I wasn’t going to blog again today, in fact I had promised myself not to talk about this at all — but then I read yet another feminist diatribe against the Cosby mistrial, this time citing ‘flaws’ in the system such as the right to silence (men shouldn’t have any), the burden of proof in criminal cases (should be lower for women), the systemic sexism of the criminal justice system as a whole (purge it with fire), and how the vagaries of a female’s memory and post-alleged sexual assault behaviour should not be taken into consideration even though we all agree sometimes sexual assault allegations are false and just a grab for some old rich guy’s money.

Under the guise of a moderate and thoughtful piece, more of the usual man-hating bullshit. I am sick of it. But on this discrete issue, there may be a simple legal fix that would end all this ignorant, one-sided bile: a trade-off between criminal and family law. Every time a judge directs a jury to ignore the inconsistencies in a female complainant’s evidence against a male alleged-rapist, a judge in the Family Law court must grant a father equal access to his children. What do you reckon, ladies? But of course that doesn’t mitigate in favour of women at the expense of men they want to punish, so I can’t see the feminists lining up in support. Oh well, I tried.

Which minds me to repeat the question: is feminism about achieving equality between the genders, or is it about giving women the upper hand?  I’ve worked in the legal system for 20 years, and found no difference between the treatment of a male victim of assault or a female victim of sexual assault, except the amount of ancillary care devoted purely to female victim support. We talk endlessly about the plight of women who are victims of domestic violence–justifiable because it is outrageous and endemic–yet, as the father of two sons, I’m keenly aware that the overwhelming majority of murders and grievous assaults (domestic or otherwise) involve male victims. So where are the feminist mothers of these young men, where’s their public anger? Or do they believe that men’s lives matter less?

My real reason for this outburst was an aside from the above. The author of the piece quoted a Professor about consent before sex. One suggestion by the Prof was that we should all be using an app —  “apps exist now that allow women to tap to consent or refuse sex and record the decision” — which surely presages the end of humanity as we know it. Why not have a lawyer at the foot of the bed with a written contract standing by as well? I’m not sure people even do this anymore, but I was borderline rolling on the floor laughing my ass off.  A consent app? I know for a fact this is NOT going to catch on. Instead, we will continue to navigate two discrete rape-scenarios: (1) where one partner does not give consent before the act and gets sexually assaulted, and (2) where one partner gives consent before the act, but later denies it and alleges sexual assault.

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Please. Being raped may destroy your life, but being falsely accused of rape may also destroy your life.

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But, luckily, there’s an app for every occasion. Problem solved:

No.15

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Words are robbed of meaning on this sun-kissed road;

So we are silent, pile meat onto our blue-gloved palms.

Pick the young man’s remnants from the metal wreck

that carved him into high-speed ruin

in his hurry to get home.

.

No.15

Erik Kaisson, 2017

We took the less crowded 10am 6-train to Bleecker Street station, down Broadway to the Levi’s store to buy a couple of laundry-saving t-shirts, then north again to explore Greenwich Village. Our first stop was coffee in the dim recesses of Caffe Reggio, and what a serendipitous find that was! Is there any dingy eatery in NY that wasn’t in a famous movie? As if to make the distinction, lunch was at a not-famous but very cheap pasticceria, with my wife eating something healthy while I noshed into a burger and hand-cut fries, nom-nom-nom. Always surprises me when Italians can’t make coffee: mine was like a cup of frothy milk somebody had waved in the direction of Colombia. It was foul. But I made up for it with my Salty Pimp! Yay, Salty Pimp!

Road-testing my new peat-bogging jacket, I discovered that waxed canvas eventually gets wet and very cold, and hangs on you like a damp funereal shroud. It also has this quasi-vampiric quality about it, making you very aware of your suffering as it leaches warmth, life and hope from your body. I love it! If I ever go on a murderous rampage, you know exactly what I’ll be wearing: ‘He was wearing his Filson jacket!’ they’ll say, running. This might make me peculiar when I return to Sydney, but if I stayed in New York I’d just be another crazy mofo on the subway talking to himself and maybe or maybe not testing the edge of his hunting knife in the pocket of that big, ugly jacket. Mmm… hunting knife…

Speaking of crazy, I am in two minds about cyclists in New York. On the one hand, as a fellow bi-pedalist, I admire their moxie. You have to be a confident mother-focaccia to even compete in the two-wheels versus four-wheels mayhem that’s out there. You also have to flout every road rule I can think of, merely to survive; because motorists don’t appear to give a shit, and traffic cops certainly don’t give a shit, so in this free-for-all what can a cyclist do except be marginally batshit crazier than everybody else? That said, one advantage New York cyclists have over just about every other human being on the planet is that they know exactly how they’re going to die. It’s just a question of when, and from what I’ve seen, they roll that dice every day.

We took the Highline back, and apart from getting a break from the endless stop-start of street corners at the intersections of Street X and Avenue Y, I didn’t like it. I especially didn’t like the way the Highline herds you towards retails spaces such as the eye-popping Coach store, but this is America I guess. The walk back in the rain took us through endless renovations of old places and spaces, the vapour trails of a million vapers and smokers, past one hole-in-the-wall then another. Ivy creeping up the wall of a public house caught my camera lens; a billboard offering $10,000 for information leading to the conviction of anyone who shoots a police officer; water towers on the roofs of pre-WWII apartment blocks. It’s almost overwhelming. You can’t take it all in, it just beats you down, especially when it hasn’t stopped drizzling since we left the hotel five hours and 20,000 steps ago.

