I had lunch with an old friend today. Let's call him Sid. He's been reading my blog regularly, which is something I really appreciate. Anyway, as I walked him to the subway, I pointed out the poster of Robin & Co, which I discussed in "Beat It, Mean Mommy."

"So that's the billboard you were fulminating over?" he said.

We both had to laugh. I can be predictable. My friends know how I get all up in arms about certain things, like women who seem to have the upper hand. They also know my crankiness is worse than my bite, and I just have to vent. Sid added, "When I read in the Post about those 'train men like dogs' books, I knew you'd write about 'em."

We laughed again.

Sid asked me whether guys at strip clubs talk much to each other. (He doesn't go to the clubs himself.) I said no, they just kind of sit in their own worlds unless they're there with friends.

My buddies generally don't go to strip clubs anymore. Occasionally I get one to come along, but that's the exception to the rule. Maybe because they're all married or have girlfriends, and because they're getting older (whereas in my bachelorhood, I sometimes feel that I am growing mentally younger). But they also don't go because the clubs are expensive. After 8 p.m., in the Manhattan clubs I've been to, it basically costs between $20 and $35 to plant your butt in a chair and get a drink, after paying admission and coat-check fee. One friend stopped going partly because they raised the price of a lapdance from $10 to $20. Another mourned the disappearance of most of the two-for-one drink coupons.

Occasionally I have a brief conversation with a stranger when I'm sitting in a club by myself, with some tourist who wants to know how much a dance is or when it's okay to tip the girls. In some cities, you can't tip dancers when they're onstage, although in New York you can.

I like the feeling of comradeship when I go to a club with a friend or friends, but I notice that we generally end up talking more amongst ourselves than paying really profound attention to the pulchritude; although in the spirit of connoisseurship on which all men pride themselves, no truly striking morsel passes by without comment.

I think strip clubs are really an experience best savored in solitude, a solitude broken by the approach of friendly dancers for whom you are a regular customer.

Basically, I go to strip clubs to see the girls. I don't go for the music; although I like some popular music, deejays are often playing heavy banging rock or metal that I don't care for. My favorite music in strip clubs is Latin. It seems to really get the girls shaking to the beat and enjoying themselves, which makes me enjoy myself. I love to watch girls actually DANCE. Maybe Latin is not the best music for dancing on the lap when it's too fast, but it's great for stagework.

Some of the sexiest and most friendly dancers I've known have been Hispanic or Brazilian. But that's a whole other post...

So anyway, I'd rather hang with my friends in a regular bar or restaurant rather than a strip club, where our discussions of the eternal truths are not compromised by the lovely shapes and faces of semi-naked ladies. Although I've had good times when I've been in a club with a friend or two and we connect with a couple of dancers, this has been rare.

Yes, I'm the guy sitting by himself, nursing his drink, his expression unreadable, inscrutable. But usually, despite my serious face (the sheer result of genetics), I'm enjoying the show.

Today is really a beautiful autumn day. I sat in the cafe having breakfast, looking at the girls going into the office building, and reading the New York Post. Fewer flip-flops on the ladies' feetsies; yes, it was only fifty degrees this morning.

The sky is the kind of brilliant blue makes everything else, from the yellow, red and green of the traffic lights to the brown brick or gray metal of the buildings, stand out all the more vividly.

I got a good night's sleep last night; for some reason, for the last few days, I kept waking up and staying up after only about five and a half hours. I need six or seven hours. Last night I passed up a party I was invited to so that I could get a decent night's sleep. Boy, that sounds fuddy-duddyish.

I dreamt last night that somebody left me a glowing comment on this blog...can't remember what it was, though.

The New York Post was unusually amusing this morning. Page Six, the famous gossip column, talked about the actress Tara Reid and her career situation. I don't care what they say about her or her breast job; she's got a beautiful face and smile, and I have her picture up over my desk.

Page Six also had an item about how Robert De Niro is allegedly searching for new household help in the wake of his wife Grace Hightower being characterized in the press as "mean" and tough on servants. De Niro has always been one of my favorite actors. Does he have a taste for "cruel hotties" just like Sir Cranky? (See my post "Cruel Hotties" for more on this complex subject!)

There was also a laugh-out loud, very catty "blind" item in Page Six about a woman "clinching" with her lover. I know people who say they never read the tabloids, but I for one peruse all three major papers in New York, plus Newsday. You really can't get the pulse of this city without doing this.

