DioGuardi says she was initially wary of the proposition. She explains, "I kept saying no. I mean, what crazy nut is gonna go out there in a bikini at almost 40 years of age against a girl who is 20 and probably cosmetically enhanced?" A crazy nut who wants to keep her job, apparently. It ended up being a "defining moment" and made people think, "She's serious and industry, but also as kooky as everyone else on this panel," she says. And -- hey! -- look where it's gotten her: In a bikini in the pages of "Women's Health" revealing how she got her "killer bod."

So, what gives? Why has this become a hot topic now?

It's hard to say whether sexual harassment against men has actually increased or whether more men are simply going public with it. The Journal argues that it's that latter, fueled by current economic straits -- and, as we all know, far more men than women have lost their jobs as a result of the recession. Men might have once just quit a job that came along with a hostile work environment and found another gig, but  many will find that there aren't any other jobs. A similar predicament awaits those who are laid off or fired. It's these pressures that just might convince a man to fight against the strong cultural undercurrents working against him reporting it.

The idea of a lady boss making sexual passes at a male underling is considered the stuff of masculine fantasy. (See: "Family Guy," above.) Much like sex abuse cases involving a female teacher and a male student tend to elicit rhetorical high-fives for the supposed Casanova Jr., a man is expected to report his boss's advances to his buddies over a congratulatory beer, not to a civil rights lawyer. Maybe even more challenging is the prospect of reporting sexual harassment by another man. Men are expected to be their own defenders -- if a guy grabs your crotch, you deck him, right? Problem solved. As Ron Chapman, an attorney with an employment law firm, tells the Journal, most people respond to stories of guy-on-guy sexual harassment along the lines of "Why didn't the guy just hit him upside the head?" 

The truth, say experts, is that most of the cases brought forward by men in recent years involve same-sex harassment, and they increasingly involve "'locker room' type behavior like vulgar talk and horseplay with sexual connotations," according to the Journal. It can encompass anything from a man's boss trying  to have sex with him to coworkers subjecting him to a "sexualized form of hazing," as the AP put it. It's possible that the financial crisis has men feeling more open to seeing themselves as victims; and, if the popularity of the term "mancession" is any indication, maybe both men and women are increasingly open to the idea of guys being victimized.

It's worth mentioning that employment lawsuits generally increase during tough economic times, and that women still file the vast majority of sexual harassment claims. But it's reasonable to assume that just as the economic devastation, which has generally hit men harder, has led some to re-evaluate gender roles at home, it might do some of the same in the workplace.

The idea of Palin as a nature guide is more than a little strange, perhaps because of her support of hunting Alaska's wildlife by helicopter, but come on, as a reality star? Palin may be on to something. All the linguistic boo-boos, muddled thinking and rigid ideological stances that make Palin a terrifying candidate for our nation's highest public office would make her an excellent candidate for "The Real World." After all, she has all qualities that reality show casting directors hunt for. A signature look? Check. Palin was rocking her signature bouffant long before the world had heard of the banana-clip stylings of "Jersey Shore's" Snooki. A relentless drive toward self-promotion? Absolutely. A competitive nature? Oh yeah. Speech peppered with semi-incoherent mixed metaphors and kernels of down-home slang? You betcha. Palin has a knack for that sort of surreal-reality entertainment, a flair for the dramatic that frustrates her political opponents, but, well, would make for a great show. Though "Alaska" doesn't quite look like the Palins' version of the Osbournes (though please, almighty television gods, let that happen), it will still be hugely entertaining. We've all been watching the Sarah Palin show for years. Now, at least, we have the option of turning it off. 

Her latest motivation for speaking out: The devastating revelations of widespread sexual and physical abuse of children in Ireland by priests and nuns – and the church's horrifying complicity in it. On Saturday, Pope Benedict issued a letter to Irish Catholics addressing "the gravity of these offences, and the often inadequate response to them on the part of the ecclesiastical authorities in your country." In the letter, which was distributed and read at weekend masses throughout Ireland, Benedict acknowledged that "You have suffered grievously and I am truly sorry. I know that nothing can undo the wrong you have endured."

But he also didn’t shy away from casting blame on "the rapid transformation and secularization of Irish society ... often adversely affecting people’s traditional adherence to Catholic teaching and values." In perhaps the biggest head-scratcher of the whole letter, he wrote, "There was a well-intentioned but misguided tendency to avoid penal approaches to canonically irregular situations. It is in this overall context that we must try to understand the disturbing problem of child sexual abuse, which has contributed in no small measure to the weakening of faith and the loss of respect for the Church and her teachings." You know, the day that covering up abuse and moving rapists around from parish to parish is in any way well-intentioned, I will eat my mitre.

