Hunting is very Alpha Male. Naomi Wolf would approve. <ggg>
WSJ:
November 3, 1999
Sheep in Wolf's Clothing
By Christopher Buckley, editor of Forbes FYI.
I was 15 minutes late for my appointment with Naomi Wolf, the feminist author I'm paying thousands each month to advise me on how to be an alpha male. I knew her time was tight, for after our session she was off to see Al Gore. Naturally, I apologized.
"That's beta behavior," she snarled, throwing a coconut at my nose.
"If you do that again I'm going to clock you," I said, bleeding profusely. "I don't care if you're a woman."
"Much better," she said. "That's what people today are looking for: a take-charge father figure dressed like an NPR listener. By the way, that tie you're wearing, it's all wrong."
"It's an Hermès tie, you ignorant shrew. It cost me almost as much as your monthly retainer."
"Your anger is very alpha," she said, "but an orange tie with teensy golf clubs is totally beta. In fact, it's gamma. Lose it. And by the way, no more golf."
I protested vehemently, but she was adamant, as alpha females tend to be.
"I want you to take up hunting," she said. "You need to start killing things. Nothing too big or furry. Birds will do. Buy the scariest-looking gun on the market, the kind teenagers use to threaten their teachers. Bring it with you to board and stockholder meetings. It will convey the message that you're the leader of the pack and that you'll splatter the walls with their brains if they don't do your bidding."
"Golly," I said.
"And don't use 'golly' any more. Speak in earth tones."
"Like '@#$%'?"
"Much better." She gave the rest of my wardrobe--madras jacket, lime-green wide-wale corduroy pants with little pink elephants, white patent leather tassel loafers, straw boater hat, ostrich boa--a cool, appraising look.
"Whatever you're paying me, it's not enough," she said. "And by the way, is it really necessary to have the checks issued by a frozen fish company in the Faroe Islands?"
"I don't want it to get out that I'm consulting an alpha therapist," I said. "The guys in my sewing circle might tease me."
"Men!" she groaned. "All right, get rid of that getup. I want you to dress in reassuring earth tones: grass skirt, olive-drab underwear--you can use your old Army skivvies if you still have them--hemp tunic, camo Birkenstocks. Hmm . . ."
"What?"
"Do you know anyone at the Brooklyn Art Museum?"
"Why?"
"We could use some elephant dung. Smear it on you. You can't get much earthier than that. Course, it's problematic when the temperature gets above 70, but it's worth a shot."
"I'm confused," I said. "On the one hand, I'm supposed to beat my chest and bare my teeth like some banana-breath rainforest gorilla so that people will think I'm a leader. And on the other hand, you want me to dress up as a New Guinea mud man. Shouldn't a leader dress more like, I dunno, a New Jersey State Trooper, or something? Or does that just scream 'racial profiling'?"
"Women relate to earth tones," she said. "Trust me. It says Sensitive and He-Man at the same time. I make my husband stuff leaves in his shorts. He actually finds it very sexy. Speaking of which, it's time to practice your Neanderthal Over-the-Shoulder Carry." In this alpha exercise, you pretend the woman is a garment bag with enough clothes for a seven-day trip.
I threw her over my shoulder and walked around the dining room table a couple of times. Unfortunately, I tripped over the Pekinese and dropped her, badly cutting her lip.
"You'd better put some ice on that," I said.
"Funny," she said, "I had a client back in '96 who used to say that to all the girls."
|
