Essays in Idleness

I was not surprised, nor hurt, not to be invited to the Golden Globes this year. I’ve got used to it. I wasn’t invited in any previous years, and quite frankly, I do not own a fancy black dress. Nor a nice black tuxedo, any more, should I have decided to come as a heterosexual, instead of a hetaera. I used to have one: classic 1964 James Bond with narrow Thai silk lapels, handed down by my father. But in a mere half-century it had become somewhat ragged, so I passed it along to the Sally Anne. (Always thinking of the poor: they love ragged and broken things.) Well, these days I’m hardly invited anywhere; which is something I have in common with Harvey Weinstein.

Another thing is that I was accused of sexual harassment, once. This was by a young woman I fired, after she tried to seduce me. Fortunately some other girls whom I had not sexually harassed rode quickly to my defence. The little vixen dropped her rumour campaign; though not before it had seriously annoyed me. (Another guy I know was not so lucky; lost his big job and good prospects in life under the cloud of claims that were never brought to court, nor would be, as they were possible to disprove.)

“Amusement” would not describe my response as I watch the current phase of the “sexual revolution.” The paradox is that it made casual sexual advances commonplace: the very sort for which the guillotine is now being sharpened. I don’t blame second-wave feminism for this, but something larger that includes Playboy and, I’m sorry to say, James Bond; and has an ancestry that goes back to first-wave feminism, and the boulevardiers of the Gay Nineties. (Those would be the decadent eighteen-Nineties). A certain, civilized “atmosphere” between the sexes became seriously polluted around then. By now it is a grave environmental problem.

My motivation for today’s little Idlepost is however something I read in “Page Six” of the New York Post. I don’t usually go there, except when something is flagged on the Drudge Report. And I saw such a thing this morning. Having not read much about the Golden Globe party I missed, I was nevertheless fascinated to learn about others who were not invited. These included women with the surnames Arquette, Argento, McGowan, and Sorvino. They were among the first to turn on the sleazy Mr Weinstein, and laid charges including rape that may actually go to court. But as the tabloid explains, “Victims are not glamorous.” The Golden Globes are, after all, a winners’ circle.

“Bandwagons are for climbing on, not starting.” This Lord Chesterfield advice was given to me young, and quite facetiously, by the father who handed me down his tuxedo. I say facetious, because he was incorruptible himself; and too, the sort of man who would start the horses. He was also inventive, and as an industrial designer, designed several products that made other people many millions of dollars, but left him a few hundred out-of-pocket. He truly lacked the skill for cashing in. So that, as he also facetiously noted, inventors, original designers, and pioneers of any sort, tend to die poor. If you want to die rich, do not waste time inventing things for the good of mankind. Focus instead on marketing.

This principle applies to every field with which I am even passingly familiar, including all the arts. Granted, there are exceptions: “Inventors like Edison or Picasso, who were also ruthless entrepreneurs.”

Laying bold criminal charges is likewise a mug’s game. Even if you win, you lose. Others will grab the advantages. These do not come from sticking your neck out, but from piling on, once the defendant is safely down. Third-wave feminism has mastered this principle, of ruthless entrepreneurialism. The glamour comes from cashing in; and strutting your stuff with virtue signalling.

The longer I live, the more I identify with losers. Even Hollywood losers.