WHAT’S UP, CROC? : Nothing Like a Little Media Conspiracy Against Women to Get the Juices Flowing

I was staring down a glass of parsley-beet juice at the local juice bar the other day when my TV producer friend staggered in and collapsed on a stool.

“Gimme a wheatgrass shot,” he barked at the bartender. “No, make that a double.” He buried his face in his hands and sighed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Lexus in the shop? Tax audit? Kate Jackson miniseries?”

“Worse,” he said. “I’ve been reading a book.”

“Well,” I said, “I realize the new post-literacy thing has become pretty hip, but . . .”

“It’s a specific book, boob.”

He shot me a disgusted stare and drained the ‘grass in a single motion. “Wow,” he said, “I think I’m getting addicted to this stuff.” A single drop of moss-green juice trickled halfway down his chin before he dabbed at it with his napkin.

“Anyway, I finally read the Susan Faludi book ‘Backlash’ on the plane back from JFK today,” he said, “or at least the four chapters that everybody’s read, and I realized that my entire working life has been dedicated to a media conspiracy against women. Do you know what it’s like, living a lie like that? I might as well be Rush Limbaugh.”

“Your show’s a little backward,” I said, “but it’s not that bad. I mean, even Sassy thinks it’s cool.”

“Used to think it was cool, guy. Lately, even Newsweek is starting to get wise. And I’m feeling guilty as hell.”

He crushed his paper juice cup into a little patty and flicked it down the counter toward the bartender, who grimaced and rammed another carrot into the feed tube of a large machine.

“I mean, the women on the show can find nothing better to do than moon over boys most of the time, when they’re not catfighting or finding an excuse to parade around in bikinis in the middle of March. The mom is the only woman on the show whose character is old enough to vote, and her role is pretty much limited to throwing dinner parties or rushing off to have her hair done. Just like June Cleaver, am I wrong? God . Plus about once a month, Mom gets really testy because her daughter’s bathing suits are too skimpy. And they’re always too skimpy. Some progress.”

His face turned a sudden, mottled red as the wheatgrass finally took effect. His eyes got big. He started to cough. I handed him my half-finished cup of parsley-beet juice, which he gulped.

“Thanks,” he said. “That ‘grass has a nasty kick. Anyway, I’m on the plane, feeling like a running dog of white male oppression, having deep thoughts about Molly Dodd’s biological clock, when the woman in the next seat starts chatting me up--terrific woman, bright, funny, well-read, amazing legs--and she seems to really like me. And I knew it was because I was reading that book. She must have thought I was PC Man or something. It was too bad because we were really hitting it off.”

“I assume you told her the truth,” I said.

“Are you kidding?” he said. “I told her I worked for whatchamacallit, that one with the moose.”

“ ‘Northern Exposure’?” I said.

“Yeah. That’s the one. I also said I was a male feminist. Have you ever tried garlic-parsley juice, by the way? It makes you smell like a salami for about a week. Anyway, don’t you realize that I’m slime, the show is slime, the entire network is slime? I’ve been leading a basically dishonest existence, and I’m not worthy of this woman. Though I did get her phone number. I said we could go to a Barbara Boxer benefit or something. And I made a decision: From now on, I am an oppressor no more.”

He looked plaintively at the bartender, who shook his head and stared quickly down at something behind the bar.

“It looks like they’re cutting you off,” I said. “A double wheatgrass is probably your limit. By the way, what kind of changes are you planning to make in the show?”

“None,” he said, puzzled. “Why do you ask?”