I read a little more of Maureen Dowd's Are Men Necessary? on the subway and bus. She writes about how male readers frequently email her at the Times, asking her to read stuff they write, or watch them on tv, or hear their lectures. Apparently, female readers rarely do this. There is a subtle putdown in the way Maureen talks about all these guys, giving the impression she thinks a lot of them are kooks and wannabes. Or ineffectual cyberspace pick-up artists. And, if Sir Cranky were to email her his thoughts, he'd be joining that elite fraternity too! Wheeeee!! At the same time, Miss Dowd sounds like a homely girl at a nineteenth century ball, showing off a surprisingly full dance card. "I have Chester for the waltz, and Lewis for the polka, and..."

Can there actually be a connection between the stridency of modern career women like Dowd and her pals, and the meteoric growth of strip joints?

The torment of human frustration, whatever its immediate cause, is the knowledge that the self is in prison, its vital force and "mangled mind" leaking away in lonely, wasteful self-conflict.