Back now, recounting my day before it all just fizzes out of memory. Tomorrow is our last day in New York. On Friday we’ll have the morning, then a taxi at noon to JFK where we begin our preparations and spend the last of our $USD. I’m sad that it’s ending, but this has been an amazing experience; but now I’m missing the kids and the kittens. From a first-time perspective, I feel satisfied we’ve ‘done’ New York. Its time to go home.

Still a bit numb with fatigue at 6:30am this morning, we breakfasted and stepped out into a blustery cold day with fingers crossed that it would follow the pattern of every day so far and fine up. It did not. Stepping off the 4-train, we got into line for the Guggenheim at 9:41 and felt the first drops on our immaculately coiffured heads as we walked in. Forgetting the inclemency is easy when you are surrounded by Kandinsky, Cezanne, Ernst, Picasso and co., but we were reminded of it the minute we left. Luckily, the Smithsonian Design Museum is only a block north of the Guggenheim, so we took shelter amidst the history of design for another productive hour, but eventually it too had been exhausted.

Forced back outside by our growling stomachs, after a quick detour to buy another umbrella, we cut through Central Park into the Upper West Side and this time found ourselves studying the menu outside Bella Luna on Columbus Avenue, another Italian restaurant, where we lunched on Argentinian malbec and a couple of their brick-oven pizzas.  All this did was to reinforce our growing respect for the New York staple. We both briefly pretended we were interested in something different today, maybe try the pasta, but really nobody was fooled. While waiting, we managed to study some of the West Side street life and concluded that Americans love their dogs, and that the quality of an eating establishment is directly proportional to the number and vibrancy of tulips in the planter box out front. Another great meal.

Replete and just a teeny-weeny bit drunk, we returned to the Park and dawdled south until bursting bladders forced us to duck into Saks 5th Ave to answer nature’s call. After so many profitable shopping adventures these past few days, the last thing I wanted was another minute looking at designer softgoods, so we escaped as surreptitiously as possible, threading the gauntlet of aggressively-friendly cosmetic-counter staff on the ground floor back out into the rain.  I’d wanted to check out the range of poetry on offer at Barnes & Noble, but when I realised I couldn’t even get my eyes to focus on the many titles they have for sale, I knew it was time to call it quits. Luckily, home for us was only a couple of blocks away.

Disgraceful weather, with the rain really settling in, so we didn’t send a lot of time outdoors today and not a lot of photographs were taken. We’re still keen to hit the Top of the Rock, and see Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty from the water, but we’ll have to wait for better weather, promised in the next few days. Five more days to go, not counting our exfil on Friday 28th, so plenty of time to fossick through some less-touristy sights before we go. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every exhausting day, and my opinion of the ‘average American’ is fairly high. That said, have I met one yet? I’m not so sure. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.

I’m not looking forward to the end of this wonderful vacation, a little pensive about the trip between JFK and LAX, given how punchy US flight crews have become in the past week. I’d ask The Donald to intervene, seeing as he (well, Pence) is trying to mend bridges with Oz right now, but the big fella appears to be busy drowning in the swamp. Closing in on 100 days in office now — as a PR exercise it’s been a ridiculous failure, surely, but maybe I should keep my mouth shut until I’m safely home.

We’ve museum-ed the shit out of New York these past couple of days, and today was no exception. At 9am, that useless hour before everything opens, we hit the chilly road and scouted the surrounds of the Rockefeller Centre, thinking to take in the views from the observation deck; but the little minx at the ticketing gate told us there was zero visibility today, so we poked around until The Sea Grill opened and had ourselves some lunch. It was the most expensive meal we’ve enjoyed so far, but also the best. Clam chowder to kill for, and scallops to die for. People who complain about US food really need to spend a few bucks, this shit is delicious.

Stomachs nicely rounded, we walked it off for a couple of blocks up to the Museum of Modern Art on West 53rd and flashed our New York passes again. Before we knew it we were among Picasso’s finest, and I even discovered a new artist — Giorgio de Chico — whose manipulation of perspectives and palette really appeals to me. Monet’s Reflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond is here, and I’m thrilled to have seen him now in Australia, France and the USA. For those not so interested in art, there’s always the overpriced gift shop (which we also visited). But really, get yourselves some culture, FFS.

After another packed day, we limped home and strayed into a menswear store where I emerged with a new pair of shoes and a couple of shirts, enough I hope to get me through without having to visit a laundromat or succumb through sheer laziness to the exorbitant hotel dry-cleaning service ($14 for a t-shirt). The forecast is for worse weather tomorrow, so we probably won’t make the Top of the Rock, Empire State Building, HOHO bus tour or Circleline cruise tomorrow either, but luckily there’s no shortage of other things to do in this city. Loving my New York pass too, by the way. I’m saving time and big $$$.

Collapsing in our room, we reviewed our photos from the day, read and sent emails, and prepared ourselves for tomorrow. I need to rest my feet, but I also don’t want to waste a moment. I’ll walk my legs into bloody stumps if I have to, I can always recuperate on the flight home. I may never come back here, so I have to do everything or I’ll regret the one thing I didn’t do. That means more short trips on the subway to explore Lower Manhattan and all those places ending in ‘Village’. Plus, I could stand to eat more authentic New York pizza.

Lots to see and do (and eat)! My best decision so far, other than coming here, was to pick a hotel only a block away from Grand Central. With quick and cheap transport at out fingertips, nothing is out of reach. I thought the subway would be daunting, but it is not. I also mistakenly thought we’d have time for a day trip to Washington DC or the Hamptons, but that’s not going to happen. Next time, maybe. So endeth Day 6 of our NYC vacation.