Heretics' almanac

Put those invaluable pieces where the sun doesn't shine

It obviously didn't take much competency to steal "Madonna" and "The Scream" from Oslo's Munch Museum on Sunday. Two guys wearing hoods brandished guns to subdue "security" and took off with the paintings. Experts seem to think there isn't much of a market for these paintings, and that the thiefs may end up holding the masterpieces hostage.

What with the Olympics, the Norwegian press are flush with news stories of no particular consequence - their favorite kind! - and there is talk of substantially beefing up security at Norwegian museums.

I have a better idea: stop showing original works. Not only does it take away the incentive to steal, it also reduces the cost of protecting these pieces against the inevitable erosion from being exposed to, well, air and light.

Dripping sweat and airing out bleach

2-3 times a week, I try to attend a session of Bikram, or "hot" yoga. It's not the kind of activity that appeals to your vanity - the room is kept at over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, and you have to do difficult postures in front of a mirror. Some of the participants are very good; most of us are confronted with our own limitations for 90 minutes. It feels great afterwards and is unquestionably healthy, but it doesn't give you instant gratification for your looks.

I'm saying this because right next to the yoga place is a beauty salon, and walking into yoga I usually pass patrons and employees smoking cigarettes while they're waiting for their next - whatever you wait for at a beauty salon.

I have to smile every time I do this, because the contrast between the two approaches to looking good is so amusing. I am sure that many of my co-yogists (a word?) get their hair, nails, faces, etc., done, but there is something funny about the juxtaposition between hard-working, sweaty yoga postures, and lots of make-up, bleach, coloring, silicone, and black attire.

Out of the closet and out of a job

My governor, Jim McGreevey announced today that he is resigning as a pre-emptive measure against "rumors, false allegations and threats of disclosure."

I'm not sure what the damage would be of McGreevey staying on at this point - there shouldn't be any shame in coming out, and neither should an extramarital affair force a resignation (just ask Clinton).

It'll be interesting to see what the Republicans come up with.

Gibson's new movie: eh, no thanks

Rumor has it that Mel Gibson wants to use his profits from "The Passion of the Christ" to make a movie about the Maccabees, whose story - he says - is like a western.

The press is quick to point out that this is the story that led to the celebration of Chanukkah. What they don't mention (of course) is that the rabbis have always wanted to de-emphasize the victory of the Maccabees in favor of the miracle of the lamps that burned for eight straight days and nights. The dreidel says "A great miracle happened there/here" not "We kicked their Syrian Hellenic butts," after all. Jews have never been particularly anxious to celebrate military victories, when you think about it.

A great military victory in Gibson's imagination will contain lots of gory, over-the-top violence, heroes suffering great pain but being sustained by great resolve, and most importantly, PAYBACK.

Mel Gibson seems to think that any historical event can be reduced to breathtaking cinematography, captivating music, and a certain type of acting.

AJ's future

Anthony Soprano, jr., is on the slippery slope. He's failing in school, his partying habits are irresponsible, and he's talking back to his mom. Fairly typical stuff, unless you're the son of a mob boss and a self-involved mom.

Carmela gives up and lets AJ move in with his father, who passes the evenings away drinking beer and watching TV with his pals. And AJ has a lot more fun hanging out with these guys, being a man, than studying with a halfhearted tutor. Who could blame him?

You have to wonder what's going through Tony's head when he accepts AJ's lame explanation of what went down that evening and chalks it all up to juvenile fun'n games. Maybe he was getting back at Carmela by bringing AJ closer - it worked, when you see how alone Carmela looks in that vast West Caldwell house. Or maybe he's given up on AJ's prospects of going straight and decides to matriculate his son at the school of (giving out) hard knocks.

There are indications that AJ is bound to follow in his dad's footsteps when Dr. Melfi reads out loud his apologetic letter to her supervisor, who in turn takes just a little too much pleasure in repeating the word "cunt." Tony is practically illiterate, a point that the writers drive home by having Tony say "antedote" instead of "anecdote" when he's chewing out Feech.

But you have to wonder about Carmela. What is she supposed to be thinking? AJ was a pain in the ass, to be sure, but now she's lost him - probably for good. AJ knows he can never be good enough for her and will probably do anything to make Tony proud. Even if that involves whacking someone.

This might be a little too similar to the Godfather premise (and there may even be a clue to that in the dialogue), so I expect a twist. For a while I thought Meadow was showing the sharp edge that would make her Tony's heir apparent, but she's apparently too busy being a sexually active coed at Columbia. Or maybe that's a deception, too.

Obsessing about pornography

I'm finishing up Laura Kipnis's book Bound and Gagged: Pornography and the Politics of Fantasy in America, and it's keeping me up at night. This is because it challenges some assumptions I've long held and that I suspect I have in common with many others.

It's this: pornography is shameful, isn't it? It's the ultimate guilty pleasure, depraved self-indulgence at best, at worst complicity in an industry that systematically degrades women. Porn is something to keep from kids, never let your wife know you partake in it, keep to yourself.

