Him too
Another exhausting week. Donnie thought he was haranguing a mob of dropouts in Jawbone, Idaho, but those assembled at the United Nations failed to respond with "Lock her up! Build the wall!" They laughed openly at him. So that was fun.
Christine Blasey Ford testified before the Senate Judiciary Committee about what Bret Kavanaugh tried but was too drunk to do to her when she was fifteen. We've certainly come a long way since the Clarence Thomas confirmation, because Anita Hill didn't have to hire bodyguards and move into a motel to evade death threats. Thank Kavanaugh's patron and the Internet.
A seal threw an octopus to a kayaker. Don't know what that's about. "So long, and thanks for all the Cephalopods"?
I was ready to turn off all the electronics and settle back with the fine minds at The New York Review of Books. Mistake. The October 11 issue was the fateful one which forced Ian Buruma, whose reviews I have admired, to resign as editor. Normally, editors of the NYRB die in office, so this was a big deal. The offending piece he published, "Reflections From a Hashtag" by Jian Ghomeshi, is indeed offensive, but also sadly illuminating. I'll try to explain.
Ghomeshi, it says here, is "a broadcaster, musician, producer and best-selling author" who had a show on CBC Radio from 2007 to 2014, when "I faced criminal charges including...nonconsensual choking while making out with a woman on a date...Several months later, after a very public trial, I was cleared on all counts...There was no criminal trial." (I'm confused. Was there a trial or not?) He was subject to "a peace bond -- a pledge to be on good behavior for a year," which I'm guessing is the Canadian equivalent of probation. So, assuming he didn't choke anyone for a year, it's all good, right?
Well, no. The gist of the piece (not that long by NYRB standards) is "How did this injustice occur when I'm such a good guy?" His CV is enviably full of progressive folk songs he wrote, demonstrations he helped organize, T-shirts he wore, fund-raisers where he spoke. He interviewed accomplished women like Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison and Gloria Steinem. He has a "female friend" who says he should get credit for being a "#MeToo pioneer" (a little Canadian irony there). A bit later he confesses to being "emotionally thoughtless" and "demanding on dates and in personal affairs." He even admits to "deep remorse."
But the overwhelming flavor of Ghomeshi's essay is self-pity. He's the victim. He lost his radio job despite being legally exonerated, and legal costs put a dent in his savings. Well, yes, that's how it works when your job depends on the good will of the public and the financial calculations of your employer. Matt Lauer and Charlie Rose have not faced criminal charges, but they're gone. Roseanne didn't break any laws, she merely expressed her racism, and she's gone. Garrison Keillor, Leslie Moonves, Bill O'Reilly, where are they? Not whining in the pages of the Review, illustrated by a Munch painting called "Evening, Melancholy I," inviting us all to feel sorry for Ghomeshi. Did you know he got a hate letter suggesting he go back to Iran, even though he was born in Canada and has never even been there? Terrible. Exactly the kind of thing thousands of Iranian-Canadians and Iranian-Americans experience every day, without having enjoyed eight years of well-paid celebrity first, and mostly without assaulting women, either.
The best Ghomeshi can manage is a bewildered "We learn from our mistakes," and it's more than we've had from O'Reilly or Kavanaugh but it's not enough. The essay opens with an account of a woman who finds him charming until she finds out who he is, but has fun singing karaoke with him anyway. It ends with a woman he meets on a train who finds him charming because she never learns his name. See, I'm a nice guy. I never punched or choked either one of them! Not enough.
Like Kavanaugh, Ghomeshi doesn't see what he did wrong. He still thinks those nameless women wanted to be hit and to have their hair pulled during "intimacy." He wasn't a drunk teenager egged on by his friends, and he still doesn't get it. "Women," notice, it's always plural because it never happens once. From Bill Clinton to Bill Cosby, there are always multiple accusers, i.e., multiple victims. It's not a stress-induced aberration or an alcohol-fueled mistake, it's a goddam hobby. I'm sorry, can I have my nice life back now?
If I seem to be ignoring the boys and young men abused by celebrities and clergymen and wrestling coaches, I'm sorry. The fact of their sexual victimization reduced them to the social status of women, objects to be utilized by stronger, older males. So it's really the same thing: Let's all quit raping each other. Just. Stop. It.
