Outside the New York courthouse where the rich and powerful French politician was being arraigned on charges he attempted to rape a hotel maid, uniformed hotel workers lined up and chanted, “Shame on you.”

Meanwhile in France women activists declared they’ve had it with the cultural sexist norm and the sexual harassment that is a pattern for some French men. No more winks for men who think any woman is up for grabs.

Meanwhile, California’s former first lady pursued a possible $100 million divorce from former Governor Groper who snuck around with their housekeeper and fathered a son.

Meanwhile the daughter of a man who wanted to become president stood rigidly next to her father as he insisted he didn’t use campaign money to cover up his affair and the child he fathered while his wife was dying of cancer.

Meanwhile Nancy Pelosi said to Anthony Weiner – “stupid, stupid, stupid.” Actually, I’m only guessing what Pelosi said to Weiner in addition to the reported part about her being “deeply disappointed and saddened” and then calling for an ethics investigation into his conduct.

You read about one more guy accused of some slimy sexual stunt or worse and you want to slap them on the head and say, “What were you thinking?” Some reporter did yell out that question to the remorseful Weiner at the press inquisition this week. And the congressman answered he didn’t know what he was thinking. But he was ashamed and he was sorry and he loved his wife.. and all that.

I know what I was thinking. What a jerk.

The same thing I thought with Dominique Strauss-Kahn, Arnold Schwarzenegger, John Edwards and the mighty who fell before them. You would throw away your career, your reputation, your family, your leadership talents and the positive things you might have done for your country because you suddenly had this irresistible urging?

Are you so turned on by yourself that you think every woman is, too? Empowered by the public revulsion over the Strauss-Kahn incident, French women have called for an end to French machismo. To which I say “bonne chance.” We’ve been hoping for an end to American macho madness for as long as the idea of “God’s gift to women” has been around.

Years ago, during the Bill Clinton sex mess, I interviewed people who consider themselves sexaholics. One member of a 12-step sex addict group explained that sex-a-holics feel they’re special.

“We are the ones who walk into the room and everyone looks,” said the sex addict. “We have chemistry. And we think we can have anyone who takes our fancy.”

Another said he was so obsessed by sex he thought about it all the time. He took sexual risks on a regular basis and would do or say whatever was needed to not to get caught.

Is this something in the DNA or, in the case of politicos, a possible affliction that sets in with public office? Perhaps they come to believe in their own chemistry. And then become arrogant, greedy and reckless. And then lie and try to squirm out of it when busted.

What a big waste. I was talking to a friend about Anthony Weiner, who I’ve been calling Tweedle-Dumb. I told her he was a real scrapper for liberal causes, pushing for health care reform and becoming the champion of New York firefighters, the first responders on 911, so they could get their medical benefits.

“Hmm,” she said. “I never heard of him before this. But I don’t like him.”

When it comes to staying current with music trends, I often feel like Anderson Cooper on 60 Minutes interviewing Lady GaGa in her undies. Curious but a little flummoxed.

In the interests of staying hip… if staying hip is still a condition that one aspires to…I watched the Grammys awards show. “You gave up Masterpiece Theater?” asked my incredulous daughter. Well no, I taped the Grammys to watch later. One has certain cultural imperatives.

Yet, I don’t want to ever turn into one of those people who grouses about today’s music, at least not without hearing it.

I was happily crooning along right from the beginning, thanks to the opening tribute to Aretha Franklin, one of the leaders of my pack, appearing near-svelte in her video, her tunes elegantly delivered by five younger stars who like every female musician on the stage that night owe a debt to Aretha and the other older sisters of rock.

There were always big name women singers, like Billie Holiday and Ella, but in the 1950s and 60s when my generation was discovering our own music, it was more about girl backup groups. They dressed up sparkly and had gorgeous voices but they didn’t get much front and center time until the likes of Diana Ross, Janis Joplin, Grace Slick, Tina Turner. And, of course, Sister Aretha, who was the first woman to make it into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. But that didn’t happen until 1987.

I also wanted to check out my other peeps – Bob, Barbra and Mick. I wished the camera had let me see Dylan’s face and that he had played more than three chords on his harmonica, but you have to give him points for always showing up. Barbra’s clear amazing voice soared wonderfully but her mother-of-the-bride dress suffered in a room full of leopard prints and tattooed bottoms. But Mick always makes me proud when he starts to do his rooster moves. You can lip-sync but you cannot body-sync and the boy can still out-strut the best.

