How easy it is to cast the first stone. Who among us has never sent digital images of his manhood to strange young women again after being caught in the act once and lying about it and then forswearing it utterly and begging forgiveness and solemnly embarking on a period of reflection and reconnection with family to make amends for a thing so ridiculous to be caught doing once that the only thing that could be more ridiculous would be to be caught doing it twice?
All right, let me put it this way. He’s sorry. He said it. He looks it. He acts it. He’s sorry. Before you rush to judgment, ask yourself: Have you ever seen such a sorry, sorry man?
In all fairness, he said there would be more, and there was more. He leveled with us, like Lincoln and Churchill before him. Some sticklers for chronology have pressed him on the sequence of events — what did he do and when did he do it. What do they think this is, Watergate? It’s just a guy who wants to narrowcast his stuff to fun-loving chicks on the sly, repeatedly, and be mayor of New York.
News to Me
As he said, you can’t pin down a point in time before which he did it and after which he didn’t. You can’t just pinpoint that point. It’s complicated.
Actually, it’s incredibly complicated:
p = p(3) ¤ S(k + 6z – x)/yum
Where p is the point in time, yum is you know what, and everything else is everything else.
Clearly, whether Weiner (k) wooed the young lady in question (yum) with romantic conjurings about where and how her legs (z) might be deployed on the hotel bed (does she have 12 of them? he appears to have lost track) before he resigned from Congress and dedicated himself to spiritual renewal (x) or after, space-time, as Einstein said, is still “the same” (S).
Weiner’s careful attention to semiotic signifiers, such as “before,” “after” and “during,” has spurred the pundits and wags to invoke the name of a certain silver-maned, silver-tongued past president. There is no comparison.
One said it depends on what your definition of is is. The other simply said that he said that there would be more, and there was more. After he said there would be no more.
One recklessly wielded the most powerful political office in the world to satisfy his lust for women and danger with a mad, damn-the-torpedoes White House tryst worthy of JFK and was buoyed up in the end by the affection and esteem of an adoring public, while the other, boasting a taste for danger named Carlos, sprained his neck snapping a porn shot of his groin to impress a virtual date who complained that he was premature during phone sex.
Bear with me, I’m trying to defend the man.
And there is much to defend. His boyish charm (I want to spread you on the bed like mustard on a knish), his abiding sense of civic obligation (I want to spread you on the bed like mustard on a knish), his keen intelligence (Hey, does this live online somewhere?), his sense of fair play (Do me a solid and take it off? No, not the panties, the posts. I’ll get you a ministerial appointment at The Hague).
So give a guy a third chance — wait, a fourth chance. This just in, make that a fifth chance. Sixth.
Then he should be good.
Write to Peter Jeffrey at firstname.lastname@example.org