Jian Ghomeshi gave me some insight into the mindset of Bret Kavanaugh and Donald Trump and all the other pussy-grabbers who still think it's no big deal or a giant conspiracy to deprive them of their entitlements. I'm sorry it cost Buruma his job, but this was the worst possible moment to publish this De Profundis knockoff. The letters next week should be illuminating, like a fire.
I was ready to turn off all the electronics and settle back with the fine minds at The New York Review of Books. Mistake. The October 11 issue was the fateful one which forced Ian Buruma, whose reviews I have admired, to resign as editor. Normally, editors of the NYRB die in office, so this was a big deal. The offending piece he published, "Reflections From a Hashtag" by Jian Ghomeshi, is indeed offensive, but also sadly illuminating. I'll try to explain.
Ghomeshi, it says here, is "a broadcaster, musician, producer and best-selling author" who had a show on CBC Radio from 2007 to 2014, when "I faced criminal charges including...nonconsensual choking while making out with a woman on a date...Several months later, after a very public trial, I was cleared on all counts...There was no criminal trial." (I'm confused. Was there a trial or not?) He was subject to "a peace bond -- a pledge to be on good behavior for a year," which I'm guessing is the Canadian equivalent of probation. So, assuming he didn't choke anyone for a year, it's all good, right?
Well, no. The gist of the piece (not that long by NYRB standards) is "How did this injustice occur when I'm such a good guy?" His CV is enviably full of progressive folk songs he wrote, demonstrations he helped organize, T-shirts he wore, fund-raisers where he spoke. He interviewed accomplished women like Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison and Gloria Steinem. He has a "female friend" who says he should get credit for being a "#MeToo pioneer" (a little Canadian irony there). A bit later he confesses to being "emotionally thoughtless" and "demanding on dates and in personal affairs." He even admits to "deep remorse."
But the overwhelming flavor of Ghomeshi's essay is self-pity. He's the victim. He lost his radio job despite being legally exonerated, and legal costs put a dent in his savings. Well, yes, that's how it works when your job depends on the good will of the public and the financial calculations of your employer. Matt Lauer and Charlie Rose have not faced criminal charges, but they're gone. Roseanne didn't break any laws, she merely expressed her racism, and she's gone. Garrison Keillor, Leslie Moonves, Bill O'Reilly, where are they? Not whining in the pages of the Review, illustrated by a Munch painting called "Evening, Melancholy I," inviting us all to feel sorry for Ghomeshi. Did you know he got a hate letter suggesting he go back to Iran, even though he was born in Canada and has never even been there? Terrible. Exactly the kind of thing thousands of Iranian-Canadians and Iranian-Americans experience every day, without having enjoyed eight years of well-paid celebrity first, and mostly without assaulting women, either.
The best Ghomeshi can manage is a bewildered "We learn from our mistakes," and it's more than we've had from O'Reilly or Kavanaugh but it's not enough. The essay opens with an account of a woman who finds him charming until she finds out who he is, but has fun singing karaoke with him anyway. It ends with a woman he meets on a train who finds him charming because she never learns his name. See, I'm a nice guy. I never punched or choked either one of them! Not enough.
Like Kavanaugh, Ghomeshi doesn't see what he did wrong. He still thinks those nameless women wanted to be hit and to have their hair pulled during "intimacy." He wasn't a drunk teenager egged on by his friends, and he still doesn't get it. "Women," notice, it's always plural because it never happens once. From Bill Clinton to Bill Cosby, there are always multiple accusers, i.e., multiple victims. It's not a stress-induced aberration or an alcohol-fueled mistake, it's a goddam hobby. I'm sorry, can I have my nice life back now?
If I seem to be ignoring the boys and young men abused by celebrities and clergymen and wrestling coaches, I'm sorry. The fact of their sexual victimization reduced them to the social status of women, objects to be utilized by stronger, older males. So it's really the same thing: Let's all quit raping each other. Just. Stop. It.
Jian Ghomeshi gave me some insight into the mindset of Bret Kavanaugh and Donald Trump and all the other pussy-grabbers who still think it's no big deal or a giant conspiracy to deprive them of their entitlements. I'm sorry it cost Buruma his job, but this was the worst possible moment to publish this De Profundis knockoff. The letters next week should be illuminating, like a fire.
posted by Buttermilk Sky at 8:29 PM
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