Or is it? When I think of all the things I want to protect my kids from, visual images of people actually having sex isn't the worst. Nor is it the prospect that even they one day might learn to masturbate. Between "reality" shows that glorify one-time, zero-sum games, dramas that solve all problems in one hour less commercials, comedies that celebrate flakiness, national news that is sensationalist, and local news that is gruesome, etc., overdone depictions of sex come pretty low on the list.

I sometimes wonder if all this fear of pornography and masturbation is related to the fact that most parents have no idea how to teach their kids about sex, and - as a corollary - that most of us parents are pretty confused about sex ourselves. We're afraid that lacking our guidance, our kids will actually believe that pornographic sex is "normal" sex.

Naomi, Laura, and guys hitting on girls

Naomi, Laura, and guys hitting on girls

Run-on sentence coming: Naomi Wolf and Laura Kipnis - two women who would have made my version of "Women We Love" list if I ran Esquire (and therefore entitles me to refer to them by their first names) - face off as a result of Naomi's recent article in New York Magazine.

Naomi recounts an incident years ago, while she was a student at Yale. It seems a professor put his hand on her thigh over (or rather under) a candlelit dinner. Not only did this gross Naomi out so badly that she immediately barfed right in front of him. It was so traumatic that she got C's, D's and F's in some classes and (horrors!) failed to get a Rhodes scholarship.

Naomi still feels bad about this, and ignoring the precepts of lashon hora, nevertheless attributes her need to expose this professor's name to a feeling of guilt that came upon her at Yom Kippur. (It may have been a sin of commission to not alert Yale to this kind of "abuse," Naomi, but it was a sin of commission to name the prof.) Naomi feels that Yale should have guidelines by now to prevent and punish this kind of "sexual encroachment."

Laura - who has written on sex between faculty and students before - basically says "lighten up." It's tough growing up and it involves getting used to not just flattering but disgusting sexual advances. Especially if you're a smart hottie like Naomi was - and (dare I say?) is. After all, Naomi's "no" and (profuse vomiting) obviously gave her professor the right idea. And he left her alone forever, making a sour grapes kind of comment as walked out. He ended up looking the shmuck, in more than one sense.

The fact that this professor wanted to have sex with her, made Naomi so uncomfortable that she in Laura's terms was left "demean[ed] and disempower[ed]" by the experience. She had expected that this professor judged her solely by the product of her minds.

But it seems to me that it was Naomi's realization that this professor wanted her that disturbed her so much. The physical contact was uncomfortable, but it was knowing his urge that upset her rather than the experiencing his advances.

So let me give a guy's perspective here, and let me construct a plausible hypothesis to illustrate my point. Naomi and I are about the same age. While she was at Yale, I was at San Francisco State. As far as I know, I have never been within eyesight of her, but I know this: if she and I had met in the early 80's, I would never have had the courage to hit on her, or even talk with her. Not that I think I was a particularly loathsome guy, but women like Naomi (smart, feminist, beautiful Yalies) intimidated the hell out of me. Why? Fear not just of rejection, but humiliation. (Though I have to say that a woman throwing up because I hit on her went beyond even my most terrifying scenarios).

It seems to me that it's at least possible that this particular professor had a thing for smart, attractive, sexually confident women. So a) who could blame him for that? and b) isn't that precisely the image that Naomi projected at that time? In other words, even if the act was inappropriate (which it certainly was), is she right to judge his impulse so harshly?

I'm going out on a limb here in assuming that Naomi has been hit on often. She's welcomed some of these advances; others she's probably declined but felt flattered by; and some have probably disgusted her. From a man's point of view, this array of responses is utterly bewildering, and it doesn't help that men seem to be hardwired to misinterpret cues. For well-meaning men who occupy that large middle range of attractiveness, following our desires is dangerous stuff. We may get our egos gratified by getting laid or demolished by being humiliated. So it's not all fun and games for men, either.

I'm all for questioning gender roles, but I think it's too much to expect that men - even professors! - should be able to control what attractions and impulses they experience. (There should be limits on our conduct, for sure. Doctors shouldn't hit on their patients; bosses shouldn't coerce their subordinates to have sex with them; professors shouldn't make attractive students nervous about their grades; married men shouldn't hit on anyone but their wives.) But what's expected of us is to refrain from unwanted advances, not advances altogether. If a woman is attracted to a man, he's doing right by hitting on her; if she's not, he's a jerk, a sleaze, or whatever. It seems that a woman's inviolable right to say "no" isn't enough - she should also have the right to be spared the need to say no.

What's more, Naomi also seems to believe that this professor simply was a pig and that the attributes she cultivated had nothing to do with his attraction. To me, this demeans men (or at least a lot of men) quite a bit. I doubt many of us can precisely deconstruct the bases for our attractions, but there is no question that for the editors of Esquire (and me) sexual allure is more than skin deep.