It was at the end of the 1960s that a staged protest by Betty Friedan and other feminist activists supporting the National Organization for Women walked into New York City’s highly elitist–therefore staunchly devoted to “tradition”–Oak Room in the middle of the afternoon. A time of day strictly reserved for men only to drink at the bar. To talk of their precious “sports and politics,” but more importantly, to make lewd references without the worry of scandalizing (otherwise known as “locker room talk,” as the Orange One would trumpet it). Or of being chastised or nagged by a “fragile woman” and all her vexing “daintiness.” Indeed, bars were deemed as the “last stronghold of masculinity” after the reckoning that raged through American culture for the duration of the 60s. And many establishments like the Oak Room, hoity-toity and determined to maintain “stasis,” were fearful of what it would mean to allow women into the bar at any old time of day without the accompaniment of some kind of “chaperone.”
While those convinced they live in modern times might be surprised it took women so long to fight back for their right to imbibe with the same gusto as men, the long history of controlling women in the public space was wielded with success for centuries. Thanks to the propagandist narrative being driven into their heads that they would end up “fallen” (always a cautionary tale from the time of the Bible’s inception, when Mary Magdalene was wielded as this type of admonitory emblem) if left “unsupervised” in such vice-ridden locales as bars, dance halls or pretty much anywhere that men could commingle with them. And, of course, no woman wanted to be deemed as damaged goods at that time, for “landing a man” was their only hope of economic well-being. Being branded as little better than a prostitute (for that was always inevitably where every “fallen woman” was bound to end up: the brothel) was certainly not the way to secure fiscal largesse. So women seemed to go along with the folklore that to go out in public alone, and worse still, in a public environment like a bar, would only result in their undoing. Never pointing out that the real danger everyone was afraid of seemed to be men’s incapability of controlling themselves, the sexual predator bound to be unleashed. Then again, they didn’t think they should have to solely for the benefit of maintaining the “comfort zone” of a woman (this, in turn, affecting a man’s own, “precedence-taking” comfort zone). Especially if she was the kind of woman who drank without shame in front of others.
Yet with the settling of scores and deep-seated resentment that burst forth in one of the most volatile decades of the twentieth century, women ceased taking their “orders” from men with such a grain of salt (no margarita pun intended). For there were plenty of youthful females who wanted to experience the same follies that men were allowed to without being hemmed in by the laws and double standards that kept women from doing the same. In short, women wanted to be “permitted” to get fucked up too. After all, in a decade as unfathomable and rife with trauma (seems like the 2020s are about to come up the rear for matching it, in fact), what else could one do to cope with the pain but numb it?
Granted, women who were trapped in generally loveless marriages like Betty Draper to Don on Mad Men could find loopholes for ensuring their anesthetization. Drinking a glass of wine (after a glass of wine) at dinner and maybe even in the middle of the day while the kids were at school. Then, of course, there was the liberal prescription use of drugs like Seconal, which perhaps Judy Garland helped to popularize as being nicknamed “ruby slippers.” With such an effortless obtunder, many non-single women were wont to simply keep continuing on as they were, never questioning the unbelievable double standard of the rules–even in cities as “progressive” as NYC and Los Angeles.
Even after the regulations on women appearing in bars became more lax in the 70s, the stigma surrounding this “type” did not relent. Case in point, Roseann Quinn, whose murder in 1973 would become the subject for Judith Rossner’s best-selling novel, Looking For Mr. Goodbar in 1975, soon after made into a movie starring Diane Keaton in 1977. Thus, her murder amounted to an entire decade of smearing a woman representative of what it would mean to “live freely” as a female. To go to bars and drink with the “best of” the men and then go home with one who might invariably harm her in some way. Whether getting too rough with her or giving her some sort of STD. Roseann Quinn, despite being a free-spirited woman who did as she liked instead became a symbol of what happens when you let women “loose” into bars. When you “allow” them the same equality in imbibing as men. As though to say, “See, we gave them what they wanted and they couldn’t handle it. Went hog wild instead.” This, too, was more sardonically reiterated in Madonna’s 1993 video for “Bad Girl,” paying direct homage to the film. For yes, even someone as sex positive as M couldn’t help but highlight the pratfalls of the “lonely life” of an empowered woman–also known as: one who drinks to the point of courting reckless behavior.
Then there is the consideration that even as women’s rights extended to drinking, it still didn’t help them in their grand quest to be taken seriously by a gender as unserious as men. A woman who could “keep up” was sloppy, uncouth–disposable. As evidenced in a season four episode of Mad Men entitled “The Summer Man,” Betty’s decision to drink heavily–emotionally–at the sight of her ex-husband with another woman (Bethany Van Nuys, a porn star name if ever there was one, and basically a younger version of Betty) incurs the immediate disfavor of her current husband, Henry. On the way home in the car, Betty attempts to ineloquently vent her frustrations, and express why she reacted the way she did. “Shut up, Betty. You’re drunk,” Henry writes her off. Her feelings and thoughts are even less valued under the influence. Whereas someone like Ernest Hemingway (self-shooter extraordinaire) or Norman Mailer (wife shooter extraordinaire) is deemed all the more profound when he drinks. His thoughts are nothing short of genius as he takes to the bottle to come up with his poetic prose–his astute observations rendered even more so by the consciousness-altering power of alcohol. But a woman who drinks to the point of excess? She’s nothing more than fallen, sad, tragic. And even in the present, the same still holds largely true, try as men might to pretend they don’t see a binge drinking broad a certain way.
