today, so quickly that I let Wendy out and let her back in five minutes later and she had a measurable snowfall on her back. So what did I do? Waited until it tapered off, fired up the snow blower and moved it off the damn driveway.
This shit is getting old. At least, it’s making me feel that way.