I’m grateful for these lasting legends. They’re good p.r. for my demographic.

Spectacle aside, I didn’t see anything revolutionary at the Grammys, although I now will add Esperanza Spalding to my iPod (how hip is that?). Except for new technology, music, pop and otherwise, still comes down to invention, talent and a bit of flash. One generation passes on inspiration to the next. The women wear lots of red lipstick, the guys like black shirts. The product is still called a recording and an album.

And whether we hear it in an ear bud or a portable radio stuck under our pillow, music keeps us going in good or bad times. The day I heard about a friend dying, I put on an old Elton John mix and danced like such a wild thing it made the dog nervous.

My husband mostly ignored the Grammys. At one point he took a look and asked, “Who is this Princess GaGa anyway? Do we have Madonna to credit or blame for this creation.” I explained that she’s no princess, she’s a lady. And actually I think that before we had Madonna we had Cyndi Lauper and Cher to credit or blame for this creation.

Photo: Aretha at Obama inauguration

I have to admit that one of the big reasons I wanted to see “Cheri” was to check up on Michelle Pfeiffer who has been talking freely about hitting 50.

“If you think 40 is liberating, wait till you turn 50,” she said at a news conference.
“You dread it for years and then it happens and it’s no big deal.”

Pfeiffer turned 50 in the middle of filming “Cheri,” the story of Lea, a 49-year old retired courtesan in love with a much younger man. The movie blurbs like to call Lea an “aging courtesan” or sometimes “an aging beauty.” Aging, being the ouch-y operative word.

Critics gave Pfeiffer kudos for playing her actual age. I guess that’s because audiences were bound to give hard study to a 50-year-old playing an aging beauty. Critic Kenneth Turan said the movie is “art imitating life, with a vengeance.”

Actually, both Pfeiffer and Lea seem to manage aging well, at least physically. Pfeiffer’s character Lea ages comfortably, glamorously and more healthily than her friends. Pfeiffer, herself, appears to be aging beautifully, thinly, firmly and blonde-ly.

Certainly age is a theme throughout the story. Lea tells her young lover, Cheri, who is 18, (played by 27 year old Rupert Friend) to not crinkle up his nose or he’ll get wrinkles. Cheri’s mother, played wonderfully bitchy by Kathy Bates, compliments Lea on her perfume and then zings her with how much better perfume clings to the skin when it is “a little less firm.”

When her maid asks Lea what’s wrong she sighs, “You know. Age.”

The film is set in early 1900s France before World War I, a time that has a few things in common with today. Age obsession, for one. Plus, women taking lovers young enough to be their godsons, proving that cougars are not a modern phenom. And the rich and powerful, on the brink of losing it all, growing decadent and obese. Pfeiffer’s Lea is about the only fit one in her crowd, in part because she pushes the wine glass away and dines on toast and grapes while her friends’ necks grow too big for their diamonds.

Lea, in Pfeiffer’s body, looks like she goes to the gym. The chin is holding. The arms are work-out toned. In the books by Colette on which the film is based, Lea eventually lets the flesh take over and stops dying her hair. But in the film Lea’s body and face reveal only minor signs of age and they’re hardly troubling, although telling enough to be registered by the young lover.

And here is a beauty hint for us all:

Pfeiffer told an interviewer the quickest way for her to look older for the camera was to sit in the sun without makeup and not smile. When the smile drops, so goes the face.

Director Stephen Frears raved about Pfeiffer being a sport, never fretting about her looks, never asking for favors from the camera. On the other hand, Frears, who is 68, has his own aging hang-ups and says he thinks it’s more difficult for men than women to get older. The women around him seem fine with aging, he said. They’ve stopped “flapping around about their appearance all the time. I imagine it’s a great weight off the mind.”

Yes, it could be, especially if Hollywood and the rest of the media would get past their own obsession over youth and beauty.

It’s possible that “Cheri” will encourage more films that deal honestly with age. And that wonderful and realistic roles for women over 50 will continue to come along. In the meantime, don’t let your smile down.