I also used to clip coupons from the tabloids so that I could get two-for-one drinks at certain strip clubs. I haven't seen ads for clubs in the tabs much lately, but for awhile I faithfully tore out my coupons so that I could save a few bucks. Seems absurd considering how much I would then spend on tips and lapdances, but hey, you got be thrifty where you can.

I wonder if I'll go to a club this weekend. I have other potential plans in the evening, and I much preferred it when Nicole worked in the afternoon instead of at night at her new club.

I like going to strip joints in the afternoon, when the atmosphere is a little more relaxed and the dancers are more willing to chat awhile.

It's funny. I wrote in a previous post how it's hard to give up habits without having something equally alluring to take their place. For the last week or so, writing this blog has absorbed my leisure time to the point where I haven't seen any strippers or watched many movies. Just caught a couple half-hour segments of old tv shows on DVD, and I did that while eating my lunch at home.

I used to think it was slothful to watch a movie or show in the afternoon, but a friend of mine said he does it in the morning before going to work. So I suddenly thought, Why not? Instead of reading a gruesome story in the paper while eating my Subway sandwich, why not watch another episode of Stories of the Century (western from 1954 that's also known as Matt Clark, Railroad Detective and starring Jim Davis)? After all, I'm not getting any younger.

Actually, I'm supposed to go see a movie this evening with a friend. It's called Thumbsucker. Not exactly Mitchum Man territory, but it sounds intriguing...

I wrote the previous entry because of things I've read about flip attitudes about women's infidelity. The topic stirs up a lot of feelings in me, as in "Don't leave me, Mommy..."

I told you I was cranky like a baby.

I always try to admit my subjectivity about a topic, then go ahead and examine it with as much candor as I can muster. It is the heart vs. the brain.

When I was a kid, the driver of the Hebrew school bus used to say I was going to grow up to be a rabbi. Maybe I looked too serious for my age. At any rate, I didn't become a rabbi, but I do have a Talmudic bend--and life, and my experience of it, is the text I analyze.

I know I sound too cerebral at times.

Just imagine these words spoken in the voice of Claude Rains.

Anyway, I was annoyed by an article in today's New York Post (9/29/05) called "Down, boy! How to train your man like the dog he is." Written by Farrah Weinstein, it was a roundup of books based on the idea that a man can be "trained" to a woman's relationship requirements. I confess that with my interest in dominant-submissive sexual role-play, I am familiar with one of the books she mentions--Karen Salmansohn's "How to Make Your Man Behave in 21 Days or Less Using the Secrets of Professional Dog Trainers." However, I found it depressing rather than insightful or erotic. And the book that Ms. Weinstein's article was primarily touting, "Everything I Know About Men I Learnt From My Dog" is written by a woman named Clare Staples. She looks happily self-satisfied in her photo, as she cradles a dachshund.

Ah, the casual man-baiting in our culture irks me...

It's a drag being attracted to dominant women, and repelled by them, at the same time...

To feel, "You can leash me but only if you love me."

I think I better move onto another subject...because I have no answers on this one tonight.

I also want to make the point that while my critique of The Constant Gardener in a previous post may have been colored by a personal issue, that doesn't mean I don't believe in the validity of my critique. In fact, if I thought my ideas were worthless, I wouldn't have posted them.

This blogging is a strange mental adventure, full of twists and turns. As it is, I have re-edited this post four times. I had planned on writing something entirely different today, but stimulated by things I'd read, I went down this path instead.

However, I think "the battle of the sexes" is relevant to my obsession with strippers, no?

Many years ago, I lived with a woman for several months. First she moved into my place (four months), then we got a place together (two months). She had a beautiful laugh, a throaty voice, and a very sexy smile. Her body was nice too. I loved the fact that she had a taut belly like a Playboy centerfold. I thought to myself one night, "How could this be any better?"

When I look at the actress Rachel Weisz, I am reminded of this woman. Perhaps this is why I have a particular antipathy towards Weisz's role as a selfish "Change-the-World Girl" in A Constant Gardener. (See my post "Beat It, Mean Mommy.") And Weisz's character in the movie The Shape of Things is even more reminiscent of my ex-lover: bossy, opinionated, arrogant, self-absorbed.

However, Weisz's feisty but more feminine 1930s British librarian in The Mummy and The Mummy Returns was appealing to me.

I admit my retro gender-role bias. Feisty is okay; fierce is frightening.

