Just Desert

By Tony Kornheiser

Sunday, March 9 1997; Page F01
The Washington Post 

As you know, I am fascinated with the way our culture is constantly redefining itself in terms
of gender. Consequently, I am continuously searching for empirical tests to measure the
differences between men and women. 

Today, Test 1: The Desert Island.

Assuming you are stuck on this desert island, who are the five people you'd want with you?

There is one rule: No sex.

(That sound you hear is thousands of grumbling men scratching Claudia Schiffer off their
lists.)

Not only is there no sex on this island, but there is no longing for sex, no contemplating sex,
no memories of sex. Sex is not part of the equation for whom you would bring to this desert
island -- a small island in the South Pacific named, uh, Nonookie Island, overgrown with
saltpeter trees. 

I went around, asking some friends whom they would take to the island. I asked men and
women, black and white, in their twenties, thirties and forties. (Can I help it if there was
nobody in their fifties or sixties within 10 feet of my desk? Who do I look like, George
Gallup?) 

I first sought out my friend Nancy, who pondered this inane question as though I had asked
her to weigh the epistemological and theological implications of the virgin birth. Nancy opted
for utility. To keep herself amused she wanted "a raconteur." To keep herself healthy she
wanted "somebody good at knocking fish over the head and cooking them." To keep herself
sheltered she wanted "somebody who was good at construction -- who specialized in
irrigation and plumbing and providing me with hot water." In the hope that she could get off
the island, she wanted a communications expert, who could make contact with the outside
world. For her last person, she wanted a doctor. All sound, generic choices, I thought.

Would they be men or women, I asked.

"Half and half," Nancy said. Three men, two women. Counting her, an even split.

Then she asked, "What area of specialization would you look for?"

"All guys," I said.

She was dumbstruck. "That's it, just . . . guys? Sitting around scratching yourselves? Twenty
years later you'd still be sitting on tree stumps. You wouldn't even have water. We'd have
calamari. We'd have built a skiff from birch bark and saplings. We'd be off the island! You'd
be sitting around debating the wisdom of the pitching changes in Game 6 of the 1986 World
Series."

At that point Zsa Zsa walked over. (Zsa Zsa is not her real name. But trust me, it fits.) I
sketched out the desert island question.

Zsa Zsa was less utilitarian than Nancy. "I don't want a desalinization expert," Zsa Zsa said.
"I want entertainment." 

Ultimately, Zsa Zsa's five also included three men and two women. 

"Men never pick women," I said. "If there's no sex, there's no need for women."

"That's sexist and ridiculous," Zsa Zsa said.

"Watch," I said.

We went over to Richard. He rattled off five sportswriters without even looking up from his
sandwich. 

"No girls at all?" Zsa Zsa asked.

"Whmf fnuh?" Richard said, drooling mayonnaise. I translated: "What for?"

We went over to Michael Wilbon, the famous columnist and bon vivant.

"No sex on the island?" he asked.

"A non-factor," I said.

"No babes," he declared. "Only three things matter -- sports, money and sex. If you take
away sex, you're down to sports and money. And since you only need money for babes,
there are no babes on this trip."

"Pig," Zsa Zsa said.

We went to Gino next. Unlike the other men, Gino is at least semiliterate. He works in
another section of the paper. He occasionally attends public events that do not begin with
"The Star-Spangled Banner." I popped the question.

"The starting five from the 1972 New York Knicks," Gino said.

"I can't believe this," Zsa Zsa said. "What is with you people?"

"Wait," Gino said. "Maybe that was a little hasty."

"Ah," purred Zsa Zsa encouragingly. 

"On second thought, I might replace DeBusschere with Tony's father." 

See, this is an easy decision for guys. With guys, the beauty of it is, you can say to another
guy, "Hey, you're a total schmuck, and I swear nobody on this island can stand you, okay?"
And an hour later he'll be back, asking if you want to go to a movie or something. Whereas
with a woman, you tell her that she's getting on your nerves, she goes nuts! She cries. She
disappears. Worse, when she does come back she's going to want to "talk about this."
What's wrong with women is they don't understand the simple elegance of solving a problem
by punching somebody in the mouth.

Zsa Zsa took one last shot. She went over to Jay, a man of her generation, her attitude. She
told him the deal: Five companions. No sex.

"He'll pick a woman," Zsa Zsa predicted. 

Jay quickly chose Charles Barkley and Malcolm X. "We'll probably need housing," he said,
so he picked Bob Vila. "We need a cook," he said. Saying "cook" instead of "chef" made me
a bit nervous. But Jay came through with Paul Prudhomme. Four down, one to go.

"We gotta have a female," Jay said. "For aesthetic beauty."

Zsa Zsa, who normally would have exploded into rage at such a swinish remark, beamed.

Jay decided on Tyra Banks.

"I just want to make sure you understand that there's no sex involved," I cautioned him.

"Yeah, I know," Jay said. "But I'm picking Tyra just in case the rules change."

Next week: Same desert island -- but everybody's blind! 


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