Seven new ones from B16. Spitzer breaks an old one, and I bring down the house.

I arrived at the gym with Governor Spitzer on my mind and I watched CNN froth at the mouth over his indiscretion while I worked the treadmill. I hope he does not resign. It's time for this country to take a look at Mrs. Spitzer standing by her husband (for whatever personal reasons) and to learn something. Men are dogs. Imperfectly housebroken, we sometimes piss on the carpet. It doesn't mean we don't love you. If we offed the head of every man who ever followed his dick into trouble, the race would soon be extinguished. And what was it he did anyway? He paid a woman for sex (probably). Sex, unlike love, tends to have its price even in the most sophisticated arenas. Men pay for it in a variety of ways from the simple application of a splash of Aqua Velva to the plunking down of cold cash on the top of a bureau in a hotel room. The gaining of access into a woman is strife and struggle made easier by good lucks, power, wealth or any other attractant. The quid pro quo cannot be denied. It can only be disguised with hearts and flowers. And besides, unless he paid the tootsie with public funds, I can't see how this impacts his ability to be a Governor.

As I plodded along on the treadmill, a banner headline ran underneath the image of the Spitzers' news conference. It appears that the Pope has invented seven new sins. "Excessive wealth" is one of the new ones. That is something B16 himself will have to confess. I doubt this man has ever known hunger. I doubt his soft little hands have ever pushed a broom. I doubt he has ever knelt on the bare floor of a bedroom to pray, and found dust under his bed. The oriental carpets beneath his old knees, the housekeepers keeping his chambers immaculate, and the yes-men surrounding him all conspire to keep him terrifically out of touch with the people he is supposed to serve. Millions turn away and his voice becomes barely audible. He is like a puppet in a Punch and Judy show in a two dimensional theater in a public park. Even the little children, accustomed to better entertainment, run away. If only he were benevolent and loving, we could excuse him his calcified heart, but he seems bitter and bent on vengeance. How long must we endure this one?

I finish my mile and am in a bad mood as I enter the sauna where five men momentarily pause their sexual interaction to calculate my tolerance. I give them a "carry-on/I'm cool with it" wave, and they resume their exertions. A particularly hideous goat of a man seated across from me begins to leer at me while tossing open his towel to offer me a view of his wizened and discolored pudenda. He and his appendages look like a pot bellied stove in a country store. I look away but he will not be ignored. He gathers up his toiletries and gear and crosses over to sit next to me. I slide away from him about a foot and a half thinking that this obvious signal of my disinterest will cause him to leave me alone. This does not work. A minute later, he has crossed the new divide into my personal space. He then commits a mortal, unforgivable and eighth official new sin by touching my thigh. He is in the wrong place at the wrong time, given my mood. I launch into him.

"Don't be an asshole. You know I'm not interested in you. How could you not get that message? How could you think for five seconds that I could possibly want to have sex with you? Look at yourself. You are a repulsion. I would never have sex with you. I don't even want to have sex with one of those guys while you are in the room and I have to look at you. I don't even want to have sex knowing that you are in the same country. You and I are not even the same species. And this, honey. This?" I am now tapping myself on the chest. "This is No Country for Odd Men. So beat it. And I mean somewhere far away."

This is why I do not like to be kept abreast of current events.