The Lady

Maurenn Dowd tem pêlo na venta. Pensa que os homens têm medo de mulheres com capacidade crítica. Para ela Clinton é um púdico.

Entre flirts, engates e boas histórias, Maureen é mais divertida, e menos reaccionária, qu'a Filomena Mónica.

The Redhead and the Gray Lady
How Maureen Dowd became the most dangerous columnist in America—on her own, very female terms.

By Ariel Levy

Possibly, there are even more naked women at Maureen Dowd’s house today than there were when this place was JFK’s Georgetown bachelor pad in the fifties. They are lounging in the vintage posters, carved into her Deco furniture, painted in huge trompe l’oeil pastorals on the living-room wall. “My girlfriend Michi said, ‘You’ve got to paint clothes on them,’ like you know how they did at the Sistine Chapel?” says Dowd, who is drinking white wine from a goblet with a naked woman carved into its stem. “But I like them. I think they’re kind of campy.”
Michi is Michiko Kakutani, one of Dowd’s circle of extremely close female friends at the New York Times, where Dowd is, of course, the only female op-ed columnist. It’s a post she says she is “not temperamentally suited to,” despite the fact she’s been doing it for ten years and has won a Pulitzer and a passionate army of fans in the process, because Dowd doesn’t like “a lot of angst in my life,” and it is specifically her job to provoke. Her natural inclination—her fundamental drive—is, rather, to seduce. But then those two things are not entirely unrelated.
It isn’t easy being the lone female on “murderers’ row,” as the columnists’ offices in the Washington bureau are called. (And Dowd’s office just happens to be next door to her ex-boyfriend John Tierney’s. “It’s like, ‘Out of all the gin joints in all the world . . . ’ It is weird,” she says. “We share a bathroom, which I guess could have ended up happening if we’d gotten married.”) Dowd says she doesn’t mind that W. has nicknamed her “The Cobra,” and she probably kind of likes being called “the flame-haired flamethrower,” but she hates all monikers that involve knives or other sharp objects. “I have a fear of castration,” she explains, perching herself with catlike precision on the striped settee in her lacquer-red sitting room. “Not fear of being castrated but fear of castrating.” This from a woman who once referred to Al Gore as “practically lactating.”
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Brains versus sex. The serious and the superficial. The battle of the sexes. This has long been the terrain of Dowd’s journalism, and it’s the explicit focus of her new book, Are Men Necessary?, 338 pages of ruminations and witticisms on matters ranging from the Anita Hill–Clarence Thomas hearings to the vestigiality of male nipples.
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Aqui