Many of my fellow Catholics were similarly unswayed by the papal missive, including O'Connor, who in a Tuesday letter to the Irish Times wrote, "The Vatican strategy, as shown in the Pope’s letter, is to sell the Irish Catholic hierarchy down the river, by making it seem it was acting independently of the Vatican when it covered up abuse. That is a lie ... What victims deserve, the world over, is a full confession from the Vatican, that it ordered the cover-up. And that it is now trying to cover up the cover-up." It wasn't the first time she's spoken out on the issue – earlier this month she wrote in the Irish Independent, "How an organization which has acted, decade after decade, only to protect its business interests above the interests of children can feel it has the right to dictate to us what Christians should do is beyond belief…. If Christ was here, he would be burning down the Vatican. And I for one would be helping him."

O'Connor, who has been frank about her struggles with bipolar disorder, may seem an unlikely voice of reason in an outrageous situation, but her passionate, eloquent, and apparently unceasing opinions are a welcome articulation of what many of we struggling Catholics feel. When, in her letter to the Independent, she railed against the "attempted manipulation of good Catholic people," she was talking about all of us the world over who did not sign up for what she called "this bull dung," who are furious that a philosophy with the potential to do so much good has been so institutionally defiled at its highest levels.

Not long ago, a friend of mine said of the Church's continued clueless responses to crime and betrayal within its ranks: Well, what did you expect? The answer is, we Catholics expect better. In fact we demand it. And we're not going to slink off quietly and shut up about it. Why? Because nearly two decades after that infamous television appearance, the words of O'Connor's song are more powerfully resonant than ever. Because we have confidence in the victory of good over evil.

You may recognize his name: Beckerman has twice before appeared in Salon -- first in 2004 for a Q&A about his feminist-blaming book, "Generation S.L.U.T.," in which he was eviscerated by Rebecca Traister, and then some five years later in a personal essay renouncing his former douchiness. Now he's here, once again, thanks to a brave feat that just might fully redeem him: Beckerman and his girlfriend demonstrate on camera just how screwy Cosmo's sex advice is. For those of you who can't watch the NSFW clip below, you can get the general gist from the video's title: "I Tried Cosmo's Sex Advice -- Wow, My Penis Hurts! (But the Mango Was Nice…)" Yeah.

Even if your man is actually after a sore penis, you need not shell out cash each and every month for the latest issue's guidance, as Beckerman reveals Cosmo's top-secret formula: "I am convinced that the way that they pick their sex advice is to look around their office for any random object and say: 'Put it on a dick.'" Now that is quite the mantra.

While women may no longer be told outright, as they once were, that they aren't allowed to write for Newsweek, a subtler sexism still persists, they argue. The trio writes:

[M]en wrote all but six of NEWSWEEK's 49 cover stories last year -- and two of those used the headline "The Thinking Man." In 1970, 25 percent of NEWSWEEK's editorial masthead was female; today that number is 39 percent. Better? Yes. But it's hardly equality.

Newsweek may have a female managing director who climbed the ranks at the magazine, "but just as the first black president hasn't wiped out racism," they argue, "a female at the top of a company doesn't eradicate sexism." And in a "highly sexualized, post-PC world, navigating gender roles at work is more confusing than ever." They write:

The sad truth is that when we do see women rise to the top, we wonder: was it purely their abilities, or did it have something to do with their looks? If a man takes an interest in our work, we can't help but think about the male superior who advised "using our sexuality" to get ahead, or the manager who winkingly asked one of us, apropos of nothing, to "bake me cookies."

Hmm, I wonder whether that male superior or manager works for Newsweek. Either way, bold move in calling them out.

See, now I'm having a retroactive fantasy of writing an article for a newspaper I interned for in college about how my editor would, without fail, grab at his junk while talking to me one-on-one and give me a look that just dared me to acknowledge it out-loud. And just imagine if I'd written about how the same editor would build me up and then tear me to shreds, over and over, like an emotionally abusive boyfriend. Sure, that would have gone over well. At the time, I went to my journalism professor for advice -- but omitted my close-encounters with crotch-rubbing out of embarrassment -- and she told me plainly that some men take "delight in putting a young, bright, attractive woman 'in her place'" and warned: "Take a lesson from this -- it won't be the last time." It sure wasn't, nor was it that last time I found myself turning a skeptical, paranoid eye toward the professional praise or attention I received from male superiors.

What impresses me about this piece isn't the distillation of the current evidence of persistent inequality, which is all too familiar to me as a ladyblogger. It's their bravery in not only speaking out about their past experiences with subtle and then not-so-subtle discrimination ("bake me cookies," seriously?) but also the fact that they are doing so in the very publication that pays their bills. (And major kudos to Newsweek for publishing the piece.) These tales are so often relegated to bathroom gossip because women don't want to risk their job or be seen as a whiner -- after all, you don't get into the boys' club by reminding everyone of what a girl you are. But part of pushing through the "the fog of subtle gender discrimination," as they call it, means telling these stories publicly, to women and men. So, to this trio, I say: You go, women.