But getting back to my ex-lover: I fell in love with the beautiful surface--with the laugh, the smile, the voice. When I made her laugh, it was like sex. You get addicted to things like that, especially since on the very first date I ever went on, as a sophomore in high school, I consciously decided my personal courting style would be to get women to chuckle at my witticisms. Since my ordinary looks wouldn't cut it.

"HOW COULD THIS BE ANY BETTER??" My question was apt. It couldn't be. It could only be worse. The paradox was, although we fought constantly (and I didn't want to argue--I hate arguing), I always--ALWAYS--got a good night's sleep next to her.

It was as if the animal part of me were satisfied, but the heart was afflicted.

At one point I had the feeling she was cheating on me. We weren't married, but I expected faithfulness because we were living together--although she had to spend a few days away during the week for her job. Maybe my expectation was foolish. I confronted her and asked explicitly if she were playing around with this other person, whom she described as a "friend." She said no, but from the way she looked me in the eye I decided the answer was yes.

This conversation took place in the bathroom. We were in the shower. I got out of the shower and went into the next room. She stayed in the shower.

In the next room, I lifted up one of the cheap pieces of furniture I owned, and smashed it against the floor. To this day I believe the sound of shower obscured my fury. I don't think she heard the noise. I fixed the piece of furniture. I went back to finish my shower. I continued living with her for awhile, but that was really the end of the relationship for me--even though I actually asked her to marry me a couple of months after this conversation. I guess I was still a sucker for the laugh and the smile and the body and the voice. I am grateful now that she refused. I must have been insane.

There are men who are aroused by the idea of their women cheating on them, or openly having sex with other men. It doesn't appeal to me, although I actually considered it as a way to deal with the fear of abandonment. But I think that's a sexual preference that is imprinted on a person; it can't be adopted as a world-view.

Sexuality is a labyrinth of mysteries. That's not news.

Maybe if I had dealt with this experience more effectively--and I actually WAS in therapy at the time--it wouldn't have soured my view of love and romance. Or maybe I secretly preferred a sour view. Maybe I really do just prefer strippers and DVDs...

To commemorate my shift into Sir Cranky mode, I took a walk over to Tower Records and bought the soundtrack for Prince Valiant, the 1954 Cinemascope version of the classic comic strip about bold knights and ladies fair. As I write these lines, its romantic and stately themes pour into my ears.

Actually, it's not a particularly memorable film, although I enjoyed it enough to have actually seen it twice. It has all the elements for a great adventure, but plays a bit sluggishly. But it's worth a watch for four things in ascending order: Sterling Hayden as the jolly mentor of Prince Valiant (played by Robert Wagner); James Mason as the evil Sir Brack; Janet Leigh as Princess Aleta; and finally the stirring music of Franz Waxman which gives the story some needed extra excitement.

But let's get back to the late Janet Leigh...Woman Supreme!

She was an excellent actress with a wonderfully curvy shape. Ex-wife of Tony Curtis, mother of Jamie Lee Curtis, in broad outline she was the Jennifer Aniston of her day (although Janet was far more sexy), with a high-profile marriage to a superstar hunk and a busy and prosperous career of her own. Unforgettable for both her brassiere-accentuated pulchritude in Psycho, as well as her honest acting and gruesome yet poignant death in that film, among Miss Leigh's accomplishments were captivating parts in two other historical spectacles besides Prince Valiant: Scaramouche, where as an 18th century mademoiselle her Dresden doll closeups burrow straight into the groin; and even better, in The Vikings with Tony and Kirk Douglas. Here she plays an English princess poured into a gown so tight it must have affected the tides.

And that voice of hers...sultry but not throaty; candid, seemingly incapable of deception; not quite breathless, but often with a charming hint of urgency and an almost maternal thoughtfulness. A voice that must have been nice to hear against a pillow...Tony, you were a lucky guy.

Now I'm about to spoil a scene, so if you plan on seeing The Vikings for the first time (it's on DVD), you'll want to skip this next paragraph. One of the erotic highlights of all 1950s mainstream movies is here, when she's in a boat with Tony, escaping from pursuing Vikings. Tony tells her to help with the oars, but she complains that she can't because her dress is too tight. So Tony reaches over and rips open the laces with a single forceful tug, revealing one of the great backs of the cinema in all its ivory contours! A startling scene, and yummy...indeed, Janet's back was worthy of the brush of Renoir!

So the next time you're browsing in a videostore, or ordering from Netflix, look for the movies of gorgeous but down-to-earth Janet Leigh. She's great in the original Manchurian Candidate too.

Now if only, just once, she'd played a stripper! But that dress scene in The Vikings makes up for it...