Dear Woody Allen,

On flight to UK, night of 8.13.12

Dear Woody Allen,

I am the person who shouted out "Mazeltov!" at you as you and your wife Mrs. Soon-Yi Allen passed us on 82nd Street walking towards Madison Avenue last July. Mr. Allen, listen, I want to say "I'm sorry," or even "I'm very sorry," or even "No, you don't get it, I'm really very very sorry!" because after I had gone three feet the expression on your face came back and fixed itself to the front of my brain like a still from one of your movies; you looked so very careworn and weary, so full of angst and sadness, defenseless against the heat, the years, the long stretch of 82nd Street, the insouciant families on the sidewalk, arthritis, anxiety about whatever ails thee, Kafka, Kerouak, stones and arrows, relations gone awry, good gone bad, guilt, regret, raging at the not-yet night, and then the sudden, penetrating shout of "Mazeltov!" into your ear as I beheld you and passed by so gleefully. For in that microbeat of an Oympic second, many thoughts rushed into my incoherent speaking-cortex and I was shocked, yes shocked, by a desire to leap at you, embrace your frail frame, kiss you all over your haggard face, shake your hand and declare myself your devoted admirer ever since I was dragged as a greenhornette  to see "Take the Money and Run" in 1970 without ever having heard your name and jumping for joy at those Jewish legs crossing the screen in the opening scene, and at the exact same time wanted to ply you with confused and qesperate questions -- come come Woody Allen let's abscond to the Carlyle back on Madison, you can play your saxophone and I will spill out my querulous queries, Why?  Oh why? And you know exactly what I'm getting at as I encapsulate all the grudges any of your fine critics have held against you -- no, not the one about sticking to a Jewish life or the other about New England envy which I love in spite of your yearning for the unobtainable because your themes strain and strive with humor and you aren't Richard Wagner with his seductive hours of concocted theme immersion whom I should not be enjoying but I do; you are a  2nd generation Jew yes Jew still, still testing out America and mythologizing global views with filmic nods as ingenious and clever and cornily delicious as the late 'America Sings' in Disneyland.

So when I shouted "Mazeltov!" I was truly, truly congratulating you for all that, but you must, yes surely must, as you are an acute observer, have noticed with your ears -- as you determinedly did not stop or even glance my way -- that I did not add your name, and that the "Mazeltov!" had a loud, rasping edge to it and why?  You want to know? Not really. I'll tell you. Because you were with your delicate young wife who was holding your arm so protectively, but all I could think for that second welled up from inside my resentful breast -- not because she is Asian, God forbid, or even (sacrilege) your quasi adopted daughter, O Bartolo, or that you betrayed all the claptrap of this moralistic passerby, myself, Everywoman, but because she is so.... so young!

How could you act just like any other randy, aging late-middle aged man, as if you were Pablo Picasso or Henry VIII or King David, taking a slender, innocent young thing and disobeying the 11th Commandment so eloquently observed by W.S, "Old age and youth..." after all here am I, 73 and still a good looking broad, full of goodwill, sarcasm, laziness, energy and wit, crossing my path with your Royal Joined Devotednesses, and how could you not see me with my son the rabbi, his wife and baby, my daughter the lawyer, my son-in-law the architect and three funny looking grandsons all wearing yarmulkas who were marching west towards the Met and eating ice creams? Aren't there enough amazing, awesome, inspiring dames like me to make you turn your eyes away from your burgeoning youth-replacement 20-somethings?  What is it men want and want and want? How about me! Howl howl howl!

But then 6/7ths of a second later I was hit by yeller's remorse. I even wanted to run back along 82nd Street and apologize, "I'm sorry, Woody! I didn't mean to hurt you, the world is cruel enough as it is,  I'm very very very sorry!" But my children laughed and grabbed my arm. "Don't be insane, Mom!" they cried, "That was Woody Allen! He didn't even notice you exist!"

Yours sincerely,

Linda, from Los Angeles.