Thursday, September 24, 2015


Here in Paris, all the cool people are old.

The swaggering public intellectual Bernard-Henri Lévy is a spry sixty-six. The provocative contrarian novelist Michel Houellebecq is fifty-nine. And though I'm often mistaken for a fit fifty-five, the ugly truth is that I'll be fifty-seven this winter.

Unfortunately, things are much different across the Atlantic.  If Miley Cyrus is already stressed about her stretch marks where's the hope for wretched talents like the thirty-two year old political activist Stacy Freidhof or the equally ancient twenty-nine year old TV personality Darwash Ripling?

You can only imagine what it's like for someone as old and as insecure as my good friend David Schoffman. 

 Like his leathery jowls his stock has migrated south. In the United States of Juvenescence you're considered washed up shortly after you receive your driver's license. For an artist over there there's no such thing as "late style," "mastery," or a ripened career's "triumphant dénouement." No, in muscular America callow is king!

But David, a man of your talent and experience ... must you capitulate to this perversion of priorities. You and I both know that there is no substitute for seasoned reasoning, experience and time. Why do you insist on groveling toward the base instincts of your ignorant countrymen? Why must you play the fool with your pathetic masquerade?

Shagging young Hollywood starlets is bad enough.

Must you carpet your brilliant dome as well!?


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