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I Was a Fareed Zakaria Groupie

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Yes. Oh, yes. I was a Fareed Zakaria Groupie. Was I ever!

I did not discover the Yale and Harvard grad at the earliest part of his career. (If you do not know about it and are interested, Wikipedia will wow you. Drink water or something as you read. Stay hydrated.)

But I remember our first meeting as if it were yesterday. There my husband and I were, as usual, propped up in bed on a Sunday morning, having breakfast on trays, screaming agreement and throwing pieces of buttered bagel at those we hated on the weekly TV news shows. And there Fareed was, a panelist on ABC's "This Week With David Brinkley." He just got it. He just expressed it. He just was perfect.

"Yes," said I.
"Yes, what?" asked my husband, as the new, young master of the universe continued.
"Yes, yes, yes," I responded breathily.
"Honey," my husband asked, "are you doing a Meg Ryan?"
"Shush. Yes. No. Maybe. Yes."

My husband, a patient man, trusts our love; and if he were jealous, he kept it to himself and joined me in seeing and hearing as much of Fareed as we could; he seemed to be everywhere (not my husband, Fareed); and the years passed.

Then we were out with friends several months ago, and I mentioned my Fareed groupie status. One friend, who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows Fareed cracked that he was not all he was cracked up to be. I frowned, and perhaps hissed a bit. "Did you know he is separated from his beautiful blond wife?" the knower said. "So what?" said I loyally, loudly.

And that's when my fantasies began. I would consult my friend who knows someone who knows someone etc. and stalk Fareed, but make it all seem as if I were not. Managing to be at a place where he would be, I would ask for a few moments. (Have you read Woody Allen's short story, "The Whore of Mensa"? For the record, I wholeheartedly dislike the ethically barren Allen; but still, his story offered fantasy direction.) As in this tale (where men paid women), because I well knew how exceedingly busy Fareed was, I would offer to pay him for 15 minutes of his time -- no touchy, just talky...

You see, I had three exceptionally pressing questions that I had hoped he would cover while he was everywhere, but he never did: 1. How could the Supreme Court think that a sitting president could sit through the Paula Jones case? 2. How could the Supreme Court hand an election to someone who lost the election? 3. Why are Republicans so mean?

And then last week, my husband came at me waving his iPad and a HuffPost article reporting that Fareed had plagiarized his August 20 Time piece on gun control.

"No!"
"Yes!"
"I will read you what he lifted."
He did.
"Give me that... (I read)... No!"

My husband brought me to my senses with: "Can't you see this guy has an intimacy problem?"
"Huh?"
"What does anyone who has to be this busy every single second of his life have to give his wife and kids?"
My glare turned to admiration.
"Hey," my husband said: "I can answer your three questions. (I had told him of my stalking plans; he laughed; like I said, he is a patient man.)
"OK..."

He did.
1. The Court is not filled with those who have lived in the real world.
2. The decision was purely political.
3. Can't say where meanness comes from, but Ayn Rand ended up with both social security and Medicare.

And so I was cured. Sunday bagel throwing continues, but I